by Clara Kensie
Then she was behind me, lifting my hair and smoothing it behind my shoulders. “I probably looked the same way when I was growing up.”
Mom hardly ever talked about her childhood. When she did, it was only in clipped hints of food banks and thrift stores, and of living in a broken-down mobile home with her mother, who worked the night shift in a factory and died when Mom was a senior in high school. The other kids, she said, treated her like a contagious disease. The only other thing I knew was that she’d first discovered she was psychokinetic when she was twelve and was so afraid of it she’d told no one, until she met my father nine years later and realized she wasn’t alone.
She’d been as lonely as I was. Lonelier. At least I had Jillian and Logan.
Overwhelmed with the need to comfort her, I started to turn around. But she flicked her fingers and the carton of stock rose from the counter, then poured a bit of itself into the rice. I turned back to the stove and stirred.
“Tristan is bringing that sparkle back into your eyes,” she said. Her hands trembled as she weaved my hair into a loose braid. “Dad and I are so grateful to him for that. And we do trust you. We know you’d never tell him anything. But Babydoll, we are not changing our minds about this.”
I thrust out my chin. “Neither am I,” I said. “I’m not breaking up with him.”
Her hands froze, still holding my hair, and the cutting board vibrated on the counter. With a whimper, I dropped the wooden spoon and gripped the handle on the oven door so tightly my knuckles turned white. Dad wasn’t here; he wasn’t here to calm her down—
A fissure snaked down the measuring cup.
“Please,” I whispered, eyes squeezed shut. “Please please please don’t.”
With a pained, horrified gasp, she dropped my hair. Then she was gone, but only when I smelled the burning rice was I able to uncurl my hands from the handle and breathe again.
* * *
I tried again the next morning, and every morning after that, to break up with Tristan. But when he put his arms around me and looked down at me with such warm affection in those blue eyes, I just couldn’t. The words simply would not form on my tongue. My whole body relaxed, every muscle, every cell, when I was with him. Breathing was easy. I belonged in his arms. I belonged with him.
So I belonged with him, against my parents’ wishes.
We met every morning at the corner to walk to school together. We’d stop at his locker first, then mine, where we’d chat and he’d give me little kisses until the last possible second. At lunch we sat with our friends, and they’d laugh at his efforts to eat while keeping one arm around me. After school we’d go for a run, then hang out in the park until I had to go home.
At home, it was becoming hard to breathe.
Reluctantly accepting that I was not going to bend, my parents never again ordered me to break up with Tristan. But my mother’s control over her psychokinesis, already tenuous when she became upset, seemed to become more and more fragile every day. When I helped her make dinner her hands would start to tremble, then a bowl would vibrate, until eventually the entire kitchen buzzed and hummed and rattled. Sometimes a bottle or glass would suddenly shatter on its own.
Then my dad would rush in and take her hand, shooing me out with a jerk of his head. I’d scuttle off, unable to meet his pitiful and disappointed gaze.
Worst of all, Mom had stopped calling me Babydoll. I don’t think she even realized it.
Chapter Fourteen
That weekend brought rain, and because we couldn’t go running, I asked Tristan to take me to the little bookstore in the town square. He chose a couple bestselling crime novels. I knew exactly which book I wanted and easily found it in the children’s section. “Anne of Green Gables is my favorite book,” I told Tristan. “I’ve read it at least ten times.”
He thumbed through it and skimmed a few paragraphs as we waited in line. At the register I pulled some cash from my handbag, but he told me to put my money away. “You love this book,” he said, “so I want to give it to you.” Explaining that his parents transferred a few bucks into his bank account each month, he bought all three of our books.
We went back to his house for lunch. Melissa was leaving for her shift at the acute care center, wearing thick white nurses’ shoes and pink scrubs printed with a Scooby-Doo pattern. Philip gave me a nod and his shy smile, then headed to his garage workshop. A few minutes later the staccato sound of hammering filled the house.
After a lunch of grilled cheese and tomato soup, Tristan and I brought our books, along with two mugs of hot chocolate, up to his bedroom. He had a navy comforter on his hastily made bed, a laptop on his desk, and his shelves were cluttered with books and a trophy from a tennis tournament. Completely masculine, completely him. He plugged his iPod into the speakers on his nightstand, then we crawled onto the bed, fluffing up the pillows for support. I snuggled in his arms as we sipped the cocoa.
I leaned my head on his shoulder and opened my book. “This is nice,” I murmured.
He kissed the top of my head. “Best rainy day ever,” he said, and opened his own book.
We breathed in rhythm.
His heart beat along with mine. Thump. Thump-th-thump.
Our bodies were so close. So warm.
I realized I’d read one paragraph three times and still didn’t comprehend it.
He closed his book, then took mine, marking my place with the wildflower bookmark before closing it too. “Lay down.”
I glanced at my hand and crossed my fingers, then lay my head on his pillow, keeping my eyes on his. The hypnotic pitter-patter of the rain tapped on his window, the rest of the world far away. The only things that existed were Tristan and me, in his room, on his bed.
He brought his lips to mine, and we kissed. Sweetly. Lazily. He brought his lips to the hollow of my neck. He slid one hand around my waist, the other behind my head, threading his fingers in my hair. My hands wandered down to his hips, and I hooked my fingers through his belt loops, pulling him even closer.
Holding me against him with one hand, his other glided slowly up, up my side, up to my ribs, up to my breast....
And then he stopped.
With a frustrated growl he tore himself away and lay on his back, breathing heavily. We still had time, so I reached for him. But he shook his head. “You don’t have to stop,” I whispered. I didn’t want him to stop. I wanted him. I’d even let him see the scars on my stomach. I wouldn’t explain how they got there, but I didn’t care if he saw them.
He turned on his side, supporting his head with his hand. “I’m not going to stop. But this,” he said, tracing my collarbone with his finger, “is the Borderline. There is no crossing the Borderline.”
Before I could protest, he explained. “We shouldn’t do anything we’ll regret later.”
“I’d never regret doing anything with you.”
“Your parents won’t let you use your cell phone. They won’t let you use the internet or leave town. If they found out I did anything more than kiss you, they’d never let you be with me. I have you now, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you. Even—” he paused to kiss my collarbone “—if it means never crossing the Borderline.”
With sinking disappointment, I realized Tristan was right, though for more reasons than my parents’ rules. The further I went with him physically, the harder it would be for me when it came time to leave.
Maybe he was right about the regret, too.
“Okay,” I whispered. “No crossing the Borderline.”
Tristan drove me home just in time for dinner, but before I left the car, he slipped the Anne of Green Gables book from my hand again. Expecting another kiss, I glanced at my hand and crossed my fingers, then leaned in. But he had opened the front cover of the book and was writing an inscription on it:
He handed it back, and that’s when he slid his hand behind my head, caressed my cheek with his thumb, and kissed me.
Legs still jelly from the kiss, I dashed through the rain inside, then went straight to our garage and lifted the hatch of our minivan. My getaway bag was crushed at the bottom, under everyone else’s. Anything we wanted to take with us to the next location we stored in our getaway bags, ready for our next run. Jillian had her pointe shoes, Logan had his sheet music. My parents had their cash and a stack of fake IDs. I’d never had anything important enough to keep.
Until now.
I pulled out my bag and slipped my new book inside. I wouldn’t leave this copy behind when we fled Twelve Lakes. I now had something to remind me of Tristan, something irreplaceable.
* * *
A few evenings later I knocked on the door to my dad’s office. He sat in his big leather chair behind the desk, watching the news on the television across the room. He snapped off the TV and waved me in. “What’s on the agenda tonight?”
I held up my American History book. “I have an essay due tomorrow.” Tristan had offered to help me with it, but I’d turned him down. My dad looked forward to our study sessions, and he was already so disappointed in me. I didn’t want to take away even more of our time together.
We discussed the assignment, then I wrote my paper and handed it to him. “I’ve been watching Tristan,” he said, his gaze never leaving the sheet. “Through your eyes, of course.”
“So you see how nice he is,” I said. “And respectful,” I added, thinking of the Borderline, and every kiss he’d planted above it.
“He treats you very well,” he admitted. “But your mother and I still disapprove.”
Disappointed, I slid my hands into my sleeves and poked my thumbs through the holes I’d worn in the cuffs.
“We’ve considered moving again,” Dad said. “Leaving Illinois.”
“We’d run again? To keep me away from Tristan?”
“But we can’t bring ourselves to do something that extreme. Not unless you slip up.”
“Thank you, Daddy.” My shoulders sagged with relief.
“Tessa.” No longer hiding behind my paper, he was looking at me, his hazel eyes stone, his expression stern. “Do not slip up.”
I swallowed hard. “I won’t. I promise.” I meant it more than ever now. One slip, and I’d lose Tristan. My family would run again, not because of Dennis Connelly, but because of me.
Dad nodded and went back to my paper.
“Are your headaches getting better?” I asked.
“A little.”
“And your bloody noses?”
He handed my homework back to me. “Haven’t had one in over a week.”
But when I left I saw the bloody tissues in his garbage can.
* * *
Late that night, I reported to Jillian’s room to practice her remote viewing. Her light was off, and she lay on her bed with her arm over her eyes. Logan sat next to her. As I stepped in, the Zener ESP cards flew out of her room and into Logan’s. “We’re not training tonight?” I asked.
Logan shook his head.
“I know you’re discouraged, Jill, but you haven’t given it enough time,” I said. “You’ll get it eventually.”
She raised her arm enough to glower at me.
“We’re quitting,” Logan said.
She aimed her cold stare at him. “Not me. I never quit.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I found this in the bathroom.” Logan held up a large bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol. He shook it, and it made no noise. Empty.
Worry clamped around my chest and squeezed. “You’re getting headaches?”
She nodded behind her arm. “They weren’t bad at first, but they keep getting worse. The one I had last night was so bad I thought I was going to die.”
“But you told us you were fine.”
She lifted her arm to glare at me again. “I’m very, very good at lying.”
“Did your nose bleed?”
“Just a little.”
I collapsed on to her desk chair with a huff. “You have to quit, Jillian.”
With the heels of her hand, she swiped her tears away. “I’ll think of something else,” she added, almost growling. “I will not just sit here and wait for Dennis Connelly to kill us.”
But her eyes had the same helpless, hopeless look our parents’ eyes always had. When I looked at Logan, his eyes looked the same way.
I was sure mine did too.
Chapter Fifteen
Beef tenderloin and roasted vegetables were on the dinner menu the next night. All week long I’d been the helpful, obedient daughter, volunteering to do the boring grudge work my mother didn’t like—the washing, the measuring, the chopping. Tonight I ended up making the entire meal, because she was on her knees, frantically scrubbing the floor, perhaps to distract herself from her disappointment in me.
She still hadn’t called me Babydoll.
When dinner was on the table, Mom called everyone in to eat. Logan and Jillian came, but Dad didn’t come out of his office.
“Someone go get your dad.” Mom rubbed her eyes. “He probably fell asleep watching TV again.”
I hopped up before Jillian or Logan could and padded down the hall. Mom was right—he’d fallen asleep in his leather chair behind his desk. “Dad,” I whispered, not wanting to startle him. “Dinner’s ready. Come have a few bites, and then you can go to bed.”
He didn’t stir, so I gently shook his arm. “Daddy?”
With a groan, he fell forward, his head hitting the desk with a loud, hollow thump. Something wet and warm spattered me, and it took me a moment to realize it was blood.
I would have screamed, but screaming was against the rules. It came out as a strangled whimper instead.
The room swirled. Dizzy and numb, I watched through a curtain of fog as Jillian and Logan rushed in. I wasn’t allowed to scream, but my mother was, and when she saw my dad she screamed with such horror the television screen shattered.
Jillian’s gaze darted around the room. “Dennis Connelly’s here. He’s here, isn’t he? Tessa, did you see him? Where is he?” The office door slammed itself shut.
I stumbled to the wall, the room narrowing, tilting. He could be anywhere. He could have been hiding in the living room, watching Mom and me make dinner. He could have been upstairs, watching Logan play his saxophone or Jillian do her homework. I could have passed him in the hall, walked right by him, when I came to get my dad. What if he was standing outside the office, right now? What if—
What if he was in here?
The closet. He could be in the closet. Or crouching behind the computer desk. With a single murderous glance, all five of us would be sliced open.
My knees trembled, and I sank to the floor, hands over my belly. The air became hazy, shadowed, dim.
“He’s not here.” Logan’s low, calm voice, juxtaposed with our mother’s wailing and Jillian’s panicked cries, made the fog lift a bit. He had dragged our father to the floor and was now pointing to his stomach. “Look.”
I swallowed a sob. Forced myself to breathe. I blinked, then peered through the fog at my dad. His shirt was saturated, soaked, drenched, with red. But there were no cuts, no gaping wounds, no violent slices across his body.
All of that blood was coming from his nose.
* * *
It took an hour for Dad’s nose to stop bleeding. An hour more before he could sit up without support and give us a weak wave. Another hour after that for me to stop shaking and for the fog to clear.
We camped out in the family room overnight, all five of us, taking turns pressing icepacks to Dad’s head because he said they helped his headache. As the sun came up, he lay
on the couch, his head on my mother’s lap while she stroked his forehead with a trembling hand. Clots of dried blood were embedded in the stubble along his jaw, but with her red, puffy eyes, she looked more bedraggled than he did.
“Dad?” Logan, wearing that young, vulnerable expression again, whispered the question I’d been afraid to ask. “What about your mobile eye? Does it still work?”
Dad struggled to sit up. “I don’t know. I’ll have to try it.”
“Don’t!” I said. “What if you pass out again?”
“We have to know if it still works,” he said. “If it doesn’t...”
The rest of that sentence was too horrible to finish. Nodding reluctantly, I slid my hands into my sleeves. We all held our breath as he closed his eyes.
“Wait,” Logan said.
Dad opened his eyes again. “What?”
“Don’t waste your strength trying to see Connelly yet.” Returning to his usual stoic, rational self, he straightened his posture. “If you don’t see him, and hopefully you won’t, you won’t know if your mobile eye is working or not.”
Our father nodded. “Good point.”
Jillian sat on the floor, slumped at the coffee table, and she lifted her head. “You can watch through me.” She gave him a subdued smile. “Bet you never thought I’d offer to let you do that.” We all snickered, and she rose and left the room.
With Mom grasping his hand and Logan and me holding our breath, Dad closed his eyes. After a few moments he winced but held up his palm when I told him to stop.
Eyes squeezed shut, he sat motionless, except his face became tighter and tighter. Just as a spot of blood trickled from his nose, he opened his eyes. “She’s in Tessa’s room, peeking out the window.”
Mom, Logan and I let out a collective sigh of relief, then sucked it back in as he moaned and sank back into the couch cushions. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice strained. “Just give me a minute.”
Jillian returned. “Did it work? I didn’t feel you watching this time.”