by C. J. Valles
Whoa. … Now I know how people must feel when I answer their unspoken questions. Creepy!
“You don’t remember?” I ask her, letting my features fall into a mask of polite concern again. “Perhaps you hit your head harder than I thought. I’ll take you to the hospital.”
When I reach for the steering wheel and touch the turn signal, Wren panics, envisioning her mother’s expression when she awoke in the hospital. Reaching out, she takes hold of my sleeve.
“No!” she gasps.
I look down at her hand, fighting the urge to take it in my own. Afraid she has upset me, she releases the fabric of my shirt and blushes.
He totally thinks I’m nuts now!
“Sorry,” she whispers. “I mean, I’m fine.”
“You’re certain?” I ask, my voice polite and detached.
She nods eagerly and does not look away this time. She stares into my eyes, mesmerized by the color, searching for a single thought. I want to draw out this moment, but she is becoming dizzy, an effect of the energy coursing between us. Finally she shakes her head.
“I really should, um … Thanks for the ride.”
Still trapped in my gaze, she reaches for the door handle. Upon finding it, she pushes the door open and scrambles out of the car to the walkway, her thoughts clearing as she runs toward her house through the rain, having completely forgotten about her bag. Retrieving it from the backseat, I shift to the sidewalk.
“You might need this.”
Stopping, she closes her eyes.
Duh! Seriously, Wren?
She turns to face me, her eyes widening as they focus on me.
How does he look more perfect than a second ago?
Her heart rate increases as she begins walking toward me. Then she shivers, abruptly becoming aware of how cold she is. Her teeth begin chattering as she stops in front of me, and when she reaches out to take her bag, her finger brushes my hand. Awareness flares through her, and she pulls back, staring down at her hand.
Like I just touched hot metal without being burned.
The feel of her touch upon my skin is like nothing else, and I crave more as she looks up, searching my eyes for some indication I have felt something as well. Unlike her, however, I have eons more practice maintaining an expression of utter indifference.
It’s just me, she thinks. He didn’t notice a thing.
“Th-thanks,” she mumbles, stepping away from me.
Nodding, I watch as she runs toward her house. When the door closes behind her, I walk to the car and drive a few blocks from her house, wishing I could see her smile again.
Time was nothing to me until I saw Wren Sullivan. Now the nights are long as I watch her sleeping fitfully, and the days are longer as I resist the temptation to speak to her.
I arrive in Gideon’s class the following day and await her entrance. When she arrives, I refrain from looking at her. It has never in my existence been so excessively unbearable to ignore a human being. Her continued optimism, which I have been inclined to stifle at every turn, is both maddening and encouraging at the same time. Upon collecting her supplies, she walks to the seat beside mine with a hopeful expression. When she looks toward me, I turn, my expression of calculated indifference more difficult to maintain with each passing second.
Unreal. It’s like he’s never seen me before in his life.
I wait stoically before beginning a new portrait of her, her wide eyes full of hurt and reproach. Her breathing is quick, and she contemplates screaming and demanding an explanation for my behavior. Fortunately for me, she still fears that she will appear mad in doing so. Turning toward the front of the classroom, she recalls her dream from the night before, allowing me a rare look into her mind during the hours she sleeps. The memory of the truck bouncing off of my shockwave remains crystal clear in her subconscious, and I fear it will be her dreams that expose my true nature.
Come on. It was a dream, she thinks to herself.
She glances at me when she believes it will go unnoticed.
Occam’s razor, she repeats to herself. The simplest explanation is most likely the correct one. In a moment of terror, I imagined something extraordinary.
After class, she begins to ignore me—aggressively. She refuses to look in my direction. She tries not to think of me. She even goes so far as to duck into the girls’ restroom when she sees me in the hall outside her mathematics classroom.
Please say he’s gone when I come out, she pleads silently as she remembers her first day at Springview High School—hiding in a locked bathroom stall to avoid Emily Michaels.
Relenting, I remain out of sight as she contemplates why she feels perpetually unsettled in my presence. Despite her renewed commitment to ignoring me, when she believes I am unaware, she watches me with restless agitation. Sitting in the cafeteria, she mulls over the thought she extracted from Matthew Turner’s mind: Looked down at her like he killed her.
In the cafeteria, Joshua Tarabocchia watches her watching me. His internal prattling and misplaced jealousy irritate me until I find myself wondering—is his jealousy, in fact, misplaced? Or could this unobservant boy possibly perceive my fascination with Wren Sullivan? I dismiss the thought as an impossibility as Wren sneaks a quick look in my direction.
Everything about Ever Casey is illogical and frustrating! she thinks, ignoring her friends’ chatter about an upcoming formal dance.
When Ashley Stewart says something about the dance, I watch as Wren winces while the girls around her begin whispering excitedly.
There’s a good reason why prom is a four-letter word, she thinks darkly.
Tarabocchia is staring at Wren, frustrated by his failed attempts to win her attention. Instead of noticing his unwavering attention, Wren is watching Zachary Miller, a quiet, studious boy who is inexplicably infatuated with Lindsay Gallo, whom I imagine would eat him alive. Looking at the Miller boy, Wren sees herself in the same position of unrequited affection.
Lucky for me, nobody can read my mind, she thinks, blissfully unaware of the irony.
When she rises and takes her water bottle to refill it, my gaze is not the only one that follows her. As Tarabocchia debates following her, Jeffrey Summers watches her pass his table with a dangerous combination of resentment and covetousness.
In the afternoons, Wren arrives home by bus, or she receives a ride from her mother. I wait for another time loop, but none appears as she passes her afternoons searching for a used vehicle to purchase. When her mother invites her for dinner in downtown Portland, Wren eagerly accepts.
Watching as they walk out to her mother’s car, I wonder—with not a small amount of regret—that if like the other girls her age at Springview High School, her fascination with me will fade with time. After all, time rules these creatures’ brief existences.
And if I were to make her like us? I shake my head as I bring the car’s engine to life. If I were to make her one of us, the portal into this world would remain open infinitely—and we would be forever locked in a struggle against Victor after coming so close to the end.
My jaw clenches as I follow Caroline Sullivan’s car through the hills. She is easily distractible, and her driving is equally erratic. Wren looks out the window during the drive, enjoying the seemingly limitless green of her surroundings.
I am less than five miles from the house where Audra and Chasen ultimately will alight when I make no attempt to rejoin them. If I were to take a left instead of right toward downtown Portland, I would soon arrive at our communal settlement. Audra and Chasen have never encroached upon me before, both of them aware that my undertaking is most often a solitary one. However, as close as we are to triumph against Victor, I imagine they will soon become impatient with my lack of progress or communication. Certainly if I reached out with my energy, I could sense where they are at this moment in time, but I always have afforded them the same courtesy of privacy.
The freedom from another’s rule is something none of us shall take for granted in our exi
stences.
When mother and daughter arrive at the restaurant, Caroline Sullivan makes a concerted effort to be “present” as she talks with her daughter. I find it amusing and perplexing in equal measures that Wren’s mother must employ all her willpower to resist checking her text messages and “social media” updates; whereas Wren appears to be willfully oblivious to these human “advancements.”
Taking a seat across the restaurant, I see that Caroline and Wren Sullivan are opposites in many ways. They are both empathetic, but Caroline Sullivan is extroverted in the extreme. Wren’s mother draws her energy from human interaction, while Wren appears depleted by her insight into people’s minds.
When a server approaches, unable to remember the hostess having seated me in her area, I smile and order a beer that I will not consume. Her expression brightens, and it never once occurs to her to ask for proof of my age.
“Well, I think I’ve finally narrowed down the car search,” Wren says to her mother.
Seeing the car in her mind, I search others’ minds for information about the vehicle’s owner until the server returns with the beer.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asks, smiling suggestively.
“No. Thank you.”
Why do the smokin’ hot ones never have any personality? she wonders as she sets down the bill and walks away.
I listen as Wren talks about school. She wonders briefly to herself about the portrait, now imagining that I must have painted her to resemble a gargoyle. She talks about her friends, telling her mother about Zachary Miller’s secret infatuation with Lindsay Gallo. Frowning when she thinks of me, she shakes her head.
“What about Josh?” her mother asks, proud that she has remembered his name this time. “He seemed friendly. Cute, too.”
Wren gives her a wry look.
“Mom, you saw him once, from across the parking lot. And, yeah, he’s nice.”
“You could ask him out. I’m sure he’d love that. Guys don’t always have to do the asking.”
Wren sticks out her tongue.
“Yeah, yeah. I know, Mom. But one of the girls I hang out with likes him. A lot.”
With a sigh, Caroline Sullivan decides it is for the best if her teenage daughter is not dating, and I cannot help but to agree silently with her conclusion. Would I be capable of watching Wren attend a date—alone—with one of these boys? Jeffrey Summers, I am certain, would not survive an outing with Wren, and fortunately for him, I know that he repulses her. Tarabocchia has a better chance, though I prefer not to think too long about that fact.
***
The girl with whom I have been—perhaps morbidly—fascinated with has come to think of me as a small piece of wood just beneath the surface of her skin. A splinter. In effect, she thinks that I am irritatingly impossible to stop thinking of, and I cannot decide whether to be disappointed or moderately buoyed by this mental musing of hers.
Sitting in Gideon’s classroom, she begins cataloging the instances in which I have prevented her from coming to harm. She is completely unaware that Gideon is about to ask her for an example of a famous self-portraitist.
Seriously, why did he even bother helping me? she asks herself. He just exists, like an empty canvas. What do I care if he wants to spend his existence in a void?
“Wren? Care to take a stab at one of the more prolific self-portraitists of modern times?”
Jumping as though she has been electrocuted, she looks up from her notes and blinks. She casts a sidelong glance at me before looking down, searching her thoughts. Looking up again, she hopes Gideon will give her the answer.
Picasso … or da Vinci maybe? Why am I in art class again? she wonders plaintively.
I whisper the answer in my mind, maintaining tight control of any other thoughts that might slip through.
“Van Gogh?” she says, posing the answer as a question.
“No need to sound so uncertain, Wren. Vincent van Gogh was indeed one of the most prolific post-Rembrandt.”
She exhales, relieved not to have disappointed an instructor she is fond of. Pausing, she frowns, aware that she had not been close to realizing the answer. She looks at me, studying my profile before her gaze wanders to the canvas before me.
Another abstract masterpiece. … Is that what he’s doing? Just biding his time until high school is over? Is he really that bored?
Her contemplation causes me to search my endless existence for any moments of true pleasure I have enjoyed in this realm. Awaiting dawn at the edge of a lake devoid of human intrusion? Standing on an uninhabited island just before a tropical storm? Watching the sea from cliff’s of Oregon’s coastline in the dead of winter? Standing atop the red sand dunes overlooking the Sossusvlei pan in the southern Namib Desert?
All of these places I have seen alone. Seclusion has been my curse and my redemption. I do not deserve to walk among humans, and never have I felt any true sense of loss in this fact. Until her, this girl who is staring at me with such bemusement and curiosity.
In another classroom, Joshua Tarabocchia is puffing up his ego, convincing himself that today is the day he will ask Wren to the dance she is so averse to attending. Part of me fears that he will succeed, and I have only myself to blame. I have done nothing but discourage any interest or empathy from her.
“Yo. I’m gonna ask her today. What d’you think?” Tarabocchia says, jabbing his friend Marcus White in the ribs.
The other boy frowns, not wishing to dash his friend’s hope, but also not eager to encourage something he sees as impossible.
“I don’t know, man. You have seen the way she looks at the Space Boy, right?”
“But he’s … I don’t know—the guy’s totally out of it. Don’t worry. One date with me, and she’ll forget all about him.”
Marcus White grimaces when his friend holds out his hand in a high five gesture.
“Mr. Tarabocchia? Something you would like to share with the class?” his Trigonometry instructor asks humorously.
“Yeah,” this inane boy says confidently. “I’m gonna ask a girl to the dance.”
The instructor grins.
“Good for you. Now you can impress her by writing problem number nine on the board for us.”
At the lunch period, I take a seat at the table that has all but become mine. I watch as Wren sits down at the table with her friends and quickly becomes dismayed by the continued attention on the upcoming dance. The longer her friends talk about it, the more intractable she becomes. When Lindsay Gallo asks the others about shopping for formalwear, Wren quietly stands and begins walking, unaware that Tarabocchia is at her heels. Turning, she notices him.
“I can get you something if you want,” she says, hoping to be left alone.
He fails to notice her demeanor is less than inviting, and is only moderately discouraged by her lack of enthusiasm.
“Uh, thanks,” he says, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “I just thought I’d keep you company.”
Wren winces almost imperceptibly as she walks briskly toward the case containing beverages. Sensing something unpleasant approaching, she begins thinking of lyrics to a song she was listening to this morning before leaving for school. To Lose My Life. Of course, she was not cognizant of the lyrics profound irony from my perspective. Either way, her music collection comprises a surprising number of titles referencing mortality.
“So, hey. I was wondering …” the boy begins, his confidence quickly deserting him.
My jaw clenches as he pauses.
“I mean I wanted to see if …”
Seriously? I’ve blacked out, slipped on the linoleum, almost been hit by a truck—and now I can’t get a disaster when I need one? Wren thinks acerbically.
“Are you going to the dance?” the boy finishes meekly.
Wren briefly debates a diplomatic response before deciding that honesty may be her best deterrent.
“Not without a gun to my head,” she says ominously, imagining the face of a littl
e boy ruthlessly teasing her in grammar school.
I nearly laugh when Tarabocchia’s expression transforms from hopefulness to one of confusion and trepidation. This girl’s vehemence has, in fact, frightened him. Seeing his alarm, she gives him a crooked smile.
“Believe me, the world is safer when I don’t dance,” she offers.
My momentary amusement fades as Joshua Tarabocchia smiles, his ego yet again firmly intact as it registers in his mind that Wren’s clear aversion to dancing in public has nothing to do with him.
“Come on. I can teach you.”
Reaching for her hand, Tarabocchia ignores the expression of horror on her features as he reaches clumsily for her hand. When he wraps his other arm around her waist, a snarl rips from my throat. A freshman at the table next to mine looks over, his eyes wide with fear. Holding his gaze, I wait until the boy jumps from his seat and retreats across the cafeteria.
By the time I turn my attention to Wren and her bumbling suitor, he is attempting to spin her in his arms. Wren’s foot catches on his, and she wobbles perilously. Restraining myself from shifting across the room to catch her, I watch as she regains her balance, her cheeks reddening. Her heartbeat thunders in her chest, and she looks around in mortification, relieved not to see anyone looking.
As her eyes shift to my table, I know that I should look away, but I cannot. She flinches when our eyes meet.
Nice. He’s going to laugh at me, too. Oh, wait. He doesn’t do that, she thinks acerbically.
She pulls free from the boy’s grasp on her hand and staggers away from him.
“See? That’s why I don’t dance.”
The boy laughs, and I watch as her expression tightens.
“Come on. You weren’t that bad,” he says, still laughing.
“Josh, drop it!” she says sharply before inhaling and starting again. “Honestly, I’d rather get my teeth drilled than go to a dance. And I think there’s someone else who’s been waiting for you to ask her.”
The pressure in my thoracic cavity loosens as Tarabocchia looks over Wren’s shoulder to where their friends are sitting.