by C. J. Valles
“All right. Can you at least tell me why you’ve been following me? I mean you have been following me, right?” she asks with less confidence.
Her friends have exited the shoe store and will be looking for her soon. Watching as Ashley Stewart retrieves her phone to send a message to Wren, I feel a jolt of possessiveness. I have no wish to surrender her company to others. Not now.
“Hello?” she says, waving a playful hand in front of my face.
“Your friends are looking for you.”
Her phone vibrates, startling her, and she looks down, reading the text from Ashley Stewart before her gaze returns to me.
His talent, or whatever it is, makes mine look like a silly parlor trick. Is it possible that he’s some kind of escaped government project gone wrong?
She frowns with the realization that I can hear her thoughts. When she tries to conjure her mental wall, I mirror her expression. Looking down, she taps out a text to her friend, informing Ashley Stewart that she will meet them in a matter of minutes. Again, I feel a swell of impending loss at the thought of relinquishing her company so soon.
“Wren?” I ask quietly.
Her heartbeat stutters at the sound of her name on my lips.
Only the second time he’s said it—and I hate that I’ve been counting, she thinks miserably as her eyes come up to meet mine.
“Could you not do that?” I ask without looking away.
She bites her lower lip, suddenly amused.
“Not do what?” she asks with a wide-eyed, innocent expression.
Frowning again, I decide to err on the side of honesty.
“It … bothers me when I can’t hear you.”
She briefly stops breathing. Then her eyes glint with victory.
“Get used to it,” she smiles.
I want to reach out and touch her hand, but I resist.
“I am trying to help you,” I insist quietly.
She frowns and looks away.
“Yeah? How? By following me around and then ignoring me?”
How many times have I hurt this girl? I am reluctant to count.
“Can you please trust that things are best the way they are? For you.”
She frowns again. She wants to believe me, but she cannot.
I don’t want to play this game any more.
“No!” She pauses and looks around. “I can’t. Not until you tell me why.”
Her persistence forces me to accept the fact that the more I tell her, the greater danger she is in. I sit back and stare resolutely.
That’s it! she thinks.
She pushes away from the table, announcing her displeasure with the shriek of metal against the tile flooring. Her friends are only moments from reaching the coffee shop.
“You know what?” she says caustically. “From now on, I’ll stay out of your business, and you stay out of mine.”
As her eyes fill with tears, they instantly transform from their usual olive color to a bright green. Turning, she begins to hurry toward the exit before looking up through the glass and stopping abruptly when she sees her three friends.
Why are they staring at me like that? Please say they didn’t just see me with Ever Casey!
Rising from my seat, I take her cup and deposit it in the trashcan before following her despite my better judgment. She pushes open the door and steps outside—unaware of what awaits her.
“We leave you alone for ten minutes—and you’re having coffee with him?” Lindsay Gallo gasps. “Way to go!”
“Are you going home with him?” Ashley Stewart asks up before blushing and shaking her head. “I mean, is he giving you a … ?”
As I step through the door behind Wren, the girl trails off.
“Hello,” I say quietly.
All four of them freeze like figurines before Wren reluctantly glances over her shoulder, confirming to herself that I am standing behind her. She blanches when I smile.
He is impossibly beautiful … and he almost looks friendly. At least I know it’s a trick.
She returns her attention to the three girls, fearful that one or more of them may have lost consciousness at the sound of my voice. Her thought reminds me of another less selfish reason to keep Wren to myself for a while longer—I cannot bear the thought of her riding in a vehicle with Ashley Stewart behind the wheel.
“I was going to give Wren a ride home, if that’s all right with you?” I say to no one in particular, making sure to include contractions and colloquialisms in my speech.
Wren’s attention instantly snaps back to me, her expression rife with disbelieving irritation.
“Sure, yeah,” mumbles Ashley Stewart, who remains overwhelmed by the fact that I am, indeed, speaking to them.
Her eyes widening again, Wren turns to face her friend, who continues to nod until the noisy pink-haired girl nudges her.
“Um, Wren,” Lindsay Gallo says. “Actually we were going to grab dinner before heading back.” She points to the restaurant across the courtyard. “You … guys want to come with?”
Lindsay Gallo’s eyes dart to mine as Wren wilts, biting her lip.
Which is worse, being interrogated by my friends over dinner—or Ever coming with and then getting interrogated later? But getting a ride home with Ever doesn’t seem like such a great idea, either. After all, which am I going to get? Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde?
Taking stock of the negligible amount of cash she is carrying, Wren finally relents.
“My mom’s getting off work soon, and I should get home anyway. I’ll see you guys tomorrow?” she asks her friends.
“We’re meeting up after school for the game, remember?” Ashley Stewart says, her eyes shifting in my direction.
Wren nods blankly, slowly remembering the baseball game her friends had been discussing during the lunch period. I smile, having found no sign that she has the slightest appreciation of team sports. When she turns to face me, I hold out my hand in the direction of the Maserati.
Right. Like he’s giving some kind of choice in going with him, she thinks peevishly.
She begins walking, looking over her shoulder once at the three girls—who continue to stare at us. As we turn the corner, Wren turns and scowls at me.
“What did you do that for? I had a ride home, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Glancing at her, I raise an eyebrow.
“That was why I offered.”
She frowns and waits for an explanation.
“Your friend is not exactly the most skilled driver, and given your history with moving vehicles—”
She thrusts her hands in the air in a decidedly frustrated manner.
“Yeah, since I got here. Besides, I don’t get it. What do you care? I could drop dead tomorrow, and it wouldn’t make any difference to you, right?”
Even if I were incapable of reading her mind, I would be a fool not to hear the pain in her voice. She looks down at the pavement and frowns.
Why do I even care what he thinks anyway?
“Is that what you truly believe?” I ask, though I cannot say for certain why I feel the least bit surprised given my behavior.
“Yes! No! I don’t know!” She shakes her head. “I don’t even know anything about you! You help me one second, ignore me the next. Go ahead. Do what you want next time. Let me fall off a freaking cliff.”
Her breath coming in fast gulps, she turns and begins walking in the opposite direction with the intention of finding her friends. Abruptly I feel a flash of anger. Not at her, but at the fact that every choice I have made in this existence has had little to do with happiness—if happiness is even a possibility for me—and everything to do with preserving this world and our freedom in it.
“Did I say I wanted to do anything?” I snarl before I can check myself.
Something in this girl makes it difficult, nearly impossible, to disengage myself from emotions I had thought myself easily able to repress whenever necessary. When she turns to face me, I look away, again acutely aware of th
e danger I represent to her wellbeing. After several seconds, she walks toward me, watching me until I face her. She takes a shuddering breath.
Wow. Is it possible that whatever it is that he’s hiding might be a burden he can’t share? Have I just been completely wrong about him?
Unwilling to coerce her, I begin walking in the direction of the car. I want her to follow me more than I dare contemplate. She remains perfectly still for a moment before I hear her quiet footfalls behind me. Reaching the car, I open the door and wait for her to step in to the passenger seat. She fastens her safety belt and looks in my direction once I am seated behind the wheel.
Why would he help me if he’s evil? she wonders silently.
“Look. You don’t have to tell me anything. Like I said, you have your secrets; I had mine. We’ll leave it at that.”
When she smiles tremulously, I raise my hand to brush a tiny piece of hair from her eyes. As my finger skims across her cheekbone, I know with absolute certainty that I have crossed a boundary I thought myself incapable of crossing. She shivers, her breath catching as I will myself not to lean forward to touch my lips to hers just once.
So stupid! What gave me the ridiculous idea he was about to kiss me?
Putting the key in the ignition, I close my eyes for a single second, regaining control over my thoughts before they lead me to an action I will regret. As soon as I exit the parking lot, I drive faster than advisable, aware of each moment she steals a look at my face.
Finally she becomes aware of the Maserati’s rate of speed. Only a handful of humans are capable of reaching this speed behind the wheel of a vehicle, and those that do endanger themselves and everyone around them to do so. When she grips the door handle, I look over at her and reluctantly allow the vehicle’s speed to decrease until she exhales. As we approach her house, I realize we will arrive only moments before Caroline Sullivan does. From Wren’s nervous, overwhelmed state, I assume that Wren would be horrified if her mother were to see me. Arriving in front of her house, I look over at her as she tries to think of something to say.
Strangest night ever.
When her mother’s car pulls up behind us, a flood of pure panic grips her. Opening her door, Wren leaps out of the car and rushes toward her mother as I pull away from the curb. I drive a block away, listening to their conversation as I park.
“Was that your friend Ashley?” Caroline Sullivan asks, trying to rectify a teen-age girl driving an Italian sports car.
“Actually, I got a ride home with someone else,” Wren answers carefully.
Her mother laughs to hide her concern.
“A drug dealer?”
As they walk into the house, I shift to her bedroom, amused by the confusion her mother’s wry inquiry causes.
“I don’t get it,” Wren says, waiting for her mother to explain.
“Honey! We bought the house in Topanga for less than that car costs.”
She pictures the emblem and stops breathing at the sight of the three-pronged staff.
Uh. Oh, she thinks.
“That was a Maserati, wasn’t it?”
“Quattroporte, if I’m not mistaken. So? Who was that?”
“Just someone from school.”
Wren’s heart races, belying her nonchalant tone.
“Someone from your school who drives a Maserati?” her mother demands with admirable skepticism.
“It’s his dad’s car, I think,” Wren says, wincing at the lie.
“Does this person have a name?”
“Ever Casey.”
I hear her heart rate skyrocket as she says my name.
“Ever?” mother repeats in bewilderment.
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s unusual.”
“Come on, Mom. You named me after a bird. Everybody thinks that’s a little weird.”
“Wren is a beautiful name.”
I listen as Wren walks into the kitchen. Despite her daughter’s retreat, Caroline Sullivan refuses to relent.
“So, who is this mystery guy? Are you dating him?”
“God, Mom! No! He’s in my Art class, and he offered me a ride. That’s it!”
Wren sighs.
Not like I can say he’s beautiful and strange, or that he’s making me crazy.
“What about your friends? I thought you were out with them.”
“I was. He offered to give me a ride, so I could get back to make dinner.”
“You like him, don’t you?” her mother urges.
I watch through Caroline Sullivan’s eyes as Wren blushes and looks down.
“He’s just in one of my classes.”
“Uh huh, sure. And when am I going to meet him?”
“It’s not like that. He doesn’t even like me,” Wren says.
“You know, honey, he’s an idiot if he doesn’t like you.”
I smile at Caroline Sullivan’s précis of the situation.
“How about tortilla soup?” Wren asks in agitation.
“Sounds great. I’m going to run upstairs and change. Be down in a sec, okay?”
Reluctantly I shift back to the car. I rarely fear that a human would catch me by surprise, but it feels inappropriate to wait in her daughter’s room while Caroline Sullivan changes garments. As Wren prepares their nightly meal, she remains unaware of her friends’ repeated attempts to reach her mobile phone. Finally her mother reappears with Wren’s phone in hand.
Seeing the missed calls and texts, Wren hurries to her room, dreading her friends’ reaction as she closes the bedroom door behind her.
“Oh … my … freaking … god!” the dramatic redhead hisses into the phone. “What happened?”
“Lindsay?” Wren asks.
“You’re on speaker,” the other girl explains impatiently. “Now tell us everything!”
Wren studies her free hand.
“He just gave me a ride home. That’s it.”
When she closes her eyes, imagining my finger skimming her cheek, I shift to the opposite side of her room for the briefest of moments, watching her face until Lindsay Gallo snorts derisively, jarring Wren from her reverie. I already have shifted back to the car before she looks up.
“Right! Something is going on with you two. Did he ask you out? Are you guys going to the dance together? Did he kiss you?”
“No!” Wren nearly shouts into the phone in response to the rapid succession of questions.
She pinches the bridge of her nose and searches her mind for a harmless detail that will placate her anxious compatriots.
“He opened the car door for me,” she says quietly, startled by the instant unison of agitated screams. “That’s it.”
“I can’t believe it,” Ashley Stewart squeaks breathlessly. “He’s totally going to ask you to the dance!”
Wren’s heart rate speeds up.
“Um, I’m in the middle of dinner. I’ll see you guys tomorrow, all right?”
Despite the moans from her friends, she ends the call and sits heavily on the edge of the bed, her hands shaking and her thoughts swimming. She waits for another minute before leaving her room to join her mother. When she reaches the kitchen, her mother looks up and frowns at her expression.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just kind of tired.”
And confused. And a little too hopeful. What happened tonight?
Less than two hours later, as she sleeps, I shift to her room and watch her face. Ah, yes. This has become a twisted ritual of mine, but rather than giving me peace, tonight watching her sleeping form fills me with an awful desperation and longing to see her smile upon me one more time.
Because in the morning, I must crush her hope and my own before it wounds her and scars me. Toward dawn, I shift to the house on the coast, sitting upon its rooftop in the darkness before returning to the car and following Wren’s path to school, her alternatingly hopeful and anxious thoughts inflaming me.
I wait until just before the bell sounds to enter Gideon’s classroom, and when
I turn and smile at her, it feels like the darkest betrayal. Surprised, she smiles crookedly in return, wondering to herself if it is wrong to feel such excitement. I do not fault her for her emotions—mine, however, are an abomination, a threat.
Wren’s thoughts hum chaotically for the duration of the period, and when the bell finally rings, I feel a moment of vacillation. Is my plan to alienate her unnecessarily cruel? No. It is a kindness. I wait at the door until she has gathered her belongings. Ashley Stewart approaches me before turning and mouthing the word yikes to Wren, whose heart races as she stops in front of me and looks up.
“Would you have lunch with me today?” I ask.
She continues to stare up at me, wondering if this is a dream. Does she often dream of this? All the more reason to destroy any sentiment she holds for me.
“Um … sure,” she says tentatively.
Smiling once more, I turn and walk away from her, loathing myself.
“So, Tarabocchia. What happened to asking Wren to the dance?”
My attention shifts across campus, where Joshua Tarabocchia and Marcus White are leaving their first period trigonometry class. At the mention of Wren’s name, I decide to follow their conversation more closely, watching through Marcus White’s eyes as Tarabocchia shrugs.
“You heard her,” Tarabocchia says defensively. “She’s not going to the dance. Besides, when I ran into Ash in the parking lot this morning, she said Wren got a ride home from the space boy while they were at Bridgeport. He just appeared out of nowhere last night and offered her a ride.”
When Marcus White’s eyebrows go up in surprise, Tarabocchia laughs.
“Yeah, maybe you were right for once. Maybe she’s got a thing for weirdoes.”
“Maybe I was right for once? Marcus White is always right,” the boy quips, referring to himself in third person.
“Yeah? Whatever, bro. When are you gonna ask Ash to the dance?” Tarabocchia challenges.
“It’s all about timing,” Marcus White says, reaching up to straighten an imaginary tie before they turn in separate directions.
The boy is correct. For humans, it is all about timing, and my timing is simultaneously appropriate and callous. I must distance myself from Wren Sullivan, whether I wish to or not, and I know why this fact distresses me more than any other sacrifice I have made.