The Gifting (Book 1 in The Gifting Series)

by K.E. Ganshert

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Trouble

  Luka threads his fingers with mine as we pull through the gates into Forest Grove. He squeezes my palm. “We’re in this together.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t be.”

  “What?”

  I pull my hand from his. “I don’t want to drag you into my problems.”

  “Tess, you didn’t drag me into anything.”

  On the contrary. I dragged him into last night’s dream.

  “I’m part of this whether you want me to be or not.”

  “Even if it means being grounded for the rest of our lives?”

  “Even if.” Luka pulls into his driveway. The front tire is barely over the curb when both of our doors open and our parents march outside. It’s as if they’ve been watching for us out the window. Mr. Williams stalks toward the car.

  Luka grimaces. “I apologize in advance for anything he says.”

  His father raps the driver’s side window with his knuckle. “Out!” The glass muffles the word, but not enough to snuff out its sharpness. “Now.”

  Luka grabs the handle and does what his dad says. So do I.

  A vein in Mr. Williams’ temple throbs. His eyes are so dark, foreboding settles in my stomach. And I’m not even the object of his wrath. He pins every ounce of that on Luka. His mom? Not so much. She glares at me like this is my fault. I can’t help but think that she’s right.

  My parents race over to my side. Mom wraps me in a hug, then grips my arms and pulls me away, her face a perfect storm of bewilderment and relief. “How could you do that to us? Your brother is in the hospital, on the brink of death, and just when we find out he’s okay, you go missing?” Before I have time to respond, she crushes me against her chest and squeezes. “Where did you go? What were you thinking?”

  I look at Luka over her shoulder, feeling like a strangled frog.

  He steps forward. “It was my fault, Mrs. Eckhart. I thought Tess needed to get away.”

  It sounds so lame. But we’re not telling them where we went. No way. Not ever. Mom lets go of my neck. “You thought she needed to get away?”

  Obviously, she’s not buying it.

  Mr. Williams grabs Luka’s arm. “I couldn’t have made it any clearer,” he says through clenched teeth. “You are not to be associated with her.”

  Luka jerks free.

  Dad narrows his eyes at Mr. Williams. “Who’s her—my daughter?”

  “She’s a bad influence on our son,” Mrs. Williams says.

  Dad’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “I believe you have things mixed up. Our daughter never made a habit of running away from home before she met your son.”

  “Mr. Ekhart is right.” Luka looks at his mom. “This was my idea, not hers.”

  “Luka,” I interject.

  He shakes his head sharply at me and finishes. “Her brother was in the hospital. She was having a hard time. I made the suggestion. I snuck in the house and got my car keys. It was all me. So if you’re going to be mad, be mad at me.”

  “Oh, you better believe I’m mad at you.” Mr. Williams holds out his hand. “Keys.”

  Luka hands them over.

  “Phone.”

  “It’s in the car.”

  “Then I’ll get it later. Let’s go. Inside.”

  Mom puts her hand on my back and nudges me toward our house. “You too, Tess.”

  Walking across Luka’s front lawn into our own, my parents flanking me like body guards, I look over my shoulder at Luka. He’s looking at me too—confident, passionate, fire in his eyes. Like there’s no way our parents can keep us apart.

  Until my dad slams the front door shut and Luka is gone. “That’s it. We’ve had it. Your brother’s a mess. And you? This?”

  Mom holds her head, as if the same headache plaguing me plagues her as well.

  “We’re not staying here anymore. We’re moving.”

  “What? No! We can’t move.” I grab Dad’s arm, panic crowding my lungs. “I’m sorry, okay? It won’t happen again. I promise. We can’t move. I … I …” I scramble for a reason, an explanation as to why we cannot move. Needing Luka won’t fly. “I need Dr. Roth. He’s been helping me.” I look at Mom, searching for an ally. “You know he has. You’ve seen it with your own eyes. I’ll only get worse if we move. I’ll—I’ll turn into Grandma.”

  This does the trick. Mom’s eyes go round. Dad’s face goes pale. And his resolve deflates. He pushes his hand back through his thinning hair. “If you ever do that again, you will leave us with no choice. Do you understand?”

  I nod, quickly. Emphatically.

  He slides my phone from his back pocket. “This is ours. Your car’s out of commission and we will not be replacing it. At least not until you can earn back our trust. Now go up to your room.”

  My obedience is immediate. Dad follows close behind. He steps inside my bedroom, unplugs my computer, and tucks it beneath his arm. I have no way of contacting the outside world. No way of contacting Luka.

  “We’re going to the hospital in thirty minutes. Pete’s doing well.”

  He shuts the door with a loud thud. My imprisonment is complete.

  Visiting my grandmother? Despite what Luka thinks, it accomplished nothing.

  We spend the rest of the day at the hospital. Pete is wide awake and more like his old self than I’ve seen him in a long time. It’s like the car accident snapped him out of a long-standing depression. After my road trip debacle with Luka, seeing Pete’s clear eyes and boyish smile is a much-needed breath of fresh air. My parents don’t tell him about my disappearance. In fact, they specifically ask me to keep the whole fiasco to myself. I have no problem with this arrangement.

  Now that I’m not taking my medicine, I expect to see the things I saw before. I brace myself for the white-eyed men, the temperature fluctuations, the beings that glow like miniatures suns. The bracing is for naught. I don’t see anything at the hospital but doctors and nurses, visitors and patients.

  That night, I reread my grandmother’s journal. Three times through, searching for clues about me and her and these dreams we both have and why she might have thought that I—a mere toddler—could save her. My parents don’t know I’m not taking my medicine anymore. I wish I could confide in them. I wish I could tell them about everything that has happened. But I can’t. Dad will think I’m nuts, and Mom? I’m not sure what she will think. She’s not as staunch in her convictions as Dad, but this is so far out there that all they will see, all they will hear is that their daughter is just like her grandmother. And I am. I’m exactly like her, but it’s not what they think. This isn’t psychosis.

  My dreams are disjointed. I try finding the beach and Luka, but I can’t. Instead, I end up back at the hospital. Not Pete’s, but Shady Wood, staring at rows upon rows of comatose bodies. I’m not sure if the machines are keeping them alive or keeping them from living. I want to unhook them. I want to set them free from this dark, oppressive place. But when I try, nothing is solid. It’s all vapor.

  When I wake up, I write everything down, then spend the rest of Sunday visiting Pete, yearning—no aching—for Luka. That night, my dreams are the same. Me, trying to get to Luka but ending up at Shady Wood instead. Me, trying to free those people. Me, failing at both. I’m happy and relieved when I wake up. It’s Monday morning, which means school. While my parents will go to many lengths to keep me from Luka, robbing me of my right to an education is not one of them. I pray that Luka’s parents are the same.

  Mom drives. As soon as she pulls up to the front entrance, I fling open the door and hurry toward the school, brushing off the looks and the whispers. As soon as I step inside the building, Luka is there. He grabs my face between his hands and kisses me. Full on the mouth. The shock of his lips on mine turns my kneecaps to putty. Luka is kissing me. He’s kissing me, right there in the locker bay in front of everyone. And I’m so stunned by it all, so caught off guard, that my body has morphed into a ragdoll. A really hot,
tingly ragdoll.

  When he pulls away, my head spins. My lips throb in the best possible way.

  Several students gape.

  He takes my hand and pulls me out of the locker bay, right outside the bathrooms, a space that is relatively empty. “You have no idea how good it is to see you.”

  I blink like an idiot, unable to get past his greeting.

  He pushes his hand through his hair. “I couldn’t get to you in my dreams. I could hear you calling out for help. But I couldn’t get to you.”

  I point toward the locker bay, dumbstruck. “You-you just kissed me.”

  A grin pulls at his lips—the very lips that were on mine seconds earlier. And then he does it again. He cups the side of my face and kisses me. His fingers move up into my hair. His other hand moves to my waist, pulling me closer. I grab onto his shirt front to keep myself upright. Luka is good at this. Much, much too good. But the kiss ends as abruptly as it began. He groans and leans against the wall.

  My head spins. I’ve never been kissed by a boy before. I don’t really know how these things work, but I have to imagine groaning is not a good reaction. I must be bad at it.

  “I am so pissed at my dad,” he says.

  Luka’s sudden shift in the conversation is not helping the head-spinning situation.

  “C’mon. We should get to class. If I get a tardy on my record, I’m going to be home-schooled.” He takes my hand, laces his fingers with mine, and doesn’t let go. “How’s Pete?”

  “Really good.” I try to elaborate. I try to say more. Like how the doctors keep telling my parents how lucky Pete is. How they have a few more tests to run and if everything pans out, he’ll be released tomorrow. But my brain is mush. Because Luka kissed me. He kissed me twice and I have no idea what it means.

  “That’s great.”

  “I dreamt about Shady Wood.”

  He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t respond with a question or a comment. If not for the darkening of his expression, I might think he didn’t hear me at all. But he heard. I can almost see the cogs spinning in his brain. I just wish I knew what they were spinning over.

  When we get to Mr. Lotsam’s classroom, Leela stands outside the door, her eyes puffy and bloodshot. I try to give her an encouraging smile. Either to apologize or to say it’s okay. I understand why she was so upset, why she felt betrayed.

  “I heard about Pete,” she says.

  “He’s going to be okay.”

  She nods, her chin quivering. “I’m glad.”

  “Thanks Leela.”

  She gives me a weak smile. I think she might sit next to us—Luka and me—but she walks to the other side of the classroom. Even so, a sliver of hope works its way into my heart. Our friendship might take time to mend, but at least it has the potential of mending.

  The bell rings and Mr. Lotsam begins a discussion about the latest goings-on in Egypt and whether or not the United States should send troops. The class is engaged. The debate is lively. Luka and I don’t chime in. We sit close—shoulder-to-shoulder, and stay quiet. I find myself relaxing a bit. Letting my guard down. Something about Luka’s presence calms my nerves.

  Until the door bursts open.

  I jump, then sit up straight in my seat.

  Two burly men stand in the doorway on either side of Principal Jolly. For a second, I wonder if I’m seeing things again. If the medicine has finally worn off all the way. But the conversation has come to a screeching halt and every single student stares at the same place I am staring.

  Mr. Lotsam’s brow knits together. “Is something the matter?”

  One of the men—with a square jaw and flecks of gray in his dark blonde hair—flashes a badge. “We’re here for Teresa Ekhart.”

  All eyes turn to me.

  I shrink back in my seat.

  Luka comes forward in his.

  Did they find out I broke into Shady Wood? Did they identify my fingerprints on that woman’s key fob? Did my grandmother rat me out?

  “Are you Teresa Ekhart?” the man with the badge asks me.

  I nod.

  Luka stands. “Who are you?”

  Principal Jolly frowns. “Luka, please sit down.”

  “Government officials.” The other burly man flashes a badge of his own. “Teresa Eckhart, you have officially been declared a danger to society.”

  A danger to society?

  Before I can process what’s happening, one of the men starts reading me my rights. I’m being arrested in the middle of Mr. Lotsam’s Current Events class.

  Luka steps in front of me. “You can’t do this.”

  “There have been multiple reports that Teresa Eckhart has been resisting treatment for her mental illness. She has stopped taking her prescribed medication. And she has been making irrational, reckless decisions.”

  My eyes go wide, because how could anybody know? The only person who knows I’ve stopped taking my medicine is … Luka? My heart squeezes. Did he tell someone?

  Before he can explain, one of the men shoves him aside and takes my wrist. My training kicks in. When a man grabs me, I’ve learned to throw my thumb straight up and jerk away. His grip falters, but the other man wraps his fingers around my bicep as I struggle to break free.

  “Let her go!” Luka strains against Principal Jolly, who is trying and only partially succeeding in holding him back.

  My face burns underneath everybody’s stares. I feel light-headed. Dizzy. Because no way is this happening. I see Leela, looking frightened. And Summer, looking delighted. And Luka, looking panicked.

  “You can’t take her!” he shouts. “Tess, I’ll find you.”

  Escape is impossible. No amount of self-defense will make up for the sheer muscles on these men. Fear strangles my trachea as they drag me away. I can’t breathe. I can’t call out for help. I can’t ask them where they are taking me. Outside, a black police car waits. The man with the square jaw opens the back door, his grip bruising my arm. “Stop fighting us.”

  I don’t listen. I jerk and pull and strain away. I’m not getting in that car. I want my mom. I want my dad. I want this to be a dream, but their grip won’t even allow me to scratch the inside of my wrist.

  The other man, who has icy blue eyes, removes a needle from his coat pocket, along with a syringe. And my fear surges into full-out panic. I thrash and kick and try to claw, but it’s no use. With an evil glint in his eye, he jabs the needle into my neck and pushes me into the car. “Don’t forget to buckle up, Little Rabbit.”

  My vision blurs.

  Little Rabbit? That can’t be right. That’s what the man with the white scar calls me. I flop my hand toward my patch of eczema and scratch at it with heavy, fumbling fingers. It burns. Which can only mean one thing.

  This is real. This is all very, very real.