“That’ll work,” I said, imitating her sign for my name. Then I asked again, “So, where were you headed?”
“I have a camper at the lake a little over an hour away.”
I nodded. “Okay. Is there a bus station around here?”
She looked away and out the window, but she had that look of not seeing what was in front of her. She appeared to be trying to figure out the solution to some unknown problem. Finally she looked at me.
“Do you have somewhere you need to go?” she asked. “I mean, where would you go on the bus?”
I shrugged. “No clue, to be honest. Probably go to Miami. I kind of feel the need to go south.”
I hadn’t really, but as if the signed words had planted a seed in my gut, I had a vague feeling south might be right.
“Would you . . .” Her hands hesitated in the air. “Would you still make an exception for me for a sleepover?”
Whoa. Not what I was expecting.
“No, no.” She shook her head emphatically. “That’s not what I mean. I was just wondering if you’d come to the lake with me for a couple of days. I am kind of . . . needing a friend.”
I gave her the best smile I could conjure. “I’m not big on camping, but where else do I have to go?”
After a stop for groceries and another for fuel, Leni drove us up into the mountains, to a quiet lake hidden in a valley and surrounded by Georgia pines. She pulled up to an Airstream camper sitting near the shore’s edge, the silver bullet shining in the afternoon sun, and we unloaded her truck. The inside of the camper had a funky style that perfectly repped Leni. To the right of the door, the part over the tongue, was a futon mattress with no frame, piled high with various colored pillows. Orange and yellow tie-dyed curtains hung in the windows and a big, blue paper lantern dangled over the little table like a blue moon hanging in the sky. There was a kitchenette directly to the left, then what I assumed to be the bathroom and on the other side of it, a doorway leading to what must have been a small bedroom.
“Your place?” I asked.
“Pretty much. My uncle gave it to me so I’d have a place to get away from him. I think it was more so he’d have a place to send me away.”
I glanced around. “Sent you to Italy and gave you a camper at the lake.” My eyes came back to her. “You have a good life, don’t you?”
Her eyes flicked away, but only for a brief moment before she looked at me, smiled and shrugged. “Yeah. Guess I do.”
She moved about the camper with purpose, expertly setting everything up, including an awning that she hung with a couple of strings of colorful Christmas lights. A cat joined us while we ate hot dogs and potato chips at the picnic table outside, the colorful lights making a pattern of blue, pink and purple on its white coat. Leni said she’d never seen it before, but the cat seemed intent on hanging out with us.
“Why did you bring me here?” I asked her after dinner. She hadn’t trusted me before. What had changed?
She didn’t answer, but went inside for a moment, returning with the leather-bound book in her hand. She placed it on the table, sat down next to me and, to my surprise, grabbed my hand in hers. The world tilted a little like it always did, but the intensity was lessening with each touch. With her free hand, she ran a finger over the picture embossed in the leather cover—a weeping willow tree surrounded by fish and dolphins. Her finger pointed to an image engraved in the tree’s trunk: a phoenix on fire. Then she lifted our clasped hands to rest on the table and pressed our arms tighter together.
I noticed for the first time she’d removed her bracelets. And I also noticed she had a flame tattoo exactly like the mark on my own wrist. When our arms were pressed together like that, the tattoos looked exactly like the phoenix’s wings.
What. The. Fuck.
I yanked my hand out of hers and sprang to my feet. She caught my wrist in her hand before I could bolt, though, and pointed to the clasp. What had once been smooth, blank metal now had the same phoenix image engraved in it. She stroked her finger over it, and the clasp sprang open.
On the first page, in neat, girl’s handwriting, were the words Jacey and Micah and a sketch of the flamed wings without the rest of the bird. On the next page were a date and the beginnings of what appeared to be a long-ass journal entry.
CHAPTER 7
The singer of Bex’s boyfriend’s band screamed profanities into the microphone, supposedly singing some intense lyrics on a makeshift stage in the basement of an abandoned building. When pleading with me to come with her earlier, Bex, my roommate, had sold the band as “The Clash meets The Cult with a little Sex Pistols thrown in.” As stupid as it sounds, I’d thought at the time her description had created the intense lure to see the show, because I’d been stoked to go. The band sucked, although the crowd either loved them or was simply too drunk to care because they turned the entire space into a mosh pit. Exchanging my Converse high-tops for my Doc Martens before we’d left had been a smart choice—my toes were thankful for the steel tips.
My nerves had been strung tighter than the bassist’s guitar, and everything grated on them. The band’s assaulting melody, sweaty bodies crashing into me, the warm beer that spilled over my hand, and all the smells that came with the scene . . . I couldn’t take it anymore. I tried to chug my beer but the first swallow made me gag, so I tossed it before pushing my way up the stairs and outside. A rush of icy air hit my face as soon as I stepped through the door, and I pulled my black leather jacket tightly around me, wishing I had on more than a measly t-shirt underneath. When the January wind bit through the holey leggings under my denim miniskirt, I wanted nothing more than to magically appear in my bed at the dorm, snuggled under my comforter with a charcoal pencil and sketchpad in hand.
Normally, I’d have been so screwed up by then, I wouldn’t have cared about anything—the band, the chaos, the cold. Any other time, I’d have been thrashing in the mosh pit myself. A rad buzz would have given me the false sense of warmth everyone else outside must have had as they swapped spit and smokes. A fragrant mix of menthol, cherry tobacco hand-rolls and the distinct smell of weed wafted through the chilly air, more palatable than the cloudy haze inside that tried to bring back memories I didn’t want.
For some reason, though, I’d had no desire to drink myself to oblivion, my nerves too high on anticipation. Of what I didn’t know. But whatever I’d been expecting, it hadn’t happened, and the desire to go home grew into a desperate need. I was two hours away from campus, though, and my ride planned to stay until the last song finished. I totally should have driven, I thought as several people came bouncing through the door.
I watched for Bex, wondering if I’d have any chance of talking her into leaving early, although I was pretty sure of the answer. At least, until I saw her new boyfriend—what was his name? I couldn’t remember—stumble outside, his arms around two chicks and their mouths all over his neck. Neither of them were Bex. In fact, where was Bex? Still in the bathroom, where she’d gone when I came outside? My gaze flicked between the door, still watching for Bex, and the boyfriend with his bitches. They huddled together near the wall opposite me, not even trying to hide their mini-orgy.
“Oh, hell no,” I muttered, pushing myself off the wall I’d been leaning against as a light drizzle began to fall.
Maybe I’d had enough beer for liquid courage after all, but probably not. All I could think about was seeing Bex’s face when she came out. Although she asked for most of her boy troubles, the poor girl didn’t deserve this. Edgy, disappointed, and now completely pissed off, I stomped over to the trio.
“What the fuck, you dickwad?” I yelled as I grabbed the collar of one girl’s jacket and, ignoring the pierce of the metal studs in my palm, yanked her away while my right hand swung, nailing what’s-his-name in the jaw. While he gaped at me, stunned and rubbing his face, the other girl stepped into my space, her flabby boobs nearly touching my chin as I glared up at her. The ring in her nose wobbled as her lips lifted in an ugly sm
irk.
“What are you—psycho?” she snarled. “Well, you picked the wrong bitch to mess with.”
Her hands twitched at her side, but not waiting to be hit first, I drove my knee into her stomach. She doubled over briefly, but before I could punch her in the head, her hand came up with a knife in it.
“Bring it on,” I taunted, my hands out, fingers wiggling at her. I rolled my shoulders, trying to ignore the icy drizzle making trails under my coat and down my back.
The girl swiped her knife out, the streetlight bouncing off the silver blade as it swung toward me. I jabbed my fist out to knock it from her hand, or at least to keep it from slicing open my face. The knife never connected, though. Something yanked me backwards, out of its reach.
Not something. Someone. And as soon as the large hands clamped onto my upper-arms, the breath flew out of me. As though I’d been socked in the stomach, but nothing had hit me. I gasped, trying but unable to catch my breath as those hands dragged me farther down the alley, the touch searing through my leather jacket, into my skin, down to my bones. Every nerve zinged in my body like they did when I touched one of Pops’ badly wired lamps. The pounding in my ears barely drowned out the stupid tramp screaming at me, the sound of her voice fading as someone dragged her in the opposite direction. But the pounding didn’t drown out the word, “dyad,” a voiceless whisper floating around my mind as if I should have known what it meant.
My body finally stopped moving, and as the hands turned me in place to face their owner, my fists balled, and a whole slew of profanities prepared to launch out of my mouth.
But they never made it out.
My breath caught in my lungs once again. My brain went numb, any thoughts becoming an incoherent jumble. The whole world disintegrated around us as my gaze met the darkest, most haunting pair of eyes I’d ever seen returning my stare, filled with the same expression I must have held. One that said with no trace of doubt, as if it were a self-evident, unquestionable truth decreed by the gods (if they actually existed):
“I. Know. You.”
I know you. The words almost tumbled from my mouth, would have if my tongue hadn’t been so tied.
Except . . . I’d never seen him before in my life. Trust me, I wouldn’t have forgotten this face. A perfect, heart-stopping, I-want-to-know-what-it-tastes-like face framed by chin-length, wavy hair as dark as his eyes. My lips ached to brush over his chiseled cheekbones, and my fingers twitched with the thought of tangling themselves in his silky locks.
Oh, for God’s sake. What is wrong with me?!
I didn’t know how long we stood there, staring at each other, that zing sparking between us. Seconds? Minutes? Longer? No clue. The sound of flapping wings and the sudden rising of black shapes from the shadows around us jerked me back to reality. Too big to be bats, some kind of huge black birds rose to the sky, and I stared after them, my jaw hanging open.
“Jacey,” Bex snapped from behind me, “what the hell is wrong with you?”
I spun around and blinked at her. “Did you . . . where . . . I mean . . .”
I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts, and water spattered outwards.
“Why are you still out here?” Bex demanded. “It’s fuckin’ cold! And wet!”
My eyes took Bex in for real now. Her hot pink Mohawk was beginning to droop, some strands already plastered to her head, and her black eye makeup made trails down her powdered-white face. She looked like the poster-child for teen runaways. Water dripped from my own bangs and slid down my nose and cheeks. The drizzle had turned into an all-out downpour. When had that happened?
I glanced around, looking for the crowd that had just been out here, who had surely witnessed everything. For the guy who had turned my body into a vibrating thrum and my mind to mushy oatmeal. Who I felt like I knew almost as well as myself, but didn’t know at all. But everyone had disappeared. Bex and I were the only idiots standing in the freezing rain. How long had I been out here, apparently alone?
“I’m totally ready to scat,” Bex said. “If this gets any worse, the roads will be hell, and I don’t want to deal with it. You ready?”
“Um . . . yeah,” I mumbled as my ears ached with cold and my teeth began to chatter. I followed her down the street to her hand-me-down white Pinto we called Beanie, both of us silent as we slid into the car, and she cranked the engine over. We sat there shivering as she let the car warm up. “Bex?”
She looked over at me. I couldn’t tell if the streaks on her cheeks now were still from the rain or from tears.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly. “About, you know . . .” I squinted. “What’s his name again?”
She swallowed, and I saw a brief flash of a thank-you in her eyes before they turned hard. “Who the hell cares what it is? We’ll just call him ‘asshole’ from now on. Or even better, let’s never talk about him again, okay?”
I nodded. I’d known Bex since move-in day of freshman year. Her room had been down the hall from me, but since my hair was jet black, I wore Doc Martens, and I hung a poster for The Cure over my bed, she found me in the sea of chunky sweaters and pegged jeans on our first day. We simply didn’t fit in with the rest of the girls on our floor. We had even bonded over our names, somewhat unusual among the Trishes, Susans and various forms of Michelles. I couldn’t imagine Bex as a Rebecca or even Becca, and she loved the story of how I’d insisted on being called Jacey ever since Pops moved me right before seventh grade. Altering my name had been my first act of rebellion, although he wouldn’t let me change my last name. He told me Burns, both the name and the scars, were badges of honor—an honor to my parents. They were more like painful reminders. Anyway, Bex and I had pretty much clung to each other ever since.
I knew her well enough to know she didn’t need a play-by-play of what happened.
“So, is he asshole number eight or nine?” I said as we pulled onto the highway. “Just so, you know, if you do ever talk about him again, I know which one you mean.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve lost track myself.”
We broke into laughter, which helped to lighten the mood, at least for a few minutes.
“What you did tonight was totally bitchin’,” she said.
I stared out my window, not wanting to make a big deal out of it for Bex’s sake. I was surprised she’d even said this much. “You would have done it for me, right?”
“Damn straight,” she said. “But you never need it.”
“Someday I might.”
“I doubt it.” She let out a sigh, then muttered, “What the hell’s wrong with me?”
I could tell she didn’t want an answer, so I remained silent.
Somehow Beanie got us back to school in the cold rain that turned to sleet, but I barely remembered the ride. Strange, yet familiar mocha-brown eyes haunted me all the way home, and still as I changed into sweats and climbed into my top bunk, finally able to snuggle under the covers.
“Bex?” I said right before falling asleep.
“Yeah?” she asked, her voice muffled as it came from her bed underneath mine.
“There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just too good for all those jerks.”
She didn’t answer at first, unless you count a sniffle. Then she said, “Yeah, you’re right. I deserve better. We both do.”
I didn’t expect a thanks from Bex—that was as close as I would get—but I hadn’t expected those last words either. I’d never really thought about what kind of guy I deserved. I’d had one on-again-off-again boyfriend in high school, but he’d been killed in a car accident, taken away from me like everyone else in my life. Except Pops and Bex. At least I had them. Unlike Bex, boys weren’t a top priority for me as I tried to figure out my place in this cruel world.
The next morning, I awoke to snow on the ground and a strange ache on my left wrist. I massaged it as I stared out the window from my bed, trying to remember what had happened last night that would have caused the ache. The brief fight with the slut?
The mysterious guy? I glanced down at my wrist and gasped. The outline of a flame was . . . tattooed . . . on the inner edge, right below the wrist bone. It was light, barely visible, but there nonetheless.
“Is this some kind of sick joke?” I muttered as I licked my fingers and rubbed at it. It still didn’t come off. A few minutes later, I stood at the sink in the communal bathroom for our hall, washing it with soap.
“What’s that?” Bex asked, peering at it closely. “Ah, man, Jace! You got a tattoo and didn’t tell me about it? We were supposed to get our first ones together, you skank. When did you do it?”
I shook my head and tried to explain I hadn’t, that it had shown up overnight.
“Whatever,” she said with a snort. “But if Joe did it, you better pour some alcohol on it. His needles are dirtier than Jenna’s cootch.”
Jenna, Bex’s old roommate, came out of a bathroom stall right then and glared at Bex. She didn’t say anything, though. Probably because one of her hands held a tube of prescription-strength anti-itch ointment and the other a pregnancy test box. With a huff, she turned for the bank of sinks.
Ignoring my denial about the tattoo, Bex made a face behind Jenna’s back, then left me in the bathroom. I stared at the stubborn mark, finally admitting to myself it wouldn’t wash away. Where did you come from? I tried to think if I’d been playing around with permanent markers last week. I had a habit of drawing on myself when I was bored . . . although the skin around the mark was slightly raised, like a brand-new tattoo. So weird. Besides, not in a million years would I draw a flame, of all things. Not on myself. I hoped it would fade. At least winter meant I could wear long sleeves to cover it without looking suspicious. But then I couldn’t help but pull up the sleeve enough to stare at the flame because every time I did, those dark eyes came to mind, perfectly clear.
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