Spark

by Rachael Craw

  “I am! I will!”

  “Kitty–” Jamie says.

  “She’s hardly going to be able to concentrate with your tongue down her throat!”

  My face flames and I splutter.

  Jamie shakes his head. “Be reasonable.”

  “Reasonable? Reasonable!” Kitty makes a half-strangled noise and her face flushes pink to the tip of her nose. “You patronising shit! You have no idea. No idea what it’s like waiting for some psychopath to … to–”

  I want to cry. “Kit, you don’t understand.”

  Kitty swipes the back of her hand across her eyes. “I understand just fine. It’s exactly the way it always is. Even when we were kids. As soon as Jamie steps in the bloody room, I might as well be invisible.”

  Stung, I gape at her. “That is completely not true!”

  “Everton always ignored me when we were kids!” Jamie exclaims.

  “It’s not just you, Evie,” she says. “It’s everyone.”

  Jamie runs his hand up into his hair and slaps it back on the steering wheel. “That’s not true, Kitty.”

  “It is. Evie’s my best friend, my Shield. She’s supposed to pick me.”

  “I do pick you!” Hot tears spill onto my cheeks; she called me her best friend. “I do.”

  Jamie growls and slams his foot on the break and we all lurch forwards. Kitty cries out, clutching the foam at her neck as her head smacks back against the seat.

  “Jamie!” I strain against my belt, furious and terrified Kitty’s been hurt.

  “Oh, shit.” He reaches for his sister. “Kitty. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”

  She hits his hands away. “I’m fine, you idiot.”

  Frantic, I spring my belt clip and lunge between them, shoving Jamie back into his seat, tears blurring my vision. “Kitty. I do. I choose you, okay? Forget about Jamie and me. It’s nothing. It’s over.”

  “It is not,” Jamie mutters.

  I glare at him over my shoulder. “Yes, it is. I should never have listened to you.” I turn back to Kitty and touch her cheek like I can brush the hurt from her face. “I choose you, Kit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I won’t let you down. Last night was a mistake.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Jamie says.

  “Shut up.”

  “Last night?” Kitty looks repulsed. “You mean, you–”

  “No!” I say. “He kissed me. That’s all. It didn’t mean anything.”

  “Yes, it did,” Jamie says. “And you kissed me, plenty.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Kit.” I wipe her tears with my shaking fingers. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s delusional. I would never choose him over you.”

  Jamie makes a choking sound that verges annoyingly on a chuckle, and I twist around to give him the filthiest look I can muster.

  “It’s only because I understand the Fixation Effect that I’m not deeply insulted right now, Everton.”

  “It’s over, Jamie.”

  “No, it isn’t,” he says. “I hate to break it to you, love, but when this is done and you’ve saved my sister, the Fixation Effect will be over but we’ll still be Synergists.”

  “You’ll be what?” Kitty says.

  I stall. The way he said it like that – when I’ve saved his sister – like he believes I can, like he believes in me. A new feeling pushes through the block wall of the Fixation Effect. I swivel again to look into his eyes and find certainty burning back at me. “Say it again.”

  “We’ll still be Synergists.”

  “Not that.” I frown. “The other bit.”

  He gives an exasperated sigh. “When you’ve saved my sister.”

  I close my eyes and whisper, “You really believe I can, Jamie?”

  “And you don’t?” Kitty jerks in her seat. “Bloody hell, Evie!”

  “I want to.” I cover my face. “I just never thought anyone else believed I could.”

  “I hoped you could,” Jamie says. “Before last night – before I was sure about what it was between us – when we kissed–”

  Kitty groans but I drop my hands.

  “Then I knew for sure, we’re Synergists.”

  “Is anyone going to bother explaining what that means?” Kitty says.

  “It means your odds, little sister, of surviving senior year are vastly improved.” His eyes hold mine, his mouth curving. “I believe in you, Everton.”

  “I don’t get it,” Kitty says.

  I can’t take my eyes off Jamie’s face. “It means, I choose you, Kit. But I choose Jamie too.” His eyes startle, but I crush my lips against his, forcing him back into the seat, a grunt of surprise escaping from him before his arms come around me, pulling me closer still.

  “Ew!” Kitty says. “I’m sorry, but how is this an explanation? Oh, please, is that really necessary?”

  GAINSBOROUGH

  Twin willow trees mark the entrance to Gainsborough Collegiate. We cross a bridge and cruise along the limestone drive that winds like a lazy snake in lush green lawn. The great structure of the school – three stories of beautiful stonework – unveils itself in increments as we pass beneath towering oak and elm, like something off the BBC.

  Jamie veers right, taking the long way round the back to the student parking lot where the children of the privileged park their European cars. Students mill on the lawns and paths, faculty stroll to classes with their briefcases and folders.

  “Nervous?” Jamie asks Kitty.

  “A little.”

  For myself, not passing out feels like an achievement. My brief peak in confidence, fueled by Jamie’s declarations, flatlined the moment we pulled off the road. Now, as we circle the lot, the scene looks like a line-up of potential killers, and I hear nothing but my own pulse. I scan the scattered groups of students as though I might lock on a threat there and then.

  Kitty draws a shaky breath. “But this is a safe place, right?”

  “Absolutely.” Jamie pulls in between a sparkling SUV and a fluorescent convertible. “No one is going to hurt you. Even if the Stray,” he dodges the word, “were a student, it’s highly unlikely he would come to school. He’d be afraid of his own anxiety showing him up.”

  “Okay.” She nods, a decisive up and down clip of her chin. “And for the record, two minutes difference doesn’t qualify you for big brother status.”

  He clicks his tongue. “So bitter.”

  I admire Kitty’s attempt at banter and struggle for the same easy tone. “Is it likely to be a problem if I punch one of your friends or start choking the person who sits next to you in math?”

  “Start out as you mean to go on, I say.” Kitty gives me a stiff-necked glance, her eyes dry, her nose back to its usual colour. “Will this whole test-tube romance increase the likelihood of random violence?”

  Jamie grins. “Probably.”

  Kitty had listened to Jamie’s explanation about Synergist coding, her eyes growing larger with the implications. When she finally conceded that it gave us an advantage, I’d felt relieved, but her test-tube romance jokes make me uncomfortable. I don’t want to think about what it means – did genetically engineered attraction count as the real thing? Hadn’t I been drawn to Jamie since we were kids, long before the synthetic gene kicked in?

  Lost in our thoughts, we sit there, the three of us, staring out the windshield until finally Jamie switches the ignition off. His eyes flick up to find me in the rearview. “Come on, then.”

  Kitty climbs out and waits by her door, brushing her skirt, hugging a folder to her chest. Even in her foam neck support she still looks pretty and put together. Jamie pulls his seat forwards and offers me his hand. I step out feeling conspicuous, releasing his hold. His eyebrow rises in question.

  “Sorry,” I whisper. Kissing him in front of Kitty was a total anomaly, an involuntary response to exceptional circumstances. As far as I’m concerned, public displays of affection go with public displays of anything – a no-no. Being the new girl will be
more than enough spectacle to be getting on with. I cringe. “I can’t do PDA. I’m sorry. People will stare.”

  A mystified grin curves his lips. “People will stare?”

  “I’m new. That’s bad enough. And you’re, well, you.”

  He tucks his chin back. “What does that mean?”

  “You’re … you look … the way you do. You draw attention.” Heat creeps up my neck as Jamie frowns. Kitty watches us, her expression says we’re taking too long. I rush to explain. “It’s not your fault. I’m not saying you do it deliberately. You can’t help it. People look at you.”

  He purses his lips. “People look at you.”

  Flustered, I shake my head. “What? No they don’t.”

  He sighs and turns his eyes skyward. “You don’t want anyone to know that I’m your boyfriend?”

  Your boyfriend. It makes me breathless. The possession in that pronoun, the weight and significance of it next to the noun and, more dizzyingly, his willingness to bear the title. My voice gets small. “I – I didn’t say that.”

  “But I’m not allowed to touch you in public?”

  When he puts it like that, it makes me sound like a nut job. “Can’t we play it cool? I like you. You like me. We don’t have to be all over each other.”

  His mouth twitches. “Are you worried I’ll make you pass out in the cafeteria?”

  I scowl. “Look, I’m trying–”

  “Everton.” He tips his head forwards. “I can keep my hands to myself.”

  “Are we going in or what?” Kitty calls.

  Jamie stands aside to let me pass, his eyes glinting with suppressed amusement. I join Kitty, irritated and embarrassed. She looks at me but I shake my head. “I’m fine.” I tug at my clothes, regretting having let her pick my outfit the night before. The shoes are uncomfortable, the dress restricting. Now we’re here it seems reckless and I miss my sneakers.

  Jamie swings his pack over his shoulder and leads the way, looking too good in his military green shirt, epaulets on his broad shoulders – which was exactly my point. Surely he can see heads turning already? But that’s the thing with Jamie – he pays no attention to the attention focused on him. I know few people as comfortable in their own skin and I envy his ease. Thanks to my priming growth spurt, I near six feet, even in flats, and the malnourished look I’ve sported since Mom died has been replaced with new boobs and muscle. My skin glows with good health that has nothing to do with my diet, and I realise the eyes flicking towards us aren’t only landing on Jamie and Kitty. It takes all my inner resolve not to hunch my shoulders and duck my head.

  A large group of boys – or a small group of large boys – spot us from the back entrance to the main foyer. They pelt across the lot and I grip Kitty’s arm, about to wrench her behind me. She turns to growl in my ear, “It’s just the guys. Cool it.”

  I let her go, balling my fists. The boys run, bellowing down the steps of the main pathway. They grab Jamie and lift him high, making so much noise people turn to watch. Pete, Mr President and the Bishop. A case study in male bonding.

  “Kit! You all recovered, huh? Missed you in California.” Gil Bishop releases Jamie and scoops his sister up in a bear hug that has me ready to either pass out or perform one of the random acts of violence Kitty mentioned in the car. “Love the foam. Dead sexy.”

  Jamie steps beside me and murmurs, “Relax, love.”

  Gil releases Kitty a little dented but happy.

  Pete, the smallest of them at six foot, his dark hair tucked behind his ears, rests his hand on Kitty’s shoulder. Dilated pupils, expanding chest, parted lips – he likes her. I hate him. Suspicion and over-protectiveness set it in stone. Damn it. I hadn’t factored in “boys”. Will I be playing chaperone as well as bodyguard?

  Abe raises his hand to wave at me, interrupting my suspicious appraisal of Pete. “How’s your hand?”

  “My what?” I can’t concentrate with the unpredictable movement around us.

  “The broken glass, the blood, the swooning in our buddy’s arms?” His grin widens.

  “Oh, I um …”

  “Swooning?” The Bishop leans in, his bushy blond eyebrows lifting as he makes the connections. “She’s blocked it out? No wonder. Jamie has no technique. Now, when The Bishop …” A crowd of ponytailed cheerleaders shimmy past, giggling, calling out greetings. Several of them notice Jamie and flirtatious smiles part glossy lips. Gil trails off like a child distracted by shiny things.

  “I thought you were headed for Burton Central,” Abe says, still focusing on me.

  I hitch my pack higher, struggling to remember the story we’d rehearsed, torn between keeping my eyes on Pete or on the cheerleaders ogling Jamie. “Um … just a change of plans, I guess.”

  The Bishop swings back as the last of the short skirts flit away and he thunks his fist into Jamie’s bicep. “Crew tryouts next week, Skipper?”

  I haven’t heard Jamie’s nickname in years.

  Jamie shrugs. “I’m too out of shape.”

  “Not likely.” The Bishop hooks his arm around Jamie’s neck, tugging up the hem of Jamie’s shirt revealing an eyeful of pale gold muscle. “Look at you, you gorgeous, rippling specimen.”

  Jamie rams his elbow into Gil’s stomach. Gil buckles and chokes but comes up laughing. “Seriously,” Jamie says. “I haven’t been on the water for months. I wasn’t planning on …” he trails off at the blatant horror of his friends.

  Even Pete looks up. “The sudden return to Gainsborough better not be a tease.”

  “Joining crew would make up for missing California,” Gil says. “It could have been summer with the boys, like old times.”

  Kitty groans.

  Jamie shakes his head.

  Gil reaches over to muss the crop of his hair. “Don’t be ashamed of your legendary past, brother.”

  I’m not sure what all that means, but before I can decide that I don’t like it, Kitty scoops me out from between them. I have a brief parting glimpse of Jamie’s face and it warms me inside despite my anxiety. Kitty hauls me towards the main building and the guys rumble along behind us.

  “Still no leads on Kitty’s guy?” Pete. I can tell by the edge of worry and impatience in his voice. The drop in volume indicates it isn’t for Kitty’s ears but I can hear clearly enough and it makes my skin prickle. He sounds too pushy for my liking.

  “Nope,” Jamie says.

  “Damn. That’s not right.” A deeper voice this time, more resonant. I attribute it to Abe. His concern doesn’t grate on me as much as Pete’s. “Is the governor still dicking you around?”

  “He let us look at the security footage, not that it was any use.”

  I can picture Jamie’s careful expression.

  “What a psycho.” Definitely Gil, that time. I don’t know if he means the governor or Kitty’s attacker, but he produces a low growl that I can’t help but approve of.

  “Not around Kitty,” Jamie says, cutting them off.

  The subject changes, distracting me from measuring Jamie’s old friends for my list of suspects. I hear my name and some sniggering.

  “She’s living in Burton?” Maybe Pete.

  Jamie’s answer comes too low for me to hear.

  “With you?” Gil hisses. “Hot damn! Well played, my friend. She is seriously …”

  I can’t make out what I “seriously” am with my pulse pounding in my ears. Jamie mutters something corrective.

  “But still,” Gil says, “under the same roof.”

  There are whistles and guffaws. Hot with embarrassment, I consider blacklisting the lot of them. Kitty, however, rolls her eyes in a manner that implies the word “boys”, and I worry about how much she has heard. Re-looping my arm, she pulls me up the wide stone steps.

  We cross beneath the lintel of the huge stone arch. There are crowds of students in the foyer and we attract some whispered attention; most of it centres on the twins and Kitty’s notoriety as assault victim. My hearing dims as I scan the faces in th
e crowd, noting any eyes that fix on Kitty. Someone jostles my arm and Jamie steps in front of me, arresting my focus. He puts his hand on my elbow and I tense, afraid he’ll kiss me in front of everyone.

  He smirks and leans down to whisper in my ear, “Relax. Kitty’s safe. You can do this.” His breath warms my neck and over his shoulder I see people watching us. “You look very beautiful, by the way.”

  “You’re embarrassing me.”

  “I’m building up your tolerance.” He strokes the side of my arm, a quick light brush of his knuckle before stepping back. “See you at recess.” He winks and walks away, leaving me dizzy.

  Kitty sighs. “Come on, heartbreaker.”

  I follow her past a group of gawking girls, none of them looked too pleased with me. I ignore my burning ears and keep my face impassive. I’m not there to make friends – which should make me sad. But it doesn’t.

  My school in Pennsylvania had yellowed linoleum, battered grey lockers and fluorescent strip lighting attached to watermarked ceiling panels. At Gainsborough there are highly polished hardwood floors, the lockers are burnished oak and pendant lights hang from bronze chains affixed to ornate plaster rosettes. High windows let in the sun and everything seems gilded. Kitty leads us to where the locker numbers match those on her list. She stops and hands me my code. Dazed by the atmosphere, the clamour of students and the static in my head, my fingers move numbly over the keypad. Kitty loads textbooks into her locker and I catch a flash of her journal.

  I frown. “You brought that here?”

  She lifts her chin. “Where I go, it goes.”

  “Kitty!” Three high-pitched voices break in and I swivel so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. Lila, the petite round-faced girl with almond eyes and jet black hair, leads the eager group. I grip the locker behind my back and gulp as they swamp Kitty. They talk over each other, equal parts admiring how good she looks (even in a neck brace), bemoaning that she missed the road trip, berating the police for failing to identify her assailant and wondering what on earth has she done in New Hampshire without them.

  Imogen, the tall girl, stands at the back, rail thin with soft auburn curls and freckled complexion. She smiles at me, a shy, toe-in-the-water test of a smile, but my response comes too slowly and she falters. The third girl I recognise as Richard Dean’s date, Kaylee.