Spark

by Rachael Craw

  What blokes?

  “And that blond boy who wants to marry you.”

  “Angelo?” I jerk in surprise. “He’s not a bad guy.”

  “I saw the way he was looking at you.”

  “What? No, he wasn’t.”

  “You think I’m oblivious?” He crushes my lips with his, rolling over me so that our legs scissor together, his arms forming a cage around me. My head spins and I grip the hard swell of his biceps like it can keep the waves from pulling me under but sort of wanting to drown in the pleasure of it too. Don’t faint. Don’t faint. The give and take of our mouths. Heat. Awareness of everywhere our bodies touch. Fog pearling at the periphery of my consciousness.

  “Mmm,” I mumble. “Feel faint.” Lights pop behind my eyelids and I pant beneath him, still gripping his arms for dear life. He makes to roll off me, but I tighten my hold, unwilling to lose the press of his weight. “Give me a second,” I try to catch my breath, peering at my fingers on his skin and the black ink beneath them. “You never told me what these say.”

  He looses a sigh and lifts his right arm. “Quid est iniuria fieri non posse jus. What is wrong cannot be made right.” He nods at his left. “Illud quod deperditur non posse eruit. What is lost cannot be recovered. It’s from Ecclesiastes.”

  “What, like the Bible?”

  “Yeah.”

  I frown as I piece it together. “But the words are so sad.”

  “I don’t find them sad. They’ve helped me accept what I am, what my life is, my lot. I can’t undo what’s done, can’t go back, can’t fix it. Just have to get on with life.”

  I try to imagine Jamie at sixteen wrestling with a destiny determined by DNA. “Very stiff upper lip.” But I want to cry for him, for me, for the loss of innocence that comes with the blood in our veins. Killers by design. “You think God has a loophole for people who don’t have a choice?”

  “Hope so, otherwise we’re screwed.”

  We lie there, holding each other’s gaze. “Will you let me look at your back?”

  I see his uncertainty, but then he rolls away and sits up, his expression rueful. “I suppose if I have to get my kit off for anyone, you’re preferable to the twelve sweaty guys in gym who’ve all examined it. But you have to promise me something.”

  I push myself up on weak arms, my head still swimming. “Promise?”

  “No KMH,” he whispers.

  “Of course not. I mean, I wouldn’t.”

  He turns, crosses his arms, takes hold of the hem of his shirt and pulls it up and over his head, bending forwards, creating a long arc.

  It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. The bronze stretch of hard muscle. An angel, a Renaissance masterpiece in armoured breastplate. Scarlet, gold, cobalt, tremendous saturation of colour, shade, depth, movement and shape. The sword, gripped in its right hand. Its fierce face, turned to the side. Powerful wings spread over Jamie’s shoulderblades, tips matching perfectly where the tattoos on his arms begin. “I’ve seen this. Who is it?”

  “Michael. The Archangel, patron saint of warriors.”

  “Closet Catholic?”

  He chuckles. “Someone to watch my back.”

  I can’t not touch him, and it is audacious, reaching out, fingertips, thumb, palm, the warm press of flesh. He doesn’t move. I fan my fingers over the angel, hesitating over the ridges of his scars.

  “They don’t hurt,” he says.

  I trace the diagonal lines from his right shoulder down to the left of his spine, just above the waist of his jeans. I press my cheek to his back, savouring the incredible scent of his skin, grieving over the pain he must have gone through, the blood he must have–

  I snap upright. “Blood!”

  “What?” He pulls his shirt back over his head and swings around, but I’m already across the room, ransacking my backpack with shaking hands. I pull my gym shirt out and hold it up. Several red raindrop splatters stain the fabric.

  “Richard’s blood! Doctor Sullivan can test it and see if it’s a match!”

  Jamie stares, understanding dawning on his face.

  “Ha!” I launch myself, flattening Jamie on the bed, driving my lips into his, kisses fierce and hot. He wraps his arms around me, receiving everything and responding with more.

  A sound of groaning metal brings us to attention. Miriam stands there glowering, purse and keys in one hand, door handle crushed in the other. “What the hell is going on?”

  CHOICES

  I sit like stone on the plush leather couch in Leonard’s study, digging my nails into the groove of the cushion stitching, trying to channel my boiling sense of injustice and humiliation into the stuffing of the seat. All the joy and triumph of my realisation about Richard’s blood has been overthrown by Miriam’s tirade. It galls me to waste time, and judging by the look of Miriam, she’s settling in for a major lecture.

  Jamie sits next to me, his hands clasped loosely in his lap, his body relaxed. I envy his ease. His parents sit opposite while Miriam strides up and down the rug between us; a distraction from having to look directly at Barb whose hurt and disappointment almost undo me. Leonard seems the least agitated of the adults, his expression more resigned exasperation than anything else.

  Kitty hovers by the door, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t really need to be here for this, do I?”

  I shoot her a desperate glance.

  “I don’t know, Kitty.” Miriam uses the clipped tone that marched us all the way downstairs from my bedroom. “It doesn’t bother you that while your life’s been hanging in the balance, these two have been up to goodness knows what behind closed doors?”

  “That-is-not-how-it-is,” I snap.

  “Miriam, we only realised what we had last night.” Jamie keeps his voice perfectly level. “There’s been no ‘goodness knows what’.”

  “Not what it looked like when I walked in.” Her eyes blaze. “The fact that I could walk up the hallway and open the door, surprising two people with genetically enhanced hearing, would indicate that something fairly distracting was going on.”

  “Honestly, Jamie.” Barb shakes her head. “How could you be so selfish and irresponsible?”

  I know Barb means me as well; she’s just too polite to say it. I hate that she thinks her plea meant nothing to me; that I went away and broke my promise without batting an eyelid.

  Kitty drops into the armchair like the back of her knees have been taken out. I fix Miriam with a furious look for putting worry in her head. “Kit, don’t listen to her, you know it doesn’t work like that. It’s the signal that matters.”

  Jamie looks up at Miriam and opens his palms. “Can you at least understand–”

  “That you have a girlfriend?” Miriam says. “What’s her name?”

  Jamie exhales through his nose. “Evangeline.”

  I catch my breath.

  “The other one,” she says.

  “Helena,” Barb says. Her gaze travels from her son to me before dropping to her lap like it pains her to look at us.

  “I know about Helena,” I say.

  Miriam snorts and clamps her hips. “You think you know about Helena.”

  “If he says there’s nothing going on–” Kitty jumps in.

  “It’s an Affinity thing. They’re not–” my throat closes over.

  “Miriam, it’s not what you think,” Jamie begins.

  “Sorry, kid, but that’s bullshit,” Miriam says. “You’re over-simplifying and you know what they will say.”

  I’m sick to death of the Affinity Project and out of patience with my aunt. I dig my nails deeper into the cushion seams.

  “Evangeline,” Leonard says gently. “Mind the leather, dear.”

  I ball my fists against the sting of encroaching tears. No. No crying! Jamie covers my hand with his, releasing my fingers. The unapologetic tenderness of his touch, in the face of my Gestapo aunt, overrides my PDA aversion and makes me want to cry even more.

  Barb stares at our clasped hands, and Leonard ro
lls his eyes to the ceiling. Miriam scowls. “Trust me, Evie. If they put them together, he’ll choose her.”

  She may as well have slapped me. Jamie shakes his head.

  “That’s not fair!” Kitty says. “Jamie would never hurt Evie. They’re Synergists!”

  Miriam looks even angrier. “So we’ve heard.”

  “I’m still not clear what that means,” Leonard says.

  Jamie explains the phenomenon as briefly and as delicately as he can under Miriam’s thunderous glower. Barb’s eyes widen while Leonard’s narrow, a cautious optimism parting his lips. “It’s a major advantage for us,” Jamie finishes.

  “Right,” Miriam says. “I’m sure there’s nothing but altruistic motives involved for you.”

  “Miriam.” Jamie sits forwards, his gaze unflinching. “I’m not going to apologise for my feelings for your niece. You know the stats on Synergist coding. Genetically speaking, Everton and I were made for each other.”

  Made for each other. Wow.

  Barb’s mouth pops open and Leonard sits up straighter.

  “Genetically speaking!” Miriam draws herself to her full height. “Precisely, Jamie. What you’re experiencing is a chemical reaction. A Petri dish experiment. Not a relationship!”

  I jolt in my seat, freeing my hand from Jamie’s. “It’s a good thing!”

  “No, it’s not!” She thumps her fist on the gleaming top of Leonard’s desk, rattling photo frames and pens.

  “Isn’t it?” Kitty asks quietly.

  Miriam glances pink-faced at Leonard. “Synergist coding is a very rare and extreme frequency maturation process. There are long-term implications.”

  I fold my arms, chain-link tight. “Surely-anything-that-makes-me-stronger-and-faster-is-good-for-Kitty!”

  “It’s not just all about Kitty!” Miriam flushes redder and ducks her head at a pale Kitty and her pale parents. “No offence.”

  “And there it is!” I rise to my feet, righteous anger burning me up, my arm extended with the finger of judgement, pointing out the unbeliever. “That’s what it comes down to! You’ve never really been in the game, have you, Miriam? For all your promises, you’ve never really had Kitty’s best interests at heart.”

  She rolls her eyes and throws her hands up. “Obviously there are benefits in regard to the short term. Long term, the repercussions aren’t good. Your accelerated development is bad enough, let alone Synergist coding on top of that!”

  “Why?” I near full volume. “You want me to end up like you? Bitter and alone?” A light bulb flickers in the ornate fixture above my head. Everyone looks up, then at me. My whole body shakes.

  “Easy,” Jamie murmurs.

  I know I’ve said something terrible; the silence outside my body tells me so but inside chaos reigns.

  Miriam grows quiet. “Aside from what Affinity will say about it, it means that you are more susceptible to Sparking in the future,” her mouth shapes the silent words, making them somehow more fierce. “It makes Jamie more susceptible too.”

  Barb reaches for Leonard’s hand.

  I shiver and look at Jamie. “Did you know that?”

  “Of course he did.” Miriam scuffs her shoe on the rug.

  Jamie nods, undaunted. “It’s worth it.”

  “You have to tell yourself that,” she says, “in order to justify jeopardising your own future wellbeing as well as Evie’s. Synergist coding isn’t a game, it alters your body and your brain chemistry.” She drops her voice to a mutter. “Like teenage hormones aren’t enough – try that to the power of ten.”

  “For crying out loud, Miriam!” I gape at her, red to the roots of my hair.

  “It’s the reality, kid. You’ve got no idea what kind of amusement park your body is now. If he sneezes on you, you’ll get pregnant.”

  “Whoa.” Kitty cringes.

  Barb baulks.

  Leonard clears his throat. “My son understands the values of this household and I can assure you …”

  Leonard’s words are little more than distant white noise in my head. In the split second of Miriam’s mortifying warning, my head spins, the collective power of my anger and humiliation rising to a crescendo, like an internal tsunami forcing me to the brink of reason and self-control. I feel in that moment as though one more push could detach me from my body, like a snapped cord, freeing me to inhabit the incorporeal creature of my rage.

  “Miriam, you’re overreacting,” Jamie says.

  “It would sound that way to an eighteen-year-old boy who’s spent his whole life getting whatever the hell he wants,” she says.

  The cord stretches. Jamie flinches. Barb jerks in her seat. “Excuse me?”

  “Miriam!” Leonard says. “You’re out of line.”

  Her head swivels towards them. “Someone has to tell this boy ‘no’ for once!”

  The cord snaps.

  “Not you!” Stars burst before my eyes. “You don’t get a say! You’re not Jamie’s mother and you’re sure as hell not mine!” Miriam flinches and colour leeches from her face. High-pitched ringing fills my ears and I stab my chest. “I’m the one who gets to say ‘no’. Me! But I won’t, because I want to be with Jamie and it’s not just because of some damn science experiment! I felt like this when my DNA was my own and not the property of some bullshit secret organisation!” A tinkling sound precedes an explosion of glass – a vase, lamp and decanter shatter, as well as the four bulbs in the light fixture that hangs above my head. Miriam jumps back and the Gallaghers lean away in their seats. Jamie bolts up from the couch, taking my arms, murmuring my name like he’s persuading me back into my body. Tiny sparkling shards rain onto our hair and shoulders, covering the rug at our feet.

  I draw air in ragged gulps, staring at the broken glass. I stumble away from Jamie, recoiling from his eyes, their eyes. I cover my face, unable to fight tears. “Oh, Mr Gallagher. Your things. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

  I turn and run to the doors, Leonard and Jamie calling my name. I grab for a handle but it comes off, crushed in my fingers. Waves of humiliation flood through me and my eyes pour.

  “Evie, wait.” Barb comes and rests her hand on my heaving back. Even through my tears I can see her blue eyes have welled up. “We’re trying to understand. We want to understand.”

  I blurt in a soft rush, “Mrs Gallagher, I’m sorry about everything. I never intended to break my promise. I tried very hard to do what you asked.” I draw a shuddering breath but the tears won’t stop. “I want to be with your son for the sake of your daughter and for my own sake. I need Jamie if I’m going to survive this. I need him and I want him.”

  “Evie, stop–” Miriam says, shock in her voice.

  Barb frowns. “My son can be very persuasive.”

  “It’s not like that. Jamie hasn’t talked me into anything. I choose him.”

  “Don’t say those words!” Miriam hisses, almost leaving the ground.

  Jamie shoots across the room and grips my arm. “Actually, Everton …”

  Blindsided, I swallow, wiping my face on the back of my hand.

  His expression seems almost illuminated, his grey eyes storm-tossed and yet thrilled as he searches my face.

  “Don’t say, I–?”

  He inhales sharply and puts his fingers over my lips. “Careful.”

  “They’re binding words, Evangeline,” Miriam says, white-faced, hollow-eyed. “They’re repeated in the binding ceremony for sanctioned affiliations only. Jamie, what have you done? Did you give her those words?”

  He shakes his head, lifting his hand from my mouth. “No. We’ve never talked about any of it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Miriam slumps against the edge of Leonard’s desk, her hands against her head. “There are synaptic pathways that determine signal bonds and a process by which permanent bonds are formed between our kind. Verbal affirmations and ceremonial actions, among other things, seal those synaptic pathways. Only the Affinity Project dictat
es the sealing of permanent bonds. Not you.”

  “I wasn’t trying–” I say, burning with embarrassment.

  “Choice is a fantasy,” Miriam says. “If the time comes, you will choose whom the Affinity Project chooses for you. This little romance with Jamie has a time line and an end point. I’m not trying to ruin your life, Evangeline. I’m trying to save you from a broken heart.”

  “Miriam, just stop.” I’m done, emptied out. I reach for the remaining handle and pause, passing the crushed one to Barb. “Could you?”

  Barb opens the door and I escape.

  BOUNDARIES

  I make my way across the foyer on unsteady legs, grateful for open space after the confinement of Leonard’s study. I feel like I’ve been in a fist fight, and I gasp for unpolluted air, free of accusation, threat or bitterness.

  “Let her be,” Barb’s voice carries from the study.

  I hurry through the dining room, my warped reflection trailing me either side in night-panelled windows and gleaming table polish. I push through the swing door into the kitchen. The black and white tiles swim beneath my feet. Synaptic pathways, he’ll choose her, time line and end point. I lurch to the counter, grip the sink and stare out the window. My own face blocks the view.

  I want to climb out of my skin, slip through the pane and hide. Instead, I turn the faucet on and place my hands in the flow, staring at the pale length of my fingers, watching the water pool in the porcelain sink before draining in an endless spiral.

  I feel Miriam before I hear her quiet steps or the swing of the kitchen door. I bend and splash a shock of cold water on my swollen eyes, patting the counter for a towel. Miriam presses a cloth into my hand. I keep it to my face and straighten up, water dripping in rivulets behind the collar of my dress. When I finally lower the towel, I see myself reflected twice. The other shorter me stands behind my left shoulder with plaintive eyes. I wish it were Mom. “Please, Miriam.” I hang my head. “I’m done.”

  “Evie–”

  “We have Richard’s DNA.” I say it to shut her up. “His blood on my gym shirt.”