But all that changed here. Something clicked. This place, the people. My life before New Albany felt like a dress rehearsal until I got to the academy. That’s when my life was supposed to start. But here, I sometimes forget that I’m a Black Angel. I forget about the path that was plotted for me before I was even born. I no longer feel like I’m floating outside of my body, watching it happen: a spectator in someone else’s life. Here, I feel alive.
Luke nudges me then smiles, waiting for my answer. “I don’t know,” I say and shake my head. “I don’t know if it’s happened yet. What about you?”
“Mine hasn’t either,” Luke answers and brushes my dark hair out of my face. “But this one is pretty up there.”
Every word vibrates against my ear and pulses through my brain. I slowly nod and look down, getting lost in the deep blue of Luke’s sweater, as his fingertips slip beneath my hair, running up and down the back of my neck. Up and down. Up and down. Goose bumps rise over every inch of my body and I wonder if he can feel them; wonder if he can feel this. A jolt buzzes through my body as his fingertips trace the length of my spine. There is silence but no stillness. The room feels like one big electrical circuit. I can almost feel the atoms ping-ponging off my skin and onto Luke. I look up at him, my brown eyes finding his blue. My heart races, my lips throb. His honey-blond hair hangs over his eyes and I have to fight the urge to reach out and touch it, smooth it back into place.
“Mac, I…” Luke begins.
“My name is Lester Burnham,” the opening monologue of American Beauty blasts through the speakers, cutting him off. I turn my body back around and release the breath I’ve been holding in my chest. His hand slides down my arm as every muscle, every cell, every atom (we’re talking molecular-level yearning here) is screaming at me to kiss him, but I can’t.
I’ve been praying for this feeling, this rush, to fade. But it won’t. It taunts me, strengthening with every touch. I shouldn’t let his fingers dance on my skin. I shouldn’t let him hold me like this. I shouldn’t even be here. But I can’t not be here. I can’t not touch him. I can’t not want to kiss him. And I don’t think he can either. Because no matter how much my mind begs for this feeling to weaken, it always feels the same. And right now, it feels impossibly good.
Luke runs his fingers up the length of my arm as we watch the movie in silence, my skin continuing to pulse. I beg my body to fall asleep. Eventually, it obeys and I fade into black.
NINE
Warm light pours through the Weixels’ bonus room windows, stirring me awake. The TV screen on the entertainment center is black but a low hum cutting through the stillness of the room quietly confesses it’s still on.
Luke’s body fusses next to me and I realize the pillow I thought my head was resting on is really his arm. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. I’m waking up. Next to him. No, not even next to him. Practically on top of him.
I squeeze my half-open eye shut. I can hear him rub his palm on his face, followed by a yawn and another long eye rub. My mind debates opening my eyes and wishing him a good morning, but the practical part of my brain wins out and I stay “asleep.” His hand carefully moves my head from his arm and onto the oversize pillow. The leather on the couch whines as Luke slowly pulls his body up. His movements pause and the room is quiet. I can feel the weight of his eyes on me and I wonder what he’s thinking. I feel his body lean in closer. I breathe in his sweet skin as he brushes a piece of hair out of my eyes and away from my face. I’ve never had the privilege of smelling Luke first thing in the morning, but his scent is strangely intoxicating. Maybe even better than a freshly showered Luke. He lingers near me for another moment and I take in another breath, trying to decode its mixture. Muted notes from his body wash, a deodorant that’s most likely advertised as smelling like an “Ocean Breeze,” and the tiniest hint of sweat, stirred up from one of his dreams. I kind of want to grab him and tell him to stay so I can smell him a little longer, but I’m pretty sure that crosses the fine line from quirky girl next door (literally) to just plain weirdo.
The weight of the couch shifts as he carefully climbs over me. I hear Luke rummage through a cabinet and return, placing a thickly knitted blanket over my body. He opens the bonus room door and quietly closes it behind him. I listen as his feet shuffle against the hardwood floors of the hallway until they disappear. The low buzz of the TV fills the quiet room once again.
I open my eyes and search for a clock in the room. A big, rustic silver clock hangs near the wet bar: 9:21. We still have a couple hours until we should head up to Templeton.
I rub my face with the heel of my palms and wonder how bad I look right now. I pull myself off the couch and the wood floors creak beneath my feet. I wander to the mirror over the console table and look at the face reflected back at me in the glass. My dark hair is a little ratted and mascara has smeared underneath my bottom lashes, but not as terrible as I feared. I run my fingers through my hair and pull it into a low ponytail. I carefully wipe the mascara under each eye with my index finger and grab my purse for reinforcements. Thank God for Listerine strips and Rosebud’s lip balm.
I open the door and walk down the long wooded hallway toward the back staircase that leads to the kitchen. As I climb down the carpeted stairs, I can hear the clink of Luke’s metal spoon against the side of his ceramic cup. A few steps farther down, I pause. He’s whistling. I squish my toes into the thick carpet and listen. It sounds familiar: a Christmas carol I just cannot place even though the lyrics are on the tip of my tongue. I hear him whistle the last bar of the song. There’s about a two-second pause and he starts the carol again. I smile and bounce down the last few steps. When I enter the kitchen, he winks at me, keeps whistling, and hands me a cup of freshly brewed coffee. I love that he doesn’t stop whistling or even say good morning. It’s like we’re in the middle of a playful morning routine that’s been going on for years.
“A little early for Christmas carols, don’t you think?” I ask, taking a seat at the enormous white-and-gray marble island.
“I whistle that song all the time,” Luke answers, sliding the creamer and the four packets of sweetener (yes, four) he knows I have to have in my coffee toward me. “June, December, October. Doesn’t matter. It’s my go-to whistle.”
“I’ve never heard you whistle it before.”
“That’s because I usually only whistle in the privacy of my car or home. No need to subject others to my random whistling.”
“What’s that carol called again? I know it and it’s driving me up the wall that I can’t remember the name,” I say, glancing down at my coffee. Steam rises, licking my face, as I stir cream into the elegant white mug, transforming the almost black liquid into a warm caramel.
“‘Good King Wenceslas,’” Luke answers and begins singing the lyrics. “Good King Wenceslas looked out on the feast of Stephen.”
“That’s it!” I say and pick up where he left off. “When the snow lay round about deep and crisp and even.”
“Super random, I know,” Luke says, shaking his head and taking a sip of his coffee.
“So random but I love it,” I reply and blow at the rising steam before taking my first sip. I let the warm liquid coat my tongue and run down the back of my throat.
“You sleep okay?” Luke asks, reaching across the island and grabbing the creamer, adding a drop or two more to his cup.
“Yup,” I say with a nod. “How about you? I don’t snore or anything, do I?”
“No, no snoring,” Luke answers, his mouth curling into a half smile, his dimples threatening to crease. “You did sleep on me most of the night, though.”
“Sorry,” I say, my cheeks growing hot. “You make a good pillow.”
“Don’t worry,” Luke answers. “I’m happy to be your pillow anytime, Mac.”
I cover up my smile by taking another gulp of my coffee. I glance at the digital clock on the oven. “I better go get ready,” I say, hopping off the bar stool and grabbing my purse off the kitchen ta
ble. “Leave in like an hour or so?”
“You got it.”
“Taking this with me,” I say, raising the coffee cup in my hand.
“Okay, see you in a bit,” Luke says as I slip out the Weixels’ kitchen door and walk the eighteen steps to my back kitchen door (we counted that one too). With every step, my legs feel heavier and heavier. I hate being in my house alone. I put my key in the door and turn it. I push open the door and the alarm immediately wails. The high-pitched shrill pulses, bouncing off every wall and crawling underneath my skin. I have thirty seconds to turn it off before it bypasses police and sends a message straight to CORE. I slam the door, put my coffee cup and purse on the granite island, and run into the mudroom where the state-of-the-art security keypad is installed. I type in the ten-digit code and the alarm finally ceases its piercing cry.
I run my fingers along the slick countertops and look around the dark kitchen as I take another gulp of coffee. The refrigerator hums for a few seconds then clicks off. The house is quiet again. A shiver shakes my body. It feels a good ten degrees colder in here than it does at Luke’s but when I check the hallway thermostat, it reads seventy. I pull my sweater tighter across my body and climb the curved staircase toward my bedroom. The clack of my boots on the hardwood hallway fills the house and I picture Dad yelling out, “Elefanteeee.”
As I pass the open guest room door, something out the front window catches my eye. A gray van sits idle, exhaust spewing from its tailpipe. I walk into the room and creep closer, dropping to my knees to peer out from the right bottom corner of the windowpane. The van is parked three doors down in front of the Saldoffs’ house and in the driver’s side mirror, I can see someone sitting in the front seat.
A buzz shakes my body and I jump to my feet. I place my hand over my rapidly beating heart and feel my chest rise and fall as I catch my breath. It’s just my phone vibrating in my pocket but I’m jumpy as hell all alone in this place. I pull out my phone. Aunt Sam.
“Good morning,” I say into the phone and walk away from the window.
“Well, good morning to you too,” Sam replies. “Glad to see you make an appearance in your own home.”
I glance up at the ornate picture frame on a high bookshelf in the corner of the guest room. But it’s not a picture frame. It’s a camera. We have cameras in every room of the house. Except bathrooms, because … eww.
“Hi, Sam,” I say, giving the camera an exaggerated wave. “Have you been watching for me all night?”
“I checked the cameras a few times,” Sam answers. “But just got an alert that the alarm went off so figured you were home now.”
“I’m home.”
“So. Where were you?”
“Harper’s,” I answer a little too quickly.
“Reagan?” Sam questions, her voice adding about ten extra a’s to my name. Who am I kidding? She always knows where I am.
“Luke’s,” I say and sigh. “I was at Luke’s.”
“The truth comes out. Hymen still intact?” Sam asks with a laugh.
“Sam!” I shout into the phone, which only makes her laugh harder. She was Aunt Sam to me growing up. She took care of me and protected me like I was her own child. But the last few years, we’ve dropped the aunt and she’s become more like a big sister. An annoying, pestering, always-questioning big sister.
“I’m still waiting for a response,” Sam says and I can feel her smiling on the other end.
“Of course my hymen is still intact! Luke and I are just…” I stammer into the phone. I want to say friends but I don’t even believe my own lie. “Well, I don’t know what we are but nothing happened. Mountain Dews were drunk, records were played, and clothes stayed on.”
I flop down on the expensive white-and-silver bedspread that I’m not really supposed to sit on, much less lie on.
“At least take off your shoes,” Sam says, clearly still watching me through the camera. “You know your mother will kill you if you get anything on that bedspread.”
I roll my eyes but comply. “Are you going to tell her?”
“About the bedspread or showing up at home with bedhead from Luke’s?”
“Both?”
“No. Promise,” Sam says and pauses. “But Reagan, I do think you need to think about what you’re doing.”
“What do you mean?” I ask even though I know exactly what she’s talking about. I lean to my left to glance back out the window. The van is gone. Maybe the Saldoffs are having work done on their house again. For a moment, fear begins to creep into my brain but I force it back out.
“Just everything with Luke,” Sam says and takes a big breath on the other end of the phone. “I haven’t said anything because I just wanted to see where your friendship with Luke went … but I think you need to be careful. Because if you want to go to the academy and become a Black Angel, it’s going to get really complicated with Luke. I know you don’t want to hurt him.”
“Of course I don’t,” I reply, my heart painfully constricting at the thought. I press my lips together and scan the room. My eyes land on an old picture of Mom and Dad on the nightstand. I reach out and touch the edge of the silver frame. It’s a candid shot from their wedding day. They got married on the beach in Florida. Dad’s sitting in an oversize Adirondack chair and Mom’s perched comfortably on his lap, her arms draped around his neck, her forehead pressed against his as she laughs. Dad’s steadying her arms and smiling so wide. They look like they’re in the middle of having the best conversation of their lives. It’s my favorite picture of them and I’ve never really known why. Maybe because it just feels so real or perfectly unperfect. Like that’s what love really is; that back and forth, give and take. She says one thing. He says another. She laughs. He touches her arm. If you’re lucky, it’s in those simple moments you find complete happiness. And that’s how you want to spend the rest of your life. Forever in the middle of a conversation with the person you never, ever get tired of talking to.
“Listen, Reagan. We all want you to be a Black Angel,” Sam continues. “You were born for this. But I also want what’s best for you. So listen to your heart. What does it say?”
I take a deep breath and slowly shake my head. Of course Sam is the only one who even bothers to ask.
“That I should do this,” I answer quietly. A lump begins to grow thick in the back of my throat but I will it down and it obeys. “That I owe it to my parents and my country to be a Black Angel.”
“But what do you want, Reagan?” she presses further. “Don’t think about what your mom and dad want. What do you want?”
To stay in the light. To leave this dark and dangerous life. Or at least have the power to choose.
“I don’t know,” I lie. I’m thankful I’m lying down because I can feel my legs weakening, trembling under the weight of my thoughts, my words, my lies. I push my head further into the plush decorative pillows, no longer perfectly arranged on the bed. Sam is quiet on the other end of the phone. I can hear her breathing, hear her thinking.
“What are you so afraid of?”
My eyes close as I listen to the sound of my breath going in and out of my lungs. I’m scared of everything. I’m scared of angering my parents and wasting my talent if I choose college. I’m scared of a life full of constant fear and alienation if I choose the Black Angels. I’m scared of never falling in love and never being happy.
“I don’t know,” I lie again, my voice soft and distant.
I hear Sam sigh on the other end of the phone followed by the click, click, click of her biting her thumbnail. One of her emotional ticks. I wonder if she even notices she does it but I certainly do. She stays silent, waiting for me to get uncomfortable and fill the quiet with the truth. It’s a psychological secret we both know. Cops and reporters know it too. Watch any interrogation or interview. They stay quiet because people hate silence. It makes them squirm. They’ll almost always fill it with the words on the tip of their tongue, even the words they don’t want to say.
“But my parents, my training—” I begin.
“Reagan, I’m not going to lie to you,” Sam cuts me off. “Your talent is unprecedented. It would be a huge blow to the agency if you didn’t choose this life. But if your heart isn’t in it, you’ll be no good to us either.”
The early warning sign of tears sting the corners of my eyes. I quickly close them before those salty drops have a chance to fully develop. I keep my eyes closed and breathe deep, digging my fingers into my hip bones and forcing them back down.
“The moment will come when you’ll know what to do,” Sam finally says. “When it does come, pay attention. Don’t close your eyes. Don’t let it slip away.”
“Okay” is all I can muster.
“Good luck at Templeton,” Sam says. “I’ll be here if you need anything. Love you, Reagan.”
“Love you, Sam,” I say and touch my screen to end our call. I toss the phone to my side, fold my hands across my rib cage, and feel shallow breaths forcing my body up and down. I’ve never really bothered to think about what I want for my life. It’s never felt like an option. Becoming a Black Angel is the only future I’ve ever known. But the thought of your future shouldn’t make you physically ill, should it? I’ve blown it off as nerves. As lingering paranoia left over from Philadelphia. But maybe it’s more than that.
My fingertips run along my left hand until they reach the bracelet on my wrist. I press the hearts between my fingers and try to steady my breath. I have to make a decision, I know I do. Sam just handed me a ticking bomb and time’s about to run out.
You Don't Know My Name Page 8