“Yeah. That is weird.” I wonder where those guardians are now. Did they get to try again with a new charge? I don't intend to bail on Brecken because this might be my only shot. I can't mess it up, and anyway, talking to him like this seems nice. Maybe we could even be friends. Maybe if he can like me, even a little, he'll listen to me.
“No it's not. You'll see. You'll leave too, but you are different. I can't tell what it is, but I'll figure it out.” He gazes at me, his eyes steady.
I sit up straight, uncomfortable with his scrutiny. “I'm different? How?”
“Well, first of all, you're talking to me. Second, you kinda have a pink glow around you. None of the others did. They were white.”
I hold my arm in front of my face and turn it back and forth. No glow that I can see. “Hmm.”
“So, anyway, I need to go. You should probably stay here.” He grabs a jacket from the foot of his bed.
“What? Where are you going?”
“Somewhere you won't want to follow.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
~Little Sisters~
Alisa
In front of his house, dust blows across the sidewalk, dry and stale. A lone tree grows by the curb but isn't thriving. Neighborhood kids play outside in a grass-less park to the south, dust devils rising on the breeze. A few cars are parked out front, none of them worth enough money to steal.
Brecken straddles a motorcycle and turns the key. It roars to life, the black paint gleaming in the sunshine. It isn't new or particularly expensive-looking, but it isn't rusty and falling apart either.
“Where are you going?”
“Don't worry about it, angel. I'll be back in a few hours.” He revs the engine and smiles. As he peels out, gravel peppers me like gunshot.
“Idiot.”
***
I follow my charge. Like he thought I wouldn't? I hold back though, worried he will sense me. If I hide in the background and watch, get a sense of who he is, maybe it will help me know how to deal with him. Technically, it's a good plan.
He drives to a house not far from his and pulls into the driveway. I stay across the street, figuring it's far enough away. He raps on the front door of a ranch-style house with black shutters. When he enters the house, I move closer. Peeking through an open window, I watch Brecken talk to a kid his age. They don't even bother to whisper. And considering their plan, I'm surprised.
“They'll be gone by six,” the kid says. “The back door will be unlocked, just like last time.”
Brecken nods but doesn't say anything.
“Her jewelry box is upstairs in the master bedroom on a white dresser. That's all we want. Got it? The jewelry box. Nothing else.” The boy hands Brecken a white envelope. “You get half now, and the rest after.”
Brecken nods.
“Cool, dude.”
Brecken turns to leave.
“Oh, and don't get caught,” the kid laughs as he shuts the door.
I stare at my charge, my mouth hanging open in disbelief. I have to guard a criminal? If he doesn't care about robbing his neighbor, why would he listen to me? I watch him climb onto his bike and frown. He tucks the white envelope into the waistband of his pants and revs the engine. With gritted teeth, he takes off.
His form grows smaller and smaller. A moment later, I appear behind him on his motorcycle. The wind buffets me, and I throw my arms around him so I won't fall off—a reflex. He jerks in my grasp and the motorcycle swerves. He over-corrects, and I scream in fright, hugging him tighter—reflex again.
The wheels skid to the right. The bike slides in the loose gravel, and Brecken's boot smokes, skimming along the asphalt as he tries to balance us out. My screams echo loud in my ears, and I close my eyes, not wanting to witness his demise. He manages to straighten the bike at the last second and pulls over to the curb, a panicked expression on his face. He turns around on the seat, trying to see me. “What the hell are you doing?” he yells, yanking off his helmet.
“What a stupid question,” I say, already hopping off his death machine.
“I told you not to follow me!”
I laugh. “And I'm supposed to obey? I have a job to do, cowboy, and I'm going to do it.”
“I don't need a babysitter.” He glares in my direction, his mouth tight.
“From what I've seen, you need a jail cell.”
He eases back into traffic and doesn't say anything else the whole way home, which is fine by me. Nothing he can say at this point will matter.
After we arrive at his house, he lifts off his helmet and stares at where he thinks I stand. Totally in the wrong direction. I hover a foot off the ground to his left and he looks to the right. “It's not what you think,” he says with a tired sigh.
“Oh really?”
With a heavy shrug, he kicks the kickstand, and then throws his leg over the bike.
I have to be honest here. Watching his thigh muscles bulge under his Levis distracts me... momentarily. His blue eyes sparkle in the bright sunlight, and his full lips curl into a grimace. I can't quit staring. Just because I don't trust boys doesn't mean I'm not attracted to them in other, dysfunctional ways. I've never had a serious boyfriend, but I want guys to like me. I need them to like me. I don't understand it, and probably need therapy.
He drops down on the porch and rests his helmet on his thigh. “We're out of money. My dad's out of town. We're out of groceries, and if I don't pay the electric bill tomorrow, they'll turn off our power. I don't have a job right now. Okay? I'm looking, but haven't found anything yet. I have to do this.”
“Nice. Try the sympathy card.” I cross my arms over my chest and glare. “It's not going to work.”
He curses, his hands in a fist, and then stomps inside the house.
“Excuse me? You can't talk to me like that!”
He ignores me and slams the door in my face.
Like it can block me. I slide through the closed door to see him standing at the kitchen table, breathing hard.
“I can talk however I want,” he says, his back to me. “And I didn't say any of that to get your sympathy.” He turns to face the door. “I just thought you might understand.” We face off in the small kitchen, neither of us wanting to give in. “You're a real piece of work. You know that?”
“Fine,” I say. “Be stupid. Rob someone. Take things that aren't yours, things that are probably precious keepsakes, and give them to your idiot friend.”
His expression falls. He holds onto the back of a kitchen chair, his knuckles white, looking like he wants to explain, but then he straightens and gives his head a hopeless shake. “Whatever.” He runs down the stairs, taking them two at a time.
I let him go, and I go back outside, wishing I could feel the sun's warmth on my face. I feel warmth, but it's not the same as really feeling it. It's the same with cold. It's there. I can sense it, but it doesn't bite my skin or feel uncomfortable.
To my right, I hear the squeal of children and notice the playground nearby. The two girls who ate lunch with Brecken are there. The youngest is on a little merry-go-round with a couple of other kids. Faded red paint is worn thin under their feet. The older girl sits in a swing, barely moving, but keeping her eye on the younger one.
I wander over and sit in the swing beside the older girl, her long, dark hair reaching past her waist. She looks up and the sun catches her blue eyes—deep pools of sadness. Almost identical to Brecken's. She watches her little sister, silent and waiting.
I push back in the swing, but it doesn't move. I always loved swing sets and I ache to feel that roller coaster tug in the pit of my stomach after going too high. Instead, I sit still, bored and frustrated. “So, you're Brecken's sister?”
She doesn't answer. I didn't think she would, but maybe Brecken's talent runs in the family. “Okay. I'm going to ask you some questions. If the answer is yes, push back on the swing. If no, just stay where you are. Got that? Back for yes, stay for no. All right. Here we go.”
I pause for a
moment, thinking of the things I most want to know. I decide to start with an easy question. “Are you a brat like Brecken?”
The girl pauses and after a couple seconds, pushes back with her foot, setting the swing in motion.
“Good!” I knew it. She has that sassy-britches expression just like her brother. I think for a moment then ask, “Do you like where you live?”
She lets the swing slow to a standstill. I don't blame her. The neighborhood is a dive, not to mention rundown, dusty, and altogether ugly. “Okay. Time to tell me about Brecken. Is he a nice brother?”
The swing moves, but she keeps her toe on the ground as she swivels back and forth. I take that for a kind of. “Hmm. Are you two close?”
Again the swing moves, but this time hard. The girl leans back, her face determined. She pumps the swing a few times before letting it slow again. Anger radiates from her, pricking me like darts. What is she so angry at?
“Okay, okay. I get it.” I don't know the details, but I can tell this girl is hurting terribly.
The other little girl runs up to the swings, a wide smile spreading across her dimpled cheeks. “Heidi. Will you push me?”
Hmm. Heidi. Cute name. “Heidi, say your sister's name for me, please.”
Heidi stops swinging and frowns. “I'm not really in the mood,” she says to the little girl.
“Please. Just once?”
“Fine, but you have to make my bed for me.”
The little girl's expression dips, a frown taking the place of her smile, but she climbs onto the last swing in line and waits.
“Say her name, Heidi,” I say again.
“Come on, Sophie. You don't have to pout.” Heidi gets up from her swing and gives Sophie a half-hearted push.
“Good job, Heidi! Thank you.”
The two stay on the swings for a few minutes more, and I watch them interact. I always wanted a sister and luckily found one in Natty. Thinking of her brings a smile to my face. We loved going to the local park and sitting on the swings. A rush of memories comes to mind. All of them good.
Soon, Heidi and Sophie became bored and run off to play on the sun-faded big-toy across the field, dust puffing up around their feet as they race. What a crappy, depressing park.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
~The Break-in~
Alisa
After Brecken's sisters run off to play, I decide to take the easy way back instead of walking. I close my eyes and concentrate, but I don't appear in Brecken's house—which is what I expect—but in a dingy, smoke-filled living room.
Not his.
Sunlight filters through the ratty, brown curtains and onto a dark, shag carpet. I can't tell what color it was originally, but now it's throw-up, orangish-brown. Brecken sits on a couch with large holes in the worn, tangerine fabric. His feet are propped up on the scuffed coffee table, and his arm is draped around a girl—Jill. A joint dangles in his other hand.
How did he leave his house without me knowing? Sneaky little devil.
He brings the joint to his lips, taking a long inhalation, and then laughs when someone tells a stupid joke. He seems strangely relaxed with the four other teens who laze around the room too, puffing away. Loud music blares from a stereo in the corner, and empty beer bottles lay scattered over every surface. I definitely should have stayed with his sisters.
I march over and stand before him. “This place is disgusting. Why would you even want to be here?” I cross my arms over my chest and glare, hoping he can see me.
He freezes, the butt halfway to his mouth. With narrow eyes, his lips tighten and he clenches his jaw, leans forward, snuffs out the joint and grumbles.
“If you have something to say, just spit it out,” I say. “What exactly are you doing here?” I stare at the homemade cigarette in his fingers. “You're smoking weed? Are you freaking kidding me?” I am fully aware that kids in high school smoke marijuana, but I never did. Not that I was a goody-goody—as if that's a bad thing—but compared to Brecken, I was the freakin' pope.
“Great,” he growls, rising from the couch.
“Aw Brecky, don't leave,” Jill whines, snuggling deeper into his side. “We're just getting started.” She pouts, her lips turning down at the corners.
“I know. Sorry, but I need to go.”
“Where?” a boy across the room asks. His sandy-blonde dreadlocks haven't been washed in a month. Neither have his jeans with holes in the knees. His feet are bare just like his chest. He takes a swig from a dark bottle.
“Just somewhere, Jeff,” Brecken answers, grabbing his helmet beside the front door.
“Get me some too!” Jeff calls with a chuckle.
Brecken hurries to his motorcycle and turns the key, ignoring his friend.
I hop on the back, not about to be left behind, not that I would stay here, but whatever. This just seems easier and like Anaita said, I like the easy road best.
He peels out and automatically my arms go around his waist. I pull back, not wanting to sit close enough to touch him. “Where are we going?” I yell into the wind.
If he hears me, he doesn't answer.
“I need you to leave,” he says, pulling into a deserted parking lot. “Get off.”
“You want to dump me here in the middle of nowhere?” I can’t believe he's kicking me off his bike. I shouldn't take it personally, but I do—like I'm defective in some way.
Rejected, I get off. He smiles and takes off down the road at break-neck speed. Then it hits me. He's going to commit his crime. I don't know how I know it, but I do. With frightening clarity.
The sun descends and brilliant colors of pink and orange paint the early evening sky. It should be a beautiful, peaceful moment. Instead, an intense, jittery feeling consumes me, like I've had too much caffeine. I feel sick, like I've already failed.
I close my eyes, hating the fact that I have to go chasing after Brecken. I hate following him like a pathetic, lost puppy, begging for his master's attention, but I have to try one more time.
Just like always, I feel that tug in my center and immediately I appear at his side on a backyard porch.
A pool glistens behind us, reflecting the pastel colors of the radiant sky. A fenced basketball court sits off to our right surrounded by wide, green lawns, and a wrought iron table and chairs are situated left of the door. The morning paper still flutters in the late afternoon breeze.
“Brecken, please don't do this.”
He stops, his hand on the brass handle. “Go away.”
“I can't.” I'm not sure what else to say.
“Then wait here.” He pushes the door open and steps inside. I follow him into a wide, open kitchen with stainless steel fixtures and white cupboards.
It’s one of the most beautiful kitchens I've ever seen. “Wow.”
Brecken ignores me and hurries to a long staircase. He runs up to the first floor and pushes open a bedroom door.
That's when the rumbling starts. He freezes, and I try to pinpoint the source of the familiar sound. “Garage door,” I whisper in horror.
Brecken hesitates momentarily, then turns and flies down the stairs, ready to tear through the front door, but seeing someone's distorted form through the beveled glass, he runs back toward the kitchen. I follow him, fearful of getting caught as though I am the one performing the robbery. My mind races, thinking only of escape.
The front door opens behind us. A mother's voice rings through the halls all the way to the kitchen. “Take off your shoes, Chloe.” She sounds happy, full of energy. The way my mother used to sound. She has no idea we are there, no idea she should be afraid, that a thief is in her house, her haven, her safe place.
I glance at Brecken. Instead of the angry, guiltless expression of a seasoned criminal, I see dread, remorse, sadness, and terror. He doesn't hide or search for a weapon to hurt the woman with. He doesn't grab anything valuable.
He runs.
Runs like the hounds of hell are after him. He pulls open the back door with light
ning speed, barrels across the backyard past the pool, and then amazingly, he vaults over a six-foot vinyl fence, tearing through a side yard where his motorcycle waits. He straddles the seat and turns the key. The bike revs to life, and Brecken drives away, his dark hair whipping around his horrified face.
I don't go with him, but study the house where his bike had been parked. It takes only a moment, but I quickly realize that it's the same house where he got the envelope of money.
Nice neighbor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
~Despair~
Brecken
The theft is a complete bust and Brecken is beyond embarrassed and ashamed. His stomach twists and his heart aches as he drives up to the campground at the mouth of the canyon and turns into a small parking lot. He pulls off his helmet with an exhausted sigh and sets it on his knee.
Searching his surroundings, he decides to take a walk down the deserted path, and stops at the third picnic area on the right. He stares at the scenery. The familiarity of the trees, the fire-pit, the shallow stream. Without warning, tears spring to his eyes. His family used to come here every Sunday. Every weekend before...
He remembers holding a hotdog over the fire on a flimsy Willow branch. His sisters were little and had to have help. He felt so big and important, and proud that his parents would let him do it alone. Those peaceful, sunset-filled nights are over, never to be relived except in his mind.
What does his mother think now? Does she know how lost he feels? Is she the reason the guardians keep coming?
At first, he liked the “guardians”, as they call themselves. They would play games with him when he was little and make him laugh. His parents thought it was sweet that he played with invisible friends. When he grew older, it wasn't funny anymore, and over the last few years, the guardians started driving him crazy. He hated having them watching over his shoulder, and all they did was criticize, correct him, and tell him what a loser he'd become.
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