DAWN CREEPS IN THROUGH THE

curtains, staining the backs of my eyelids red. I blink once, twice in the near darkness, then stretch. I inhale the scent of Noah’s shampoo and smile as I reach over in bed to pull him closer. My hand closes around a piece of paper, though, not his hair.

I prop myself up on my elbow and yawn, scanning the room for evidence of Noah. When I don’t find any, I turn on the bedside lamp. His bag is here, and his clothes are in them—not strewn around like mine. We were supposed to be leaving New York today, and it looked like he’d already packed. That wasn’t unusual. But not waking up to him beside me was. I bite my lower lip, remembering his mouth on it last night, and draw back the sheets to look for my clothes. The note flutters to the ground beside me. I pick it up.

Couldn’t sleep, went for a run. Back soon. Prepare yourself.

xxxxxx

N

A smile spreads across my lips, so wide it hurts. I’m overpowered by love for him, for this boy who knows exactly what I am, exactly who I am, and loves me anyway, despite it. Because of it. I couldn’t wait for him to get back so I could tell him. Show him. A week had passed, but it could have been a year—I would never get enough.

And I don’t have to. We have all the time in the world.

I glance at the clock—9:30 a.m.—and shower and dress before heading down to the kitchen. My brother is banging cabinets around, loudly, to announce his presence; a charm of protection against any stray public displays of affection, no doubt. Luckily for him, I was just as embarrassed by our loud colonization of the town house as he was—more, probably. Unluckily for both of us, Noah didn’t care. God knew what Daniel heard.

A ferocious blush rises in my cheeks, and I vainly try to hide it with my hair. “Morning!” I chirp. I’m so obvious. “Is there coffee?” I rummage through the pantry, making a ton of unnecessary noise myself.

“In the pot . . . that you just passed.”

Right. “Right! Thanks!” I snag a mug from the cupboard.

Daniel shot me a look. “You okay?”

“Yes! You?”

“I’m slowly adjusting to a new reality that includes superpowered teenagers and the entities that try to control them. Are you packed yet?”

Nope. “Mmhmm.”

“Car’s picking us up at four.”

“I know.”

He then says what I’m thinking. “It’s going to be weird for you at home, isn’t it.”

I nod.

“But you’ll be back soon? That still the plan?”

It was. Once we returned to our respective homes, Jamie would present our proposal to skip our senior years and head directly to college without passing go. It was a real thing, early admissions or something, and it would get us out of Florida faster and with fewer loose ends than anything else we could come up with. And we needed to get out. None of us could imagine finishing out our senior year of high school. It would be hard enough performing for our parents, pretending for them, but I knew I needed the summer. Joseph would be losing not one but two siblings in the fall—it would be hard for him. I wanted him to have the time with us. With me.

Daniel takes a swig of orange juice and then slips his arms into the sleeves of a long button-down shirt. “I’m going to meet my friend Josh over at Juilliard before we go. Don’t forget, car at four.”

“I won’t forget.”

“Oh, also.” Daniel spins around on his heels and heads for the hall closet. “You need to start prepping if you’re going to test in June.” He reaches for something on the top shelf, which is stacked with board games. They topple to the floor.

“Not how I planned that.”  We start picking up game pieces: Risk, Monopoly, Scrabble. “Oh. Hello there.”

I look up to see my brother holding a wooden, heart-shaped piece in one hand; a planchette. From a Ouija board. I look around and sure enough, there it is behind him, lying between Sorry! and The Game of Life. My brother peers at me from the little plastic circle in the middle.

“Wanna play?”

I glare at him, goose bumps notwithstanding.

“Kidding, kidding.” He drops the piece back in its box. “This is what I actually wanted to give you.” He rummages through the games and then picks up a book: One Thousand Obscure Words on the SAT.

I roll my eyes. “What would I do without you?”

“You won’t ever have to find out.”

I wonder if Daniel knows that I will do anything I can, everything I can, to make sure that stays true.

“Having a little post-breakfast séance, are we?” I turn at the sound of Jamie’s voice. He’s staring at the unfolded Ouija board. Not kindly.

“Accident,” Daniel says, and tosses the book to me. I stuff it in my new messenger bag as my brother puts the games back in the closet where they belong. “See you kids later,” he said with a wave. “Car’s coming at four, J.”

I look at Jamie once the door closes behind Daniel. “J?”

He lifts his chin. “We’ve become fast friends. While you and Noah were . . . busy.”

I walk backward toward the door, slinging my bag over my shoulder. Blushing too. “I’m going out for a walk.”

“You? A walk? Since when do you need food, sunshine, fresh air?” Jamie looks around dramatically. “Oh. Noah isn’t here. That explains it.”

“Shut up.”

“Come. Let us find him together,” Jamie says, and offers his arm, which I take. We wander a bit before heading to the park. I do not fail to notice the pendant around Jamie’s neck; he’s developed a habit in the past week of hooking his finger around it while he talks. Mine rests in my pocket, nestled next to Noah’s. I haven’t made my decision yet.

“So what college am I going to lie to your parents about for you?” Jamie asks, bumping my shoulder.

“Not sure.” We walk past a street cart selling roasting nuts; the smell mingles with the scents of dust and metal from the construction being done on the street. “But I like New York.”

“Same. I was thinking about Columbia, or NYU maybe. Not sure I’ll get in, but I’m black, queer, and Jewish so I got three brochures.”

I smirk and catch a glimpse of our reflections in the dark glass of an office window. Not that long ago, I probably would’ve died laughing at the things Jamie said. But what we’ve been through has thrown us forward a decade, at least. People who didn’t know us would think we looked like teenagers still, and if they saw pictures of us Before and After they might not even be able to tell the difference. But I can tell. Our smiles for cameras are jaded now, our grins at jokes a bit bitter. That’s what separated us from the multitudes of Them. We lived harder. Knew better. But we laughed anyway. Laughed because there was nothing else to do but give up.

And I would never give up. I’ve done terrible things I regret and terrible things I don’t. But I don’t need to be fixed. I don’t need to be saved. I just have to keep going.

We cross the street into the park, and blossoms fall like snow as we walk beneath the trees. The sky is blue and cloudless—a perfect spring day. It’s like a dream, light and beautiful and happy, the kind I never have.

“Fancy meeting you here,” says Noah. He’s right behind us, in slim, dark jeans and a faded black T-shirt. His hair is carelessly tousled and noticeably clean. He’s carrying a shopping bag, which dangles lightly from his fingers.

I look him over with narrowed eyes. “How long have you been following us?”

“Forever.”

I touch a finger to my lips. “Funny, you don’t look like you’ve been running.”

Jamie claps his hands once. “That would be my cue!” He kisses me on the cheek. “I’m going to bid farewell to my illustrious cousin, your illustrious attorney.”

“Say hi to her for me.”

“Shall do.”

“Me as well,” Noah chimes in, but Jamie’s already walking away. He raises his hand to give him the finger from over his shoulder. Noah’s mouth spreads into a grin.

“So where were you?”

He moves the shopping bag farther behind him. “Oh, hookers, blow, the usual.”

“Why do I even love you?”

“Because I come bearing gifts,” Noah says, and withdraws the thing from the bag with a flourish. A sketchbook.

My cold heart melts a little. “Noah.”

“The old one was a bit morbid,” he says, the corner of his mouth turning up with a smile. “Thought you could use a fresh start.”

I rise on my toes to kiss him.

“Wait,” he murmurs against my lips. “You haven’t seen the best part.”

“There’s another part?” I ask as he takes my hand and tugs me toward a bench. He slips the sketchbook under his arm and sits me down by my shoulders.

“Close your eyes,” he says, and I do. I hear him turning the pages of the sketchbook. “All right. Open.”

I’m looking at a drawing, if you could call it that. But of what, I have no idea.

“I thought I’d christen it for you, so I drew your portrait.”

“Oh!” Oh, hell. “It’s . . . really special, Noah. Thank you.”

He bites his lip. “Mmm.”

“But wait.” I turn it horizontally. “Why do I have a tail?”

He tilts his head to look at it. “That’s not a tail, that’s your arm.”

“Why is it coming out of my ass?”

He closes the sketchbook. “Behave.”

“Or what, you’ll spank me?”

He leans toward me. His mouth makes contact with my earlobe, his rough jaw with my cheek, and he says, “That would be a reward, darling. Not a punishment.”

My heart is already racing. Gets me every time. “Speaking of,” I say softly. “I missed you this morning.”

“I’ll have to find a way to make it up to you. Have you packed?”

“We have time still,” I say, because I’m not ready to go.

Noah knows what I’m thinking. He laces his fingers between mine. “We’ll be back.”

We would be. I could feel it. I stretch out next to Noah, my head in his lap, my feet on the rail. People weave around us, but it feels like we’re alone in a sea of beating hearts and breathing lungs. I watch smoke rise from a manhole across the street, and can almost see it form words in the air: welcome home. We could be anonymous here. Just a normal couple, young and in love and holding hands in New York.

I lean down and withdraw a book from my own bag as Noah plays with my hair. It’s the SAT book. Wrong one. I drop it back in and finally find the one I’m looking for—a novel, freshly bought, about superpowered teens. Call it research.

“What book?”

I show Noah the cover, then flip to the last page.

“Wait—are you—Mara Dyer, are you reading the ending first?”

“I am.”

“You are fascinating.”

“I’m weird,” I say, without looking up. “There’s a difference.”

“Really though, how did I not know this about you? This changes everything.”

I glare at him and snap the book shut.

“Oh, don’t stop on my account.”

“I am. I am stopping on your account.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not.”

“No, I’m not. Besides, we should probably be reading . . .” My neck crunches as Noah leans over to rummage in my bag. He pulls out the SAT book. “This. A Daniel purchase?”

“How’d you ever guess?”

“Here, I’ll quiz you.”

“Noah—”

“No, no, I insist.” He flips through it. “All right, first word: quintessence.”

“I do not want to play this game.”

He ignores me. “Nom de plume.”

“That’s not obscure.”

“And it’s not really a word, is it? More like a phrase. Who wrote this book anyway?”

“Who cares?” I pluck the book from his hands, drop it into my bag, and slip out a notebook instead. And earphones.

“What are you doing?”

I take a deep breath. “I am running away to join the circus. What does it look like I’m doing?”

“The circus would never have you. You’re not flexible enough. We’re going to have to work on that.”

I hit him. Hard.

“Are you going to draw?”

“Nope.”

“Shame. I was going to ask you to do me like one of your French girls.”

“You’re quoting it wrong.”

“Am I?” He pretends to look thoughtful. “Freudian slip, I suppose. So what are you doing?”

“I decided I need a new hobby.”

“Writing?”

“Trying to,” I say, annoyed.

“Your memoir?”

Earlier this week, I’d signed a retainer agreement with Rochelle. She is a criminal defense attorney, I’m a criminal—it’s a perfect match. We thought Jamie would be able to damage-control most of what had happened to us, in terms of exposure, but I actually want to go public. Rochelle warned me against it, as any good lawyer would, citing the lack of evidence, the possibility of countersuits—all solid arguments. But I couldn’t pretend that this last year hadn’t happened. People needed to know about it. I needed to share it.

It was Daniel’s idea to publish our story as fiction that wasn’t really fiction. I swore to Rochelle that I’d change names and redact dates and adopt a pseudonym. She was skeptical, but she knew she couldn’t stop me, so she agreed to help instead.

Daniel thought the whole thing was hilarious. Like a metanarrative! Oh my God that’s priceless. Jamie wasn’t impressed. Noah, as usual, was entertained by the prospect, and even said he’d help.

“Sort of like hiding in plain sight,” he’d said when I’d told him my idea. “I like it.”

“I’ll need your help,” I’d said. “There’s a lot I don’t remember.”

“I’ll fill it in for you.”

“You have to tell the truth, though.”

“When have you ever known me to lie?”

“Are you seriously asking me that question?”

“You’re hurting my feelings. I’ve never been anything less than excruciatingly honest. Painfully reliable. Don’t you trust me?”

“Yes,” I’d said honestly. “I do.”

Now I just have to write the thing. How hard could it be?

Noah winds a strand of my hair around his finger and tugs on it, just as I’m about to put one of my earbuds in.

“No one’s going to believe it, you know.”

I do know, but I don’t care. If we had learned anything concrete by now, we had learned this: we weren’t alone. There are others like us out there. People that think they’re just strange or different or troubled or depressed or sick. They might just be. But they might also be something more. They could become one of us. And they should know it before it’s too late.

“The truth should be told, even if no one believes it,” I say. I tilt my head to look up at Noah. “The people who don’t can love it or hate it or not care and forget they’ve ever read it. But maybe someone like us will read it and they’ll know they’re not alone. Or maybe someone not like us will read it but they’ll believe and be warned about people who are.”

Noah indulges me, as always. “So what kind of story will it be?”

A good question. It isn’t horror, even though parts of it are horrifying. It isn’t science fiction because the science and the story are real.

I look at Noah, grinning at me with my head in his lap, his hands in my hair, and I think about him and Jamie and my brothers and my parents. People who would do anything in their power to help me, even if they didn’t always understand me. People I would do anything for, no matter who I had to hurt or what it would cost. I look back at the blank page, then, and know.

This is a love story. Twisted and messy. Flawed and screwed up. But it’s ours. It’s us. I don’t know how our story will end, but I know how it will start. I pick up my pen and begin to write.

My name is not Mara Dyer, but my lawyer told me I had to choose something.

Date: 2015-01-29; view: 605