Exalted (33 page)

We
had friendship cake at home. Friendship cake and hot chocolate. My mom’s
friendship cake could bring anyone to their senses.
It had to.
 

“Come
on.” I held my hand out and nodded down the flat field that stood between us
and my house.

He
nodded, slow and small, and stuffed his hands back into his pockets. He hunched
his shoulders and blew out a thick, cloudy breath.

“Are
you cold? You want my coat?”

He
shook his head. His throat worked silently, and I wondered if he was going to
be sick.

“Are
you okay?”
Stupid Milo
. My eyes flew
up and down his body; his curved shoulders, tucked chin, pinched lips made him
look
 
lost. Which he was. “I’m so sorry.
I’ve never done anything like that before. I took a hunting class—you know, the
one you need to get a license—and I’m usually so careful.” I realized how
self-centered I was being and my cheeks flushed, warm in the cool air. “You’ll
remember everything soon, I’m sure you will. The stuff in the gun was a
sedative, for deer. It was only enough for a small fawn, but still…I’m sure
that’s what’s making you feel weird.”

I
started walking, eager to be home, where I could do something. He followed half
a step behind.

“You’ll
probably like what you remember,” I continued. “That’s a nice suit you’ve got
on and— Hey, your
suit
. Take off your
jacket!” I flung my arm around, like that would help him understand. “Check
your pocket! There might be a wallet in there.”

He
blinked once—he still looked a little dazed—and shrugged out of his coat,
revealing a starched white dress shirt and a soft-looking cummerbund, which he
removed and tossed over one of those lineman’s shoulders. He fished into both
side pockets, frowned, then checked the breast pocket, and came up with… a
whistle?

Yep.
My victim held up a small, red whistle. It looked almost like a child’s party
favor, except metal. I rubbed my head. “Maybe the coat tag will have a name…”

He
was still staring at the whistle.

Staring,
like…
staring
.

“Do
you remember something?”

He
shook his head, but this time he tucked the thing into the coat’s interior pocket.
I watched in silence as he checked the tag of his coat. Brioni. That was all.

“Maybe
you’re the next James Bond. He wears Brioni suits, you know.”

A
second passed, a second where his face was deadpan flat and I felt like an
idiot for being so flippant. Then he gave me a small, crooked smile; it was
almost smug. “You think I’m a secret agent.”

I
laughed, an awkward giggle. “Umm. It’s always possible. I hope not, though.
’Cause if you are, that would probably get me in big trouble.”

As
soon as the words were out, I realized my faux pas. “I guess I’m already in big
trouble…”

He
looked down at his shoes—leather dress shoes that must have been shined that
morning—and shifted his shoulders so he could massage one of them. I tried
desperately to lengthen my strides. He followed, moving at a pace that seemed
leisurely for him.

“How
did it happen?” He sounded clinical, like he was asking me how turbines worked.

How
did
it happen?

“Well,
I was up there—” I was going to point, but realized we weren’t anywhere near
where we’d started. “I was in the tree house with a dart gun because I’m trying
to tag deer. It’s for a project.” I skipped the part about how I’d lied to
state officials. “The herd showed up, and I saw Ashlyn…” I shook my head. “I
saw the little deer that I was aiming for, and I shot at her. I’ve never had a
problem before, but this time I—” I swallowed. “I
 
have no idea. I shot Ashlyn. I know I did!
But there was this light…” And what had that light been? I wanted to think it
over, but he was looking at me expectantly. “Anyway, uh, when I looked down…you
were there.”

His
lips twisted.
“Maybe
I’m Deer Boy.”

“I
know. I totally already thought about that, but here’s the problem: I had my
gun aimed at Ashlyn—a girl deer.”

He
cocked a brow, which could have meant
anything
,
but likely meant he thought I was insane for having already thought through the
Deer Boy angle. For a few minutes there was only the wind stinging my ears and
the whoosh of our footsteps in the grass. When his began to lag, my stomach
clenched.

“You
getting tired?”
     
“I’m fine.”

“Not
tired?”

His
brown eyes slid my way—unreadable under drawn brows. “Yeah, I’m kind of tired.
It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m
so sorry,” I murmured. “You must really hate me.”

“I
can’t,” he said dryly. “You’re the only person I know.”

I
opened my mouth to blurt something, but he held up a hand. “I don’t. Hate you.”

I
looked down at my boots. “That’s generous.”

Lame-o
. Man, I was super
lame. How could I have made it to eleventh grade and still be this lame?

“You
might change your mind.”
If you don’t
remember anything soon…
“But you probably won’t— won’t change your mind,
and decide to, you know, hate me— because I’m sure any minute now you’ll
remember…everything.”

I
fumbled with my gloves, head down.
“When you’re back to
normal and you know why you’re wearing a tailored suit, you can probably do
anything you want to me.
With
me, I
mean.” My cheeks flamed. “What I’m saying is… Maybe I can compensate you
somehow.” My face got so hot, my eyes actually watered. “By compensate you, I
mean I don’t have much—” my eyes flew, against my will, down to my chest— “but
I can give you food and…rocks. I collect rare rocks. Mountain rocks!”

I
squeezed my eyes shut, mortified.

Again,
there was a stretch of silence, during which I really thought I might die.
During which Deer Boy actually smiled. He looked almost silly with
abandon, like it was the first time he’d ever smiled. His brown eyes crinkled,
and his wide grin flashed like a commercial for Crest Whitestrips. “Mountain
rocks, huh?”

“Yes.”
I hung my head, willing to acknowledge what a total ninny I was. Because only a
ninny used the word ninny, right?

I
clenched my jaw, searching for something redeeming to say.

He
beat me to it. “So I know you pick on deer—” he rubbed his starched shirt where
the dart had struck— “and you collect mountain rocks.” He smirked a little, not
unkindly. “I’m also going to guess your last name is Mitchell. What’s your
first name?”

“Milo.”

“What
do you think mine is?” He dropped back, staring thoughtfully at the ground, and
I slowed to match his pace.

I
looked over his suit, over his face—so honest and clean. “Nick,” I said. “Your
name is definitely Nick.”

“Nick
Carraway.”

“Yeah.
But not for long. Soon we’ll be at my house, and I’ll be calling everyone who
lives near here and we’ll be finding out who you really are. Or, hey— you’ll be
remembering.”

“Maybe.”
It sounded like he was talking through a cloud.

“I’ll
help you. I’ll do everything I can.”

He
looked at me, a strange expression on his face. “Thanks, Milo.”

We
walked to the rest of the way to the house in slightly less uncomfortable
silence. I kept thinking about the way he said my name. Mi-
lo
. It seemed to roll out of his mouth. I glanced at him a few
times, desperate to know what he could possibly be thinking.

When
we reached the row of firs that lined the driveway, I slid through first, and
he followed me across the tire-sized indentions in the grass. Mom wouldn’t be
home, but that was probably a good thing.

“No
one’s here,” I said as I climbed the stone steps and fished the keys out of my
coat pocket. “It’ll just be us. I can get you something to eat and then we can
decide what you want to do.”

“What
I want to do?” He stared at me skeptically, like I’d suggested we go fly a
kite.

I
shrugged. “You know… I can go through a list of all our neighbors, see if
anything seems familiar. You could be a cousin or something, visiting from the
East Egg. If that doesn’t work, maybe we should call someone.”

“Someone.”

“You
know, like the police.” He didn’t say anything, but his brow furrowed, and I
could tell he didn’t like the idea. “Or the hospital? I don’t know…”

As I
pulled the screen door open, Nick lagged. I turned to face him, leaning my back
against the heavy cedar door.

“We
don’t have to do anything,” I said. “It’s your choice. You call all the shots.”

He
cocked a brow and rubbed his abs. I blushed. “Almost all of them…”

CHAPTER
FOUR

As
“Nick” followed me into the house, I wondered how the kitchen looked to a
stranger’s eyes.

He’d
see dark hardwood—unidentifiable because our floors were made of
enviro-friendly scraps—lots of indwelling shelves crowded with books,
wall-mounted miners’ lamps converted to use LED bulbs, my dad’s old
Persistence of Memory
print, and our
dining room table. The table was totally schizophrenic, incorporating so many
colors it almost made you dizzy. The slab where’d you’d sit dishes or rest your
elbows was made of road signs, welded together with strips of stained glass;
its legs were a bed post, an old Native American walking stick, and two
oversized wooden baseball bats. The chairs: four big eggs in primary colors.

“It’s
kind of…cluttery in here,” I said—as if he’d lost his eyesight as well as his
memory.

I
loved our house, but with someone new seeing it—and maybe judging it—I felt
embarrassed. Like Halah had said once: “For well-off people, your family lives
like rednecks, Milo.”

Anybody
wearing a Brioni suit would surely see it as junky.

Nick
just shrugged and, after a second, slouched down in the blue chair.

I
walked behind the island and spread my hands out on its rough stone counter.
“Okay. So I’ve got milk, cider, lemonade, carbonated stuff— oh, and hot
chocolate. It’s my mom’s recipe. Pretty good.”

Nick
pulled off his jacket, tossing it roughly over the back of his chair. “Yeah,
that works. Your mom’s stuff.”

As
he said it, something flickered over his face. Wonder about his own mom, maybe?
I wanted so badly to ask.

I
turned to the refrigerator, then glanced over my shoulder for a look into the
den. It was unusually dark in there. Dark and…quiet.

“No
power,” I realized, stepping to the microwave. I rubbed my hand over the blank
gray rectangle where the digital clock was supposed to be. “So weird,” I
mumbled. There hadn’t been any weather, nor was any in our forecast. I recalled
the flash of light, and I tried to remember: Was that real, or had it happened
in my head when I’d shot Nick?

I
walked behind his chair, close enough so that I could have indulged my insane
impulse to touch his hair, and peeked through the wooden blinds of a front-facing
window. “Uh-oh…”

“What?”

“The
turbines really
aren’t
moving.”

“That’s
bad.” It was a statement, but I sensed his question.
 

I
turned toward Nick. Slits of murky light made broad lines across his face and
chest. “We sell the power that the turbines make to a power company. One of the
good things about them is that they don’t ‘go out’ ever. They’re considered
energy independent, but they need
some
electricity. Some models work with gasoline, but… gah. I’m sure this is boring
you to tears. Basically if the turbines are down, that means something big
happened. With the power. Not that that matters compared to...”

He
leaned forward, looking even more striking in his white dress shirt than he had
in his coat.

“Compared
to what’s going on with you,” I finished.

I
had a vision of Nick in his tuxedo, sitting at a worn desk at a social services
office with his gorgeous coppery head in his hands, alone in the world, unable
to go to school, be with friends, live his life. And all my fault.

STOP
MAKING NEGATIVE PREDICTIONS.

Moving
purposefully, I strode over to the kitchen counter and pulled open the drawer
with our emergency numbers list. My mom had typed them for my babysitters years
ago, and none of our neighbors had changed.

As
soon as I got the laminated paper in my hand, I realized I still hadn’t offered
Nick anything to eat or drink. I sneaked a glance at him, found him sitting
with his eyes shut, his head in one hand with the tips of his fingers pushed
into his hair. I swallowed hard.

“Do
you want something cold? Lemonade? Maybe with some cake?”