The Gifting (25 page)

“Maybe she knew something we didn’t.”

Worry expands in Mom’s eyes. “Your grandmother was seeing things nobody else could see. She couldn’t hold down a job or even carry on a coherent conversation. When I came home from the doctor’s office with Pete and found you in her arms …” Mom shivers. “It was the most terrifying moment of my life.”

I look down into my lap. “I’m afraid of becoming like her,” I whisper.

Mom picks up the pills lying on my comforter. Their whiteness is impossible to miss against the deep purple. She turns my hand over and places the pills in my palm. “You don’t have to be.”

With tears in her eyes, she pats my knee and leaves my room.

I sit there, unmoving. For a minute, maybe two. Then, without giving myself time to reconsider, I reach for the glass on my nightstand, pop the pills into my mouth, and chase them down with a big swig of water. Mom is right. I don’t have to be afraid of turning into my grandmother. Not when there’s something I can do to prevent it.

There’s a tap-tap-tap at my window.

I swivel around with my hand against my chest and spot Luka. A puff of breath swooshes past my lips. I hold up my finger, shut my door quietly, and click the lock. Then I hurry to the window and open it. “How did you climb up here?” I ask, looking past him to the shadowed grass below.

“The trellis helped.” A cool breeze joins him as he climbs inside and brushes his hand down his shirt, as if smoothing away nonexistent wrinkles. When he looks up, my knees wobble a little. Because Luka snuck into my bedroom. It’s late at night. And the door is locked.

“Hey,” he says.

I wipe my palms against the thighs of my jeans, wanting to hide the pill bottle, but unsure how to do so without calling attention to the very thing I don’t want him to see.

“I wasn’t sure if your parents would let me come in this late.” He glances at the closed door. “Or if they’d let us talk privately.”

“Probably not.”

“How’d it go with Dr. Roth?”

I pick up the copy of my grandmother’s journal and hand it over. He reads for a bit, flips a page, and reads some more. The longer he does, the tighter I wrap my arms around my waist. When he finishes, he holds the journal up. “Dr. Roth had this?”

I nod.

He looks past me and spots the pill bottle I don’t want him to see. “Did you …?”

I nod again.

“Do you feel different?”

“Not yet.”

He steps closer, the nearness of his body throwing off heat like a furnace.

“I’m afraid,” I whisper.

“Don’t be.”

“But what about your dream?” I died in it. That has to mean something. “What if I turn into her? What if they lock me up? What if—?”

“Tess,” he stands so close I have to tilt my head back to look at him, “I won’t let anybody lock you up.”

The huskiness of his voice and the nearness of his body and the way his attention drops to my lips has my heart crashing against my chest. I think Luka is going to kiss me. I think Luka is going to kiss me and I have no idea what to do with my hands. He must know, because he looks down, curls one of his pinkies around mine, and draws me closer. So close our bodies nearly touch. He runs his thumb across my knuckles, a feather-light touch that sets every one of my nerve-endings on fire. When he looks at me, his green eyes are like a sea storm and I can’t breathe. In fact, I’m quite certain I might not ever breathe again. His attention flickers to my lips. I stand very still. And something creaks in the hallway.

Luka and I break apart.

My lungs spring back into action.

He runs his hand down his face.

There’s another creak in the hallway. A definite footstep. Followed by a soft knock on the door. The door handle jiggles. But it’s locked. There’s a brief pause and another knock. “Tess, are you sleeping in there?” Dad asks from the other side.

I look at Luka with wild eyes.

He takes a couple steps to the window, then turns around, his face a mask of frustrated indecipherability. He looks like he wants to tell me something, but there’s another knock.

“Tess?”

I turn toward the door, panicked. Then I turn back to the window. Luka’s gone. There is nothing but the fluttering of my curtain and the subtlest hint of wintergreen in the air. Dad knocks again, the sound more impatient this time. I shut the window and hurry over to the door to swing it open.

“Are you okay?” Dad asks.

“Yeah. Fine. Why?” My voice is entirely too breathless for innocence.

His attention lands on the window. “I thought I heard talking.”

“Nope. No talking.”

His worry turns suspicious. I’m sure the scent of brine lingers in my room. Maybe he even heard me close the window. “You know we don’t lock doors in this house.”

“Right, I must have done it on accident.”

His suspicion remains, but he kisses my forehead. “Sleep well, okay?”

“You too.”

Once he’s gone, I sit on my bed, scoot under the covers, and flip open the journal.

They’re forcing me on meds again. They don’t understand that people will die.

Unsettled, I turn to the very last page. Her handwriting is that of a small child’s.

Somebody, help.

Normalcy

W
hen I wake up, my head feels completely normal. No aching. No pounding. I stretch my arms and squint against the sunlight streaming through my window. Somehow, my body feels lighter. I rub the sleep out of my eyes, then touch my fingers against my lips. Was Luka really about to kiss me last night? The question sends a ripple of heat through my belly.

I hop out of bed, feeling well rested for the first time in weeks. No, months. Could the medicine really have taken effect that quickly? I take my time getting ready, marveling at the lightness of my mood. When I step into the kitchen, whatever heated conversation my parents are having comes to a screeching halt. Mom shuts off the morning news. Dad closes the newspaper and pulls it into his lap. They have taken to hiding these things from me, as if doing so would lessen my obsession. Whistling, I unwrap a Pop-Tart and sit at the table, uninterested in the newspaper he’s trying to hide. I don’t care about it, because I didn’t have any dreams last night.

Not one.

“Did you sleep well?” Mom asks from the sink, raising her eyebrows at Dad.

“Like a rock.” I pop a piece of Pop-Tart into my mouth.

Dad sets the paper on the table. “You look good.”

“Thanks.” I wash the Pop-Tart down with a glass of water and remove the pill bottle from the front pocket of my backpack. I twist off the cap and rattle two into my palm. Funny how something that caused so much angst last night feels like my new best friend this morning. I swallow them happily, give my mom a peck on her cheek, my dad a peck on the crown of his head, shrug my backpack over my shoulder, and meet Pete in the foyer. Even his surly face cannot dampen my mood. Let him be surly.

I don’t care. It’s not my problem.

With a smile on my face—the first smile I’ve smiled in weeks—I slide my feet into my shoes, step outside, and spot Luka leaning casually against his car. My left pinky heats with the memory of his curled around mine. He squints at me through the morning brightness. “Wanna hitch a ride with me today?” he calls over.

Carpooling to school? This is new.

Feeling brave, I toss the keys to Pete and change course, no longer heading toward my car but Luka’s.

He cocks his head as I approach. “You’re looking cheery this morning.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No, not at all.” He opens my door with a grin.

“What?”

“Maybe you should share those pills with me.”

“Maybe I will.” I wink, then slide into the passenger seat, taken aback by my behavior. Was I just flirting?

Luka walks around the front of the car and gets behind the wheel. Being in such close quarters with him without Pete, especially in light of last night, leaves me feeling all kinds of jittery. “I take it you didn’t have any dreams last night?” he asks.

I put concerted effort into thinking back. I remember the shock of seeing Luka framed in my window. I remember him standing very, very close. I remember my dad knocking and Luka leaving and then I remember … waking up. “Not a single one.”

He places his hand on the back of my seat and reverses out of the drive. “Hmm.”

“What?”

“Worked fast.” He turns onto the highway that will bring us to school, his stare heating the side of my face. It’s like a beam of sunshine. “You look good,” he finally says.

The words are the same as my dad’s, but the effect of them is much, much different. Blood not only rushes into my cheeks, it spreads up my forehead and down my neck. I guess the pills haven’t cured my blushing problem. “Thanks.”

We ride the rest of the way in charged silence. It’s like the medication has made me hyper aware. I notice everything about him—the way the sun falls on his profile, his pointer finger tapping the wheel, his tan arm resting on the console between us, even the rhythm of his breathing. What’s crazy? He seems equally aware of me.

The spell isn’t broken until he pulls into the parking lot—a hive of teenage activity. Car doors slamming. Music playing. A group of boys kicking around a hacky sack in the front lawn as one of the stoners—too gutsy for his own good—stamps out a cigarette. Students walking in twos and threes, making their way toward another day of high school delirium, taking their sweet time in order to enjoy the rare sunshine and warmth that is so scarce in early December.

Luka pulls into a parking space and turns off the engine. “Wait here.”

Sunshine silhouettes his messy hair while he makes his way around the front and waves at a kid who calls out his name. He opens my door. It feels silly. I can open my own door. But I also like it.

We walk side-by-side through the parking lot, our knuckles brushing a couple times. People watch us, like always, but the animosity that was so glaringly obvious yesterday has vanished. Instead, the girls look resigned and the boys, curious. They stare intently, as if searching for whatever they missed the first few times around.

Inside, Leela stands at my locker. I experience a surge of love for this friend who has stuck by my side during one of the darkest months of my life. When she spots Luka, her cheeks flush. She gives me a giddy smile. You’d think after a month, she’d be accustomed to his presence. But then, you’d think I would too. Apparently, Luka is not the type you ever grow accustomed to.

“So,” she says, “it’s throwback night at the theater. They’re playing all these old-school, amazing films. Please say you’ll go.” Her attention shifts from me to Luka, her hands clasped beneath her chin.

He shrugs. “I’m a fan of movies.”

Leela claps her hands and gives a little cheer. “You in, Tess?”

I look around. Students, lockers, a drinking fountain, some windows, and a lot of chatter. No flickers. No pockets of inexplicable coldness. No weird lights or masses of darkness or creepy men with white eyes. I wonder if Luka sees anything. I wonder if anything is there, only blocked by the medicine. If so, I could never tell. Luka is so good at ignoring the things I cannot. I search for the slightest clue, but he leans against the locker looking every inch at ease.

He catches me staring and smiles a smile so irresistible my stomach does a loop-de-loop. And I’m smiling too. Because I feel so normal, so light. I beam at Leela, my best friend, while the popular boy who might have almost kissed me last night stands close to my side. “I think that sounds like fun.”

*

For the first time in my life, I get my birthday wish. I am normal. In fact, I’m better than normal. It’s like the medicine has not only fixed my mental problems, it has fixed everything. My parents no longer argue. The rumors at school have disappeared, and somehow, so has the graffiti in the girl’s bathroom. If Summer overheard the conversation between Luka and me in the library, she hasn’t said anything to anyone. My classmates are actually nice.

Luka and I don’t talk about weird stuff anymore. If he’s still seeing things, he doesn’t share and I don’t ask. I’d rather pretend none of it existed. If this bothers him, he doesn’t let on. Every now and then, I’ll spot a flicker of something—concern, maybe?—in his eyes or I’ll catch him watching me in a way I don’t quite understand, but overall, he seems relieved that I am happy and my dark circles are gone.

I don’t have dreams.

Not bad ones or good ones. My sleeping hours are blank. Sometimes I’ll wake up with an inkling of something, but it’s all so vague and blurry and easy to forget that I let the inkling float away, despite Dr. Roth’s pleas that I at least try to remember.

At school, our lunch table grows. We’ve jumped from two—me and Leela—to a full house, with extra chairs crammed in between. After Luka joined us, more followed. An artsy girl named Serendipity—formerly on the fringe of the popular crowd—came first. Shortly after, Bobbi followed and with her came Matt and a very repentant Jennalee, whose sugary sweetness makes me want to gag. Beamer, the kid with highlights and skinny jeans, comes too, along with a couple others. Summer stays away, sitting at the old table, head down, Jared faithfully by her side. Sometimes, though, I catch her looking at me. I can never read her expression.