The Gifting (26 page)

Despite my new-found friends, I spend the bulk of my time with Leela. And Luka. People ask what we are, but I never know how to respond. He hasn’t tried kissing me again, if that’s what he was trying to do all those nights ago when I took my first dose of medicine. All I know is that we spend a lot of time together and much of that time, there exists this unexplained
thing
between us, this odd sort of gravity, like we are two magnets being pulled together. It would be easy to chalk it up to wishful thinking on my part if not for Leela.

“Sheesh,” she likes to say, “the way he looks at you is so intense, even I feel light-headed. And he’s not even looking at me!”

Life—at least my life—is better than it’s ever been.

There are only three gloomy spots.

My brother remains distant, Luka’s mother’s disposition toward me does not improve, and the world spins into a bigger and bigger mess. My medicine has not fixed any of those. But it’s hard to worry. Luka doesn’t seem to care what his mother thinks. Pete’s been so well-adjusted up until this point that surely, teenage hormones were bound to hit him sooner or later. It doesn’t seem fair for any teenager to pass through these years without at least some measure of angst. And as far as the world? I don’t know. The unrest in Africa? The talk of a third world war? The escalating violence surrounding the fetal modification clinics and the massive increase in incarcerations? It’s hard to care. All of those things are so far removed from my life in Thornsdale. Besides, the chaos makes my father’s job one of the most secure in the country.

For Christmas, Leela organizes a secret Santa and I draw Bobbi’s name. I settle on a pair of earrings from this art deco place downtown and a chocolate bar, then sneak a small box of sugar-cookie scented car air fresheners to Leela. I found them while out and about and couldn’t resist. Sugar cookies are her favorite. Unfortunately, Beamer picks my name, which means I receive gifts more reminiscent of Valentine’s Day than Christmas. And even though Luka got Serendipity, I find a dream-catcher in my locker the last day before winter break, along with a note that says simply:

Merry Christmas, Tess.

          
Yours,

          
Luka

Something about the word before his signature makes my cheeks warm.

I spend a quiet Christmas with my family and the rest of the break hanging out with our lunch group—going to movies or trying different restaurants in Thornsdale or attending the occasional get-together, most often at Bobbi’s. She has a party on New Year’s Eve and I’m so nervous about midnight and Luka and kissing that I drag Leela with me to the bathroom the second the countdown begins, then spend the drive home regretting my cowardice.

Luka and I are rarely alone, which is both a relief and a disappointment. He has not climbed the lattice up to my bedroom window since that first night I took my medicine, but he does make a point of being out on his back deck whenever I’m out on mine, where we spend time talking across a span of too much distance.

On the first day back to school, Mr. Lotsam has us choose an article to read in the New Year edition of USA Today. It covers everything from the upcoming inauguration of our nation’s first independent president to a piece on B-Trix’s new album and the excitement surrounding her upcoming stateside tour, which (to Mr. Lotsam’s disappointment) the majority of class decides to focus on. I pass over a passionately written op-ed about individual privacy verses national security and whether or not the Department of Security and Defense is overstepping their bounds, and eventually settle on a surprisingly upbeat special interest story about life in our country’s largest refugee community.

At lunch, Bobbi and Leela regale us all with funny stories from their family Christmas gathering. Serendipity laughs so hard milk comes out of her nose, which makes me like her more than I already do. Afterward, we walk together to Honors English with matching smiles plastered on our faces.

When I step inside the classroom, there’s a man sitting at Mrs. Meecher’s desk. He has leathery skin, a cleft in his chin, and eyes as dark as his hair. Something about him gives me the creeps. I shake away the feeling and follow Serendipity toward a couple desks off to the right while he writes his name on the chalkboard.

Mr. Rathbone.

“While Mrs. Meecher is away, I’ll be your long-term sub.”

All of us shift in our seats, my disappointment sharp. I love Mrs. Meecher, with her flyaway hair and chalked-up blouses. She’s so caught up in her passion for literature that she runs the class more like an engaging book club than an honors high school course. Jason Brane—whose last name, pronounced
brain
, is completely appropriate—raises his hand. “What’s wrong with her?” he asks.

“She’s ill.”

We all exchange looks. As far as any of us could tell, Mrs. Meecher looked perfectly healthy before break and that was only a week and a half ago.

“How long-term will you be?” Jason asks.

“Indefinitely.”

Wren stumbles into the classroom—her hair shaved except for a strip of neon pink down the center of her head. A new hairdo, apparently. She glares at everybody who stares at her and slides into the empty seat next to me, smelling strongly of marijuana.

Mr. Rathbone either doesn’t care or doesn’t notice. He takes roll call and when he reaches my name, his gaze is heavy and steady and unnerving. A tiny raincloud infiltrates the sunshine that’s been my life and hovers over my head. I wonder if I’m imagining his prolonged attention. I wonder if I’m having a delusion. A wave of panic rolls through my body. Did I forget my medicine this morning? I squish up one eye, trying to remember. No, I took it. Right after I brushed my teeth, like I always do. Another wave of panic follows the first. Is it possible that the medicine is already starting to lose its effectiveness?

I shake the worry away. So what if he’s looking at me more than the other students? There could be any number of reasons why. For all I know, I could remind him of a niece who lives somewhere in Michigan.

As soon as he finishes, we get out our books—tattered copies of
Mein Kampf
. Hitler’s memoir is both disturbing and enthralling. But the sub shakes his head and tells us to put them away. Then he writes out two words on the chalkboard that elicit a collective groan.

Family Tree.

“Excuse me, Mr. Rathbone?” Jason holds up his book. “We’re supposed to discuss the final three chapters of this today. Several of us came to class with discussion questions.”

Mr. Rathbone stares at Jason with that same inscrutable face, then jerks his head at the two words on the board. “I’d like everyone to complete a family tree by next week. I want you to look into your genealogy. It’s good to know where you come from.”

“What does this have to do with literature?” Jason asks.

“I’m the teacher, Mr. Brane.”

I’m impressed Rathbone remembers Jason’s last name.

Wren raises her hand. “I object to this assignment. It’s racist against adopted people.”

Jason scoffs. “Racist is the wrong word.”

“Whatever. I object. I’m adopted and I have no idea who my birth parents are.”

A few students muffle their laughter. Wren isn’t adopted.

Mr. Rathbone picks up a stack of papers and begins passing them out. “You can use your adoptive parents, then.”

“That’s dumb. I don’t have any of their
genes
. Isn’t that where the whole word genealogy comes from?”

I skim the paper, a groan forming deep down in my chest. A paragraph about each person on our tree—living and deceased, including the legacy they left behind? I think of my grandmother for the first time in weeks. I do not, under any circumstances, want to do research on her or tell anybody about her legacy. The cloud this Rathbone character brought into my life expands.

Wren hits her head against the table. Her forehead makes a loud thud. Several students look over at her, me included. Despite her pink hair and black clothes, I feel a connection with Wren. We are united in our disapproval of this new teacher. I smile, trying to catch her attention, then notice that the small tattoo of the strange symbol on her wrist isn’t there anymore.

I lean forward in my chair, checking her other wrist. It’s not there either. She whips her head up, her eyes narrowed into slits. “
What
is your deal?”

“Your tattoo is gone—the one on your wrist. Was it henna or something?”

“You are such a freak. I never had a tattoo on my wrist.” And as if to prove her point, she holds up both of her arms to show me.

My ears catch fire. I can feel the class staring. I quickly drop my attention to the paper in front of me, feigning interest. Serendipity nudges me and gives me an amused look, like it’s obvious
I’m
not the freak. I smile back, but for the first time since taking my medicine, the heaviness returns. I know what I saw before. Wren did too have a tattoo on her wrist.

Distraction

L
uka and I sit together at a round table in the library. Mr. Lotsam has given us another class period to work on our project, which means we get forty-five minutes alone, without the expanse of our backyards dividing us. In fact, we sit so close I can feel his body heat. He scratches the back of his head, making his hair stick up in that tussled, fresh-out-of-bed way while he reads from the fat book of world dictators he brought from his house. I peruse one of several library books, all opened to various chapters on genocides throughout history, pretending to focus when really, the words about Mao Zedong blur into a streak of black against the white page.

“Hey, Tess?”

I look up. Luka is staring at me. I don’t know for how long. I stop my pencil-drumming. “Sorry.”

His mouth quirks in a half-smile. “It’s not that.”

“What is it?”

“Something’s bothering you.” He says it like a fact, not a question.

I think about Mr. Rathbone and the way he kept looking at me throughout Honors English. I look around to make sure nobody is close by, then lean closer. “Mrs. Meecher’s sub is making us all do family trees.”

“What does that have to do with English?”

“No idea.”

A flash of worry flickers in his eyes. “Your grandmother.”

I nod, my mind wandering to the bottom drawer of my desk at home, where I’ve tucked away her journal. I haven’t looked at it, haven’t even thought about it since I started taking medicine. I drop my pencil on the book, plunk my elbows on the table, and dig my fingers into my hair. After weeks of not thinking about her, my brain can’t stop now. I want to swallow the entire bottle of pills in my medicine cabinet to make the thoughts go away. I think about her plea for help on the final page. I think about her locked up in some mental institute against her will.

Luka puts his hand over my jiggling knee beneath the table. The warmth of his touch sends my stomach swooping. “Hey.”

I look at him.

“You can write the bare minimum. Or you could make something up. This Rathbone guy won’t know the difference.”

“But
I
do.” I bite my lip, look around again. Summer peeks at us from behind a row of encyclopedias, too far away to hear. “She’s out there, Luka.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Isn’t that weird? She’s out there and I’m not doing anything about it.”

“Have you had anymore dreams about her?”

“If I have, I don’t remember them. The medicine pretty much takes care of the dreams.”

He scratches his jaw, then takes the book in front of me and gives me that grin that is infamous for making females swoon, and not just students either. I’ve seen him dazzle a few teachers, too. “How about this? We forget about your grandma and focus on our project instead. Surely mass murder will get our minds in the right spot.”

“This project is depressing.”

“Holocausts and genocides? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He begins rattling off names of dictators—Hitler, Stalin, Hideki Tojo, Pol Pot. “Cheery fellows if you ask me.”

I take his big, dorky book. “I guess in light of these guys, I shouldn’t really get this worked up over a silly family tree.”

“This is true.”

My smile falters. I want to tell Luka about Wren’s disappearing tattoo, but I’m afraid of voicing my concern out loud, as if making it audible will increase its validity. Instead, I ask a question I haven’t yet been brave enough to ask. “Do you still see … things?”

His brow furrows. “Rarely.”

“And your dreams, about me?”

“Still there.”

“Do I …?”

He shakes his head. “Only that one time.”

Confusion settles like a blanket of snow. I know the medicine is helping my psychosis but how does that explain Luka’s dreams or the things he sees or our odd connection? Are people who suffer from psychosis naturally drawn to each other? But then I study his profile and decide he can’t be ill. He’s too perfect. Too flawless. There is nothing wrong with him. So maybe the medicine isn’t helping after all and all of this—this entire conversation—is a delusion.

“You know what I can’t stop thinking about?” he says.

“What?”

“The way I fought off that guy when he came at you.”

The memory is as vivid as if it happened yesterday.

“I’ve been trying to do it again.”

“What do you mean?”

“Anytime I see something unusual. Like the other night when I was out to eat with my parents. There was a guy there—the same kind of guy, at least. You know, with the eyes. He was standing by this table. I got up to go to the bathroom and tried to do whatever I did in the locker bay.”

“Did it work?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing happened. Nothing ever does.”

I stare at him while his words soak in. None of it makes sense.

Luka’s attention drops to my lips. We sit so close, he would only have to lean in a couple inches and…Warmth billows inside my chest. My breath quickens. Unless you count a dare in first grade, I’ve never kissed a boy. And I really, really want to be kissed by this one.

“Am I interrupting something?” Matt pulls out a chair at our table, smirking at us. “You know, you two should be a little more subtle. Summer’s practically in tears over there.”