Aftermath (22 page)

Emma's Story

My second week at Westport High School was better than the first.

At least, I felt better about it. When I walked down the hall, people smiled and waved. Claire waited for me every day for lunch and each afternoon for soccer practice. Things fell into a routine. I turned in all of my assignments and made up the last of the quizzes I missed in calculus.

Being caught up was a satisfying feeling, though I still missed Highland Park.

“Claire reminds me of you,” I told Melissa when she asked how I was doing. Melissa and I spoke almost every night and texted several times a day. Mostly it was small talk about school or soccer. I told her about the team I joined in Westport, and she kept me up-to-date on people we knew. Matt had asked Aimee to the homecoming dance, but supposedly only as friends.

“You should come for a visit,” Melissa suggested.

“I know. I want to, um… well, I’m not sure I should ask my aunt. At least not yet.”

“Yeah. I’d ask my mom, but I know she won’t let me drive there,” Melissa said. “Hey… we’re going to a football game at Northwestern in a few weeks. Wanna come?”

“Umm… I’ll have to ask,” I said. A college football game, out of state? There was no way Aunt Barb would agree to that. At least, I didn’t think so. “I’ll let you know.”

We both knew that meant no.

I couldn’t get the idea out of my head, as I worked on my pencil sketch in art class. I wondered if Aunt Barb would say no. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t even ask. I could just tell her I was visiting Melissa. I didn’t think Aunt Barb would call Melissa’s mom.

Or would she?

“Emma, you’re so quiet today,” Hannah said. She and Claire chatted most of the class about anything and everything. She drilled Claire about Drew for a half hour, before moving on to TJ and Molly’s break up.

“Ah… no reason,” I answered and looked up. Lucas glanced at me and smiled.

“Are you going to the football game tomorrow night?”

“Um, I’m not sure,” I answered, refusing to look up.

“You should. Claire, you’re going, right?”

“Of course,” Claire answered as the teacher instructed us to pack up our supplies. “Emma, you can ride with me.”

“Okay.”

“Did you get your homecoming dress yet?” Hannah asked without looking up.

Claire glanced at me, and then answered. “Not yet. How ’bout you?”

“Yup. I got it in Chicago when my mom and I went to Emma’s—”

“What does it look like?” Claire cut her off.

Hannah paused and looked away briefly before describing her dress as short and strapless in metallic-silver taffeta.

“When is homecoming?” I asked as the bell rang, acting as if I didn’t figure out she was talking about the Chicago trip for my dad’s funeral.

“In a couple of weeks. You have time to find a dress. You know, your aunt’s boutique at the Inn has really nice dresses. Maybe she’ll have something for you,” Hannah said as we walked out of the classroom.

“Oh. I don’t think I’m going,” I said.

“You have to. Everyone that’s anyone goes to the dance,” Hannah said just before the three of us parted ways.

I hurried down the hall, Hannah’s thoughts fluttering in my mind. It was flattering, being “in” with the popular crowd. On the other hand, it meant I couldn’t go to the dance alone. Thoughts of Ben entered my mind. It was silly, actually. Getting my hopes up was a guaranteed letdown. He would never ask me to the dance. Especially since Stephanie Carlson targeted him all week.

I strolled into literature class and took my seat as the bell rang.

I dreaded literature. It meant lots of reading of old historical novels by authors that wrote in a language too difficult for me to understand. Mrs. Moore called the class to attention, as my mind began to wander.

Did Ben like Stephanie? I never saw him smile or flirt with her. He seemed to tolerate her.

Mrs. Moore’s irritating voice interrupted my thoughts. “Their writing is exceptional. Their stories have messages we must decipher. This is why American literature is so interesting and one of the reasons I love it,” she said, and then paused for a moment. The silence was eerie. “Reading classical literature is my passion.” She looked around the room and pointed to no one in particular. “My wish for each of you,” she smiled before she completed her thought, “is that you will achieve a passion for literature after this semester project.”

There weren’t any weird teachers like her back in Highland Park. At least, none that I knew, anyway. She obviously loved her job. I, on the other hand, was not interested in literature. I found it boring. I loved to read, but I liked modern novels by authors that wrote about topics I enjoyed, not ones with hidden messages and old English I had to interpret in order to understand it. I was told we would study Romeo and Juliet this year, which I heard was a good section. But this project was not.

Mrs. Moore counted out sheets of paper and handed them out by row. The girl in front of me, whose name I didn’t know, passed the stack back to me. As I grabbed my copy and turned to pass the rest back, I noticed Ben for a split second. He sat three rows to my left and two seats back. Our eyes met momentarily; at least, I thought they did. Maybe I just hoped for it. He certainly didn’t acknowledge me in calculus first period that morning.

The class was distracted by the handouts, with small chitchat going on in various corners of the room. Mrs. Moore spoke loudly after handing out the last stack of papers, “Okay, settle down, class,” she said and proceeded to explain the project. It sounded more like a sales pitch on how wonderful early American literature was.

I scanned the list of authors and suggested titles. Most I never heard of, or had any interest in reading.
Maybe Hemingway
, I thought. Mrs. Moore’s voice jumped me back out of my daydream.

“These authors and their books are on hold in the library. Any of their work is acceptable. If you are having difficulties selecting an author, perhaps I can help.” She paused slightly as the bell rang, finishing in a louder voice, “Any book by these authors. It doesn’t have to be the ones listed. Have a good day!”

I grabbed my things and headed out. Great. A long novel assignment. Literature used to be one of my least favorite subjects.

Suddenly, I hated it.

Ben's Story

I spent the past three nights on patrol.

My human body was tired and weak. A little rest was all I needed. Instead, I ran on adrenaline. Searching for Victor was a full-time job. Molly returned to school and a somewhat normal life. Claire was assigned to Emma, and all seemed well in Westport.

Except that it wasn’t.

Agents patrolled the county in human form and in spirit. At one point, there was one operative located every one-thousand square feet. After forty-eight hours with no sign of unauthorized immortals, no scent of any hybrid, and no essence of Victor reported, most agents were sent home. Molly held herself together by day, but when alone at night, I heard her petrified thoughts, even with guards following her every move.

I glanced up at the cafeteria ceiling and saw the spirits of two immortals who propelled to the high school. A utility van parked on North Avenue housed the bodies of six agents that rotated shifts of school surveillance without human detection. It was the second lunch period out of three. The lunch hour that Emma and most of her friends were in.

I got there late, after checking in with one of my operatives that patrolled the premises. He was stationed at the school after I compelled the police chief and claimed there were threats in the area and a campus presence was wise. Comments, thoughts, and fears crossed the minds of kids when uniformed officers arrived Monday morning. By Thursday, however, only one policeman remained since the chief couldn’t justify more.

“The threat level has declined. There’s been no direct mention of Westport, and the only visible activities in Riverside have been dismissed as graffiti. I’ll keep one officer on duty, but I suggest you implement a closed campus,” the police chief said. The principle had no choice but to agree.

And all I could do was watch.

It caused sleepless nights for Molly and restless days for me, as I sat through high school courses thinking of all the places I should be searching for Victor. Work was constantly on my mind, to the point I didn’t hear the teacher call my name in art history earlier that morning. Molly’s screeching voice in my head snapped me back to reality. She fed me the answer the teacher was looking for and told me to focus.

She was right. I needed to balance things in order to succeed.

I glanced around the cafeteria. Juvenile behavior bounced from table to table. Lunch was a show-and-tell of social status at Westport. The haves and the have-nots segregated by linoleum at rectangular, white laminated tables with bench seating.

Molly gossiped and laughed with Stephanie Carlson at the same table every day. It was in the second row beside Hannah, Claire, Emma, and their extended group of girls. Foreign-exchange students sat closest to the cafeteria doors with brainiacs, druggies, and drama queens filling in the rows in between.

Window seats were unofficially reserved for the school jocks. Lucas, TJ, and some football players flanked one end, while my soccer teammates covered the other. Testosterone ran rampant. It was forty minutes of hormones, insecurities, and an occasional card game for most of the guys. For me, it was a chance to listen in on everyone’s thoughts.

Hannah dominated the conversation as usual. Emma obediently listened, responding at appropriate times with an occasional nod, or an, “Oh, really?” to the gossip Hannah liked to share. Emma glanced behind her, and then up at the ceiling, before her eyes met mine for a split second. It wasn’t the first time she checked me out, but it was just as flattering.

“Have you ever felt someone was looking at you, but there was no one there?” Emma asked the girls after Hannah was finally done with her story.

Ben, did you catch that?
Molly’s thoughts replaced my shock.
She’s more perceptive than we thought.

I swallowed the invisible lump in my throat. Emma’s thoughts were clear. Even though she couldn’t see the agents, she could feel their presence.

“I know exactly what you mean!” Hannah exclaimed. “The other night I was home alone studying and I was sure someone was standing behind me. You know, like I heard breathing or something. But the house was empty.”

“Hannah, you’re so gullible!” Claire said. “It was probably your brother.”

“No, I swear I was home alone.”

Lucas threw a crumpled napkin at the girl’s table, landing it on Claire’s tray. Laughter erupted, as the paper ball was tossed back with a few new ones the girls made. Lucas smiled at Emma. He intended to get Emma’s attention, and it worked. It got the conversation started between the two tables with flirtatious looks and comments whipping back and forth. In a few minutes, the volume would be loud enough to draw the attention of the lunch ladies who supervised behavior in the cafeteria, and soon the paper toss would be over.

Drew flirted with Claire. Justin smiled at Hannah. Stephanie glared at Lucas, while he winked at Emma. I heard everyone’s thoughts as well as their spoken words. I could tolerate all the hormonal hopes until it was Lucas thinking about Emma. I took a deep breath, gritting my teeth as I listened to his inappropriate comments.

Emma was flattered. Obviously, I needed to work harder to change that.

Emma's Story

I had study hall eighth period.

In the weeks I’d been at Westport, few students actually stayed in the assigned classroom during that hour. Instead, they approached the teacher and asked for a pass. I noticed she made each student sign a sheet before handing them a laminated card.

Going to the library to check out the books for my literature assignment seemed like a good excuse I thought, as I approached the teacher. She told me the rules about leaving, made me promise to return, and handed me the get-out-of-study-hall pass in case I was found wandering.

The library was more impressive than I expected. The glass doors opened to a modern two-story area with tables and chairs and rows upon rows of books. It was refreshing, actually. Displays of new releases and top-selling books welcomed visitors at the entrance. They were propped up on easels with multiple copies below. I felt like I walked into Barnes and Noble, not the Westport High School library.

While it was comforting, it was incredibly intimidating. People moved about like they knew where they were going. They walked with a purpose, as I loitered near the door.

Where would I possibly find these reserved books?

After glancing around, I noticed a circular island and a woman behind the counter. I waited my turn and then asked where to find the reserved section. The confusion I felt must have been written on my face, as the librarian pointed to the loft area above and behind her.

“That’s in Room A,” she said. “There are reserved rooms along the east loft area. The western end has tables for study purposes, but please be aware of the quiet zone areas. They are marked.”

I nodded and thanked her.

The only thing missing was the Starbucks counter.

I opened the glass door and walked in. It was quiet, and I was alone. I started scanning the section displayed for Mrs. Moore’s class, picking up a book here and there to read the back. Nothing popped out at me. Mom would have been good at this. She loved to read. After scanning more than half the list, I saw Hemingway and picked up one of his books.

I heard the door open behind me, but I didn’t bother to look. I started reading the cover and the teacher’s notes on
A Farewell to Arms
. At least I had heard of this author.

“Hemingway, huh?” a deep voice said behind me. I jumped. “Oh, sorry, Emma, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Ben said as I turned to face him.

“No, it’s me… I was just deep in thought, I guess,” I said and looked into his eyes. They were brown like milk chocolate.

He pointed to the book in my hand, waiting for a response I didn’t give. “I wouldn’t have guessed you to pick Hemingway,” he said.

I chuckled to myself, and couldn’t help but notice how at ease I felt with him. Even though he was virtually a stranger, a boy that I spoke with for a few minutes combined. “Honestly, it sort of jumped out at me. I didn’t know who to pick, but I’m going with it.” I smiled at how stupid that sounded, as the words met the fresh air.

He looked into my eyes, holding me fixed for a second. “Things jump out at me too…” he said, still looking at me. “Once and awhile.”

I looked away first, back to the book in my hand. “So, who are you picking?”

“Hemingway,” he said with confidence and without hesitation.

“Really? But you… I mean—” Heat rushed to my cheeks. He looked up at me with a smirk, and I stumbled over my words. “You don’t look like the type that would pick Hemingway.” I smiled. It was my weak attempt at flirting. Was my face red?

Ben’s smirk turned into a full grin. His teeth were exceptionally white.

“And what type would I be?” He picked up one of Hemingway’s books.

“Um… well… let’s see.” I scanned the other shelves and took a deep breath. “I’m sure I can pick an author to match your personality.” I didn’t know where my newfound confidence came from, but I went with it.

“You have no idea.”

I shook my head. Laughter filled the air. “Not a clue. I told you I picked Hemingway because it jumped out at me. I never heard of half these authors before.” I motioned toward the bookcases. “Literature is not my favorite class.”

“It’s okay… but Mrs. Moore is weird.”

“I thought I was the only one that felt that way!”

He smiled.

“So why did you pick Hemingway?” I asked.

He appeared serious. “I knew someone.” He pointed to the book I clutched in my hand. “
A Farewell to Arms
was her favorite.”

Her? A look crossed his face. Was he sad? The light, airy feeling in the room vanished. I knew he had a girlfriend.

“It was a really long time ago, actually.” He reached for another book from the reserved stack. “Hemingway has a lot of books. If you want suggestions, I could help you pick some out.”

“Umm… maybe.” I didn’t want to sound desperate.

“Do you have soccer practice today?” He took a seat at the large, round table in the center of the room as I answered yes. “It’s a short season, isn’t it?”

“Yup. Only three or four weeks.” I sat in a chair on the other side of the table.

“When’s your first game?”

“Saturday morning.”

He opened the cover of Hemingway’s,
The Old Man and the Sea
.

“You going? I mean, to watch your sister?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll go.” He turned pages so quickly that he couldn’t have read them. “Claire and I are pretty close.”

“That’s nice.” I paused. “Claire’s a good player.”

“Eh, she’s alright.” I couldn’t tell if his monotone meant he agreed with me, or not. As I tried to guess his reaction, he looked up. His chocolate brown eyes were warm like hot cocoa on a cold day. I felt drawn in and didn’t want to look away. “You’re right. She is good. Just don’t tell her I said so.” He winked, and my heart pounded out of my chest.