Blind Spot (7 page)

“Ethan’s having a party out at the Hill, Beautiful,” Jonathan said when I asked him after school if he could take me. He cradled my face and kissed my nose. “How about Sunday?”

“Saturday’s the only day. You two are going out tonight. Go with me? Please?”

“Miss the party for some museum? No way! Everyone expects me to be there.”

I gave him a good pout face. “Don’t have too much fun without me, ’kay?”

He pulled away from me. “You’re not going with me?”

“I told you, I have to go to the exhibit.”

“You’re blowing me off? For a stupid museum?”

“I’m not blowing you off.” I reached for his arm. He shrugged me away and left. “Jonathan!” I yelled after him.

Heather walked up. “He mad ’cause you dissed him earlier?”

“What?” I frowned at her. “When?”

“After lunch,” Heather said. “He was talking to Liz Cobler and a bunch of others—you walked by him and didn’t even smile.”

“I did? He didn’t say anything.” I thought back to lunch. I had passed by so many groups, though, he could’ve been anywhere and I wouldn’t have seen him.

“No? Liz even gave him crap about it. So why is he mad then?”

“Because I can’t go to Ethan’s party tomorrow. I have to see a museum exhibit for History.” I looked at her hopefully. “Come with me? We could take the bus—”

“Are you crazy?” Heather said. “I finally got invited to one of Ethan’s parties; I am
not
missing it.”

“Rozzy,” Mom yelled from the garage Saturday morning. “You going?”

Going crazy, yes. Jonathan wouldn’t answer my calls, and I was questioning whether or not the extra credit was worth a fight with him.

But I knew it was. This was about more than a stupid grade. It was about standing up to Dellian. I grabbed my jacket and climbed in the back of Mom’s bright orange hybrid.

“What is this thing you’re doing in the city?” she asked.

“An exhibit on the Salem witch trials.”

“Witchcraft? You know there’s no such thing?” She clicked her tongue, shaking her head. “You’re too much like your father.”

“It’s on the witch
trials,
Mom, not about witchcraft. And it’s for class.” I decided not to mention the exhibit
We Are Not Alone!
that I also hoped to visit while there.

“I’m just saying there’s no such thing, okay? So don’t get it in your head to start tracking down witches.”

I rolled my eyes and stared out at the sun just starting to wake up on the horizon. The days were already so dark; winter would be here soon.

She dropped me at the bus station, and I sauntered inside to buy a round-trip ticket. The place was deserted, which was good. Three hours was a long time to ride in a crowded bus. “What time does the bus arrive back here tonight?” I asked, taking the tickets from the clerk.

“You’re starin’ right at the schedule,” he said, and pointed behind him.

Actually, I was looking at
him
—or trying to—and I couldn’t see the schedule. Which is why I had asked. “Sorry,” I said, my cheeks getting hot. “I can’t read that.”

“They don’t teach you kids to read no more? Nine . . . oh . . . two.” He emphasized each number as if I were an idiot.

I ignored him and turned away. “Hey,” I said on Jonathan’s voice mail as I walked back outside to wait for the bus. “I can make the party after nine. Call me back.”

A purple car with huge windows and a rounded back end pulled up in front of me. It looked more alien than automotive. Fingers emerged from the passenger window. “Roz!”

The sound of my name startled me. I bent down to look through the open window, half expecting a spindly gray creature with enormous eyes at the steering wheel. The fingers waved. “It’s Greg. You’re going into the city for the exhibit, aren’t you? You need a ride?”

“Oh, hey!” I said. Of course he was going. What would that give him? An A++ in the class? The bus pulled up behind him and honked. “Thanks, but I already bought my ticket. Besides, I like taking the bus.” The bus honked again, the driver really laying on the horn this time. I stepped back. “You’d better move before he drives over you! See you there.”

I settled into a seat near the back. I’d spent most of last night making a playlist for this trip:
D. Can’t Mess with Me
. It had a rather catchy title, I thought. Most of the tunes had bring-it-on lyrics, but I’d thrown a few love tracks on there too, to remind me of Jonathan. I had just pushed “play” when an all-too-familiar scent filled the air above me. I plucked the earphones from my ears. “What are you doing?”

“You won’t ride with me, so I’ll ride with you.” Greg plopped down next to me.

A man wearing an oil-stained bomber jacket shuffled by. The smell of dehydrated onions and body odor lingered in the aisle.

Greg covered his nose. “You prefer this over my car?”

I laughed. “Watermelon bubblegum runs a close second to city bus smell.”

“You don’t like watermelon gum?”

“Actually, I do now. I used to think it was a bit strong, but . . .” I didn’t finish. It would’ve sounded a bit come-on-ish if I’d said, “Now it reminds me of you.”

He whipped the green pack of gum from his pocket and offered me a piece.

“Thanks.” I took a square out and popped it in my mouth.

Loud voices came from up front. I heard the driver tell someone to get off the bus. As hostile words and obscenities flew, I felt Greg’s body stiffen next to me.

I caught the smell of dryer sheets as I leaned in to Greg and whispered, “The company’s much more appealing too,” to distract him.

It worked. He put a hand on his heart. “I’m insulted.”

“You should be.”

A security guard jumped on and escorted someone off. Greg relaxed against the seat and grinned at me. “I think you were just chicken to drive in my hovercraft.”

“Hovercraft!” I grinned at this. “It does have that otherworldly look to it. I bet even E.T. would hesitate to climb in for a ride.”

His hand grabbed his chest again. “You’re killing me! I’ll have you know, it belonged to my grandmother. It’s a 1980 Pacer, but in mint condition. Well, as mint as any decades-old car with an infinite number of miles on it can be.”

“I stand corrected.”

The bus lurched forward, jostling us against each other. One of my ear phones fell on Greg’s shoulder.

“‘Without music, life would be an error.’ Nietzsche. So what are we listening to?” He held it up to his ear and then gave a thumbs-up. “Nine Inch Nails!”

I arched an eyebrow in surprise. I had him pegged as a Mozart or Bach guy; maybe B. B. King or Joe Satriani, if he was feeling dangerous, but Nine Inch Nails? Definitely would never have guessed that.

“One of my favorite bands,” he said. “Nothing like screaming to ‘Head Like a Hole’ when things aren’t going my way, you know?”

“Yeah,” I said, grinning, because I
did
know, all too well. I pushed the “shuffle” button. “How about this?”

“I like that. Who is it?”

“Shinedown.” I shuffled the player again. “How about this one?”

He beamed at me. “Godsmack.”

No way!
I squinted at the player. With my playlists memorized, I simply had to decipher a letter or two to “see” the bands. “How about—”

Greg laughed. “Is this a test? Because if it is”—he reached into his jacket pocket—“I have my own artillery. Care to play?” He handed me an earphone.

“Try me.” I listened for a second, and then with smug certainty said, “Van Halen. Hagar, not Roth.”

He shrugged. “Beginner’s luck. You’ll never get this one.”

I let the music flood my ears. The voice sounded familiar. The lyrics I didn’t recognize. “Is it Buckcherry?”

“Ha! I knew I’d baffle you!” He shook his head. “Tesla, although I will admit Buckcherry sounds a little like Tesla to the unfamiliar listener.” He pulled a notebook from his pocket. “Let’s keep track. The person with the most correct artists wins.”

We spent the rest of the trip trying to stump each other. It was the most fun I’d had on a road trip. Ever.

“I didn’t realize the characters in
The Crucible
were real people,” I said. Greg was reading a list of those executed during the 1692 Salem witch trials out loud to me.

“You’ve read the play?”

“Movie,” I said. “I don’t read that much outside of school.”

“You should. Movies are never like the books.
The Crucible
is one of the High School Hundred.”

“High School Hundred?” I pulled out my cell phone. No call from Jonathan.

“One hundred literary works college-bound students should read before they graduate. That’s why I read it.”

“Oh.” I put away my phone. “I watched the movie because I thought it was about witchcraft.”

“And let me guess,” he said with a laugh. “You were disappointed?”

“It was good, but some witchy, voodooish stuff would’ve made it better.” We reached the end of the exhibit. “But that was the point, right? They weren’t witches. Lies just spiraled out of control. So now what?” I wanted to suggest the planetarium exhibit. The bus wouldn’t be leaving for four hours. We had time. But I was too afraid he’d laugh at the idea.

“Let’s go eat,” he said.

“So,” Greg said after we’d bought a couple of hot dogs and sodas, “why don’t you like to read?”

“It’s not that I don’t like to,” I said. We sat down on the edge of a fountain in the center of campus. “It’s just really frustrating sometimes. The print is usually too small and it takes too much effort.” I shrugged.

“Most books come out on audio now. Or you could get yourself one of those readers like the one my grandmother has. It scans a book within minutes and reads it aloud.”

It was one thing hearing this stuff from Dellian. But Greg? I breathed in the late September air. It smelled damp. “I think it might rain,” I said.

We both looked up at the sky. The once-green leaves, now brilliant shades of orange and gold, created a striking contrast with its clear, cloudless blue.

Greg shook his head. “Too clear.”

“Smells like rain.” I sniffed the air again. “And fall. I love that smell.”

“Decomposing foliage?” Greg shoved a bite of bun into his mouth. “Me too,” he said over the mouthful. “It’s actually methane and carbon dioxide released from rotting plants. The dead foliage feeds the fungi and bacteria living around it.” He finished his last bite. “Fall’s my favorite season.”

He certainly had an endless supply of information. I finished eating my hot dog. “Winter’s my favorite season. Not the cold. I hate the ice fog and the below-zero weather. But I like how the world gets quiet and the snow covers everything with a soft white blanket that tricks you. It hides things, making even a dirty, cluttered dump beautiful.”

“Like T. S. Eliot. ‘Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow.’”

“The Hundred list again?” I opened my soda.

He nodded. “
The Waste Land.
It’s a poem.”

Tricia had mentioned a wasteland when I called her a wastoid freak. I thought she was being clever with her word choice; maybe under that cloak Tricia was a scholar?

“We know I need the credit,” I said after a while. “But why’d you come?”

“The way Mr. Dellian has been lately? I figured a few extra points couldn’t hurt.” He held his can up, examining it. “Truth? I also figured you might like the company.”

“How did you even know I’d go?”

“I knew Roswell Hart wouldn’t back out of a challenge, especially one issued by Mr. Dellian.”

“Really?” I was flattered. And embarrassed. And a little annoyed. “You think you know me that well?”

“Well enough.” A smile played at the corner of his mouth. “When Heather said you’d be taking the bus by yourself, I thought—”

And there it was. The real reason he’d come. “You thought you’d make sure the poor ‘impaired’ girl didn’t get lost? So this was what, a charity event?”

“No!” He frowned. “It wasn’t like that at all! I didn’t come to assist you, just to hang out with you. I only asked Heather to make sure that, you know, Jonathan wasn’t going. Because I didn’t want to hang out with him. Just you.”

Embarrassment replaced my anger. “Sorry. I get defensive sometimes.”

“Apology accepted.” He set his soda can on the edge of the fountain. “Think we have time for the planetarium? I’ve been dying to see their
We Are Not Alone!
exhibit.”

I choked on my soda. “Seriously? I’ve been dying to see that too.”

A toothy grin spread across his face. “Then let’s stop killing ourselves and go.”

The rain started on our way back to the bus station. It was sprinkling at first; then, in a sudden gust of cold air, huge pellets of hail began to fall. “You said it smelled like rain, not hail!” Greg joked as we ran the last two blocks, jackets over our heads.

I rubbed at my arms when we’d finally made it inside. Even with my sweatshirt on, the tiny shards of ice managed to sting my skin. The terminal announced that departure would be delayed due to the weather. While Greg called his mom, I called Jonathan. Voice mail. He hadn’t returned any of my calls. I was beginning to think it wouldn’t matter what time I arrived. He wasn’t going to be there.

“So.” Greg shoved his phone into his pocket. “What’s your theory on alien existence?”

“My theory?” I shrugged. “I don’t have one.”

“Sure you do.” He sat down, looked up at me, and waited.

“Okay. Actually?” I sat down next to him. “The idea really freaks me out. But believing there are others out there somewhere, as if it’s a given or a truth . . .” I started to feel stupid. I stared down at the wet patches the hail had left on my jeans. “I don’t know. It makes it less frightening somehow.”

“Believing takes the unknown element away, to avoid being blindsided later on?” Greg nodded. “That makes sense. My theory’s based on science. It takes the right conditions to support life. We’re pretty arrogant, though, if we believe those conditions occurred only on Earth. So our life forms can’t live on those other planets. There are microbes that can survive in toxic environments here on Earth. Why not intelligent life forms somewhere else? Man is so egocentric; we think we know everything. Arrogance, no, pride.” He stomped in frustration. “What is that quote?”