Fallen (16 page)

“They were my tour guides
,
after my introductory meeting with Mr. Warden
,
last week.”

“Lucky you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Right
…
but it d
oes help to know who not to know though.”

“
True.
So w
here are you from?” I asked,
starting to feel
a kinship with
him
already
,
despite the
warning
my neck
hair
was giving me.

He dipped his head
and
appear
ed
to be embarrassed, though I
di
dn’t understand why.
“All over. I don’t have family. I’ve been living off my inheritance, making my way from place to place.”

“
I move around a lot too
.
”
That connection made me like
him even more.

He smiled sheepishly back at me
;
I wondered if
h
e felt guilty for mentioning
he had money
,
because
I didn’t
.
I couldn’t have cared less
,
so I changed the subject
,
hoping it would help him forget about it.

“
W
hy
New Orleans
?”

“Huh?” he asked over his shoulder,
as he stood
.

I
picked up my backpack and
followed. “Why did you end up in
New Orleans
?”

He
started to walk down the aisle
but
stopped suddenly
and stared
at the floor
,
as if he were deciding how to answer. “I came here looking for someone,” he
finally
said
.

“Did you find him?”

At that point, he glanced up and smiled broadly at me.
“Her. And, yes, I found her.”

As the words left his mouth, t
he strangest thing happened. The hair on the back of my neck went haywire. It felt li
ke the ends were dancing
…
criss
crossing
…
twisting together,
as if I had just been electrocuted
,
but only the back of my neck was affected.

I absentmindedly slapped a hand
there
to still them.

Then, to avoid answering any question he may
throw at me
about
why I slapped my neck
for no
reason, I reached out my free hand. “What’s your name?”

“Gers
hom,” he replied, not moving
.

I reminded myself
that my actions were
not typical of people my age and
let
my arm
drop to my side.

“Sweaty palms,” he explained with an awkward
glance
;
he
then
brushed them on the side of his slacks for emphasis.

“It’s alright,” I shrugged. “My name is
-”

“Maggie,” he
finished
. “Yes, I know.”

“Curse of being
a
new student
, right?”

G
ershom laughed to himself and muttered
, “Something like that
…
”

As
he finished talking, my neck
hair
ignited
.
Gershom
was
already
heading
down
the aisle
,
so he didn’t notice that I had to
abruptly
slap my neck to
impede this reaction again.
I
was beginning to
wonder if I
might
ha
ve
an issue
with my electrical impulses.
No one else I
’ve
kn
own
has
had this problem. How could I be the only one?

As I pondered my newly found oddity,
I
also
noticed
t
he
room
was empty
which meant
I was going to be late for my next
class
…
again.
I
caught Gershom in the hall just in time to say
goodbye
, to which he responded with a
weak smile
and
quickly
headed in
the
opposite direction
.
I
thought maybe
I offended him somehow
,
but without any way to tell
,
I decided not to dwell on it.

My
second class was
n’t as far away, thankfully, but
it was a repeat of the first. In fact, all my
remaining classes were almost a step-by-step replay of first
period
: awkward introduction to
the
entire class, students sneaking peeks at me until the next bell rang, and th
e
inevitable question
of
whether I was
‘
that girl
’
who delivered messages to heaven
;
although
,
none of the other
in
quisitors
were nearly as rude as Ashley
and
Bridgette.

At lunch, I found Gershom sitting alone underneath a tree outside the cafeteria.
He was pulling his lunch out of a bag and
spread
ing it
out on th
e grass
. B
efore cross
ing his
legs,
he
glanc
ed
around
,
as if he was looking for someone
but
trying to be inconspicuous about it
.
When
I approached him, my neck hair lit up again
, so
I stopped.

There
had to be
a reason for this happening.
Then
,
I realized this boy could help me understand exactly why
my body
reacted this way
.

I
moved
forward and stopped right behind him,
about to ask if I could sit beside him
,
when he spoke.

“Watch out. The grass is wet in some places.”

I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or no
t. B
ut
h
e was no longer
glancing around
,
agitated
,
and
instead was
turning to look at me
.

“Yes, I was talking to you.”

“How did you know who I was without seeing me?” I wondered if I had one of those
,
strange
squeaky or
loud
heavy
,
walks that
can
identif
y
someone before they enter a room.

“Lucky guess,” he replied casually, turning back around.

“Huh,” I muttered and took a seat next to him, cautious to avoid any damp spots.

After a few minutes of
quiet
ly
laying out
our lunch
es,
– mine
being
a
muffu
letta
and his
being
a traditional turkey
sandwich
– I broke the silence.

“So where did you come from?”

“All over. I think I mentioned that.” He was
busy
pulling open his bag of chips
,
but I got the
distinct
impression he was using it
as an excuse
to avoid
looking directly at me
.

“Right
,
but
…
where were you last?”

All of a sudden he
a
ppeared uncomfortable
and
fidget
ed
with his sandwich. Finally, he answered, though it was in a low voice that I had to strain to hear. “
Las Vegas
.”