For Ever (12 page)

“
No
!”

He looks down at my hand, and I release my
grip on his shirt. My cheeks flush. God! I must seem crazy.

“Sorry. I mean, I’m fine.”

“You’re certain?” His tone, again, is
politely solicitous without sounding too anxious about my
welfare.

I nod fervently.

My head is still swirling, but I’m beginning
to think it’s less from hitting my head and more from Ever Casey
staring at me. The green of his eyes is as clear and deep as
emerald pools of water from pictures I had seen of Ireland’s
countryside. Staring into them makes it feel like I’m standing on
the edge of a cliff about to fall off.

“I really should, um … Thanks for the
ride.”

Still unable to look away, I reach back, my
hand searching blindly for the handle. When the door opens, I
launch myself onto the curb. My head clears as I start to run
through the rain toward the house. Ever’s voice behind me causes me
to stop mid-stride.

“You might need this.”

I close my eyes and curse silently before
turning to face him. He is standing in the downpour, looking more
perfect than I remembered from a moment ago. My backpack is hanging
from his outstretched hand, and the sight of him—his hair darkened
by the rain—makes my heart jump.

I walk toward him with a sudden appreciation
for the saying
chilled to the bone
. I’m so cold that my
muscles are stiff and my teeth are chattering. But it’s hard to
tell whether the source of my shivering is more from being soaked
again after sitting in the warm car or from the stress of imagining
myself nearly flattened by an oncoming truck. Reaching out to take
my bag, I accidentally touch the tip of my finger to the back of
Ever’s hand. Startled, I jerk back and stare down at my hand. It
feels like I just touched hot metal without being burned. My
fingers are tingling, the feeling spreading up my arm, and the
blood is buzzing in my veins.

I look up, searching his face for some kind
of reaction, but his features remain indifferent.

“Th-thanks,” I stutter, taking a step
back.

He nods and watches me as I turn toward the
house. Once I’ve shut the door behind me, it dawns on me that this
is the most I’ve heard him speak, and that I’ve never once seen him
smile.

The following day it is immediately and
painfully clear that Ever is sick of being there every time I take
a header toward the pavement or linoleum. When I get to Art, he’s
already seated, but just as I’m about to thank him, the words
freeze in my throat. His expression is empty, like he’s never seen
me before in his life. Whatever sign I had thought I witnessed the
day before of him being human is gone. He waits stonily until I
turn in my seat before resuming his work on the portrait. My
portrait.

It takes all my willpower not to scream at
him and demand answers. But I can’t. It would make me seem—what?
Crazier? And, honestly, after a night of fitful sleep, my memory of
a full-sized truck hurtling away from me like a tornado picked it
up seems like exactly what it was—a dream. To keep myself sane,
every time I look at Ever, I think:
Occam’s razor
. The
simplest explanation is most likely the correct one. In a moment of
terror, I imagined something extraordinary.

For lack of a better plan, I ignore him. In
Art. When he’s sitting, as usual, all by himself in the corner of
the cafeteria. When I see him in the halls. I feel overwhelmed by
nagging uncertainties that I can’t put into words. The only shred
of evidence I have that Ever Casey had any emotions at all is the
lone brainwave from Matt:
Looked down at her like he killed
her
.

The more I think about it, about Ever, the
more the pieces don’t fit. He doesn’t fit. It’s more than his
ridiculously perfect appearance. It’s
him
. Watching him sit
there makes me feel like I’m playing one of those nonsensical games
where you have to tilt tiny plastic balls around a surface, trying
to get all of them to fall into the grooves simultaneously.
Everything about Ever Casey is illogical and frustrating.

Back in the real world, everyone else is
preoccupied with something I mostly associate with slasher movies:
a dance. Excitement over the spring formal has reached a fever
pitch—presumably because it’s the lead-up to prom, which I find is
fittingly a four-letter word.

Everyone is on the hunt for a date, something
I’m trying to avoid even thinking about. Still, I can’t help
noticing the newest addition to our table. Zach, a friend of
Marcus’s, is hopelessly in love with Lindsay. He’s easygoing and
quiet, compared to her loud, over-the-top energy, but I like them
together. Of course, at the moment, he and I are tied as far as
staring stupidly at the objects of our fascination. Am I as obvious
about it as Zach is?

Lucky for me, nobody can read
my
mind.

In the afternoons, I start spending most of
my non-homework time on my second obsession: scrutinizing the
online used car listings. On Thursday night, when my mom pokes her
head in my door to see if I want to go out to dinner, I jump at the
chance. I’m sick of cooking, and we haven’t been out to dinner
since the move, not counting takeout. On the way over the hill into
downtown, she tells me that one of her co-workers has been raving
about a Thai restaurant not far from her work, which is fine by
me.

The restaurant is decorated in garish reds
and purples, but the smells coming from the kitchen are delicious.
There are also quite a few patrons besides us, which is usually a
good sign.

“So, what’s going on in your world?” my mom
asks, scanning the menu.

“Well, I think I’ve finally narrowed down the
car search.”

I describe the prospect I’m looking at right
now. Two doors, ten years old, no stereo. But the Internet posting
said it had low mileage. And my savings account isn’t flush enough
to be picky.

“That’s great. How much?”

“Pretty cheap. If it runs and doesn’t suck
gas, then I’m good.”

“Do you need help?”

I look at the menu and try not to look too
guilty about my father’s check.

“I’ve got enough.”

“What about school. How are classes
going?”

I catch her up on the latest. Math is a
constant battle. English, French, and U.S. History are going well.
The one surprise is that I’m enjoying Art more than I thought I
would, with the exception of the portrait. Mr. Gideon gave me a B+,
mostly for the effort, I think. Not surprisingly, I never saw
Ever’s completed portrait of me. It makes my stomach churn just
thinking about it. He probably painted me to look like a
gargoyle.

I continue with an update about my friends,
without mentioning Ever Casey. It’s not as though he fits into the
category of
friend
, and I wouldn’t even know what to say
about him, anyway.

“What about Josh? He seemed friendly. Cute,
too.”

“Mom, you saw him once, from across the
parking lot. And, yeah, he’s nice.”

“You could ask him out. I’m sure he’d love
that. Guys don’t always have to do the asking.”

Ugh, this conversation is headed in the wrong
direction. I stick out my tongue at her.

“Yeah, yeah. I know, Mom. But one of the
girls I hang out with likes him. A lot.”

When dinner arrives, it comes complete with
lime wedges, which I consider a necessity with Pad Thai. Plus,
there’s enough for me to take for lunch tomorrow. With
interrogation about my nonexistent love life averted, I relax and
listen while my mom launches into an animated account of the latest
drama at the hospital.

***

I am truly beginning to hate the fact that I
can’t get Ever Casey out of my head. I do my best to ignore his
semi-comatose behavior, but he’s like a splinter I can’t get at. In
Art, every time I’m not careful, I find my eyes wandering in his
direction. While I’m still grateful to him for not dropping me on
the linoleum, twice, in addition to pulling me out of the
street—
if
that’s even what happened—I’m seriously wondering
why he bothered. I’m also beginning to question the point of being
grateful to someone who won’t even acknowledge a simple
thank-you.

As far as I can tell, he just exists, like an
empty canvas. And the fact that I’m spending so much valuable brain
space trying to understand someone who might just be a blank page
bothers me, too. What do I care if he wants to spend his existence
in a void?

“Wren, care to take a stab at one of the more
prolific self-portraitists of modern times?”

The sound of my name coming from Mr. Gideon’s
mouth startles me out of my reverie. I look up from my notebook and
turn crimson. I
cannot
stand being caught off-guard. Even
worse is being called out in front of the class. And it’s my fault,
though I would very much like to blame Ever Casey for hijacking my
thoughts.

I look down and rack my brain. The answer has
to be someone obvious, but nothing comes to mind. And, of course,
Mr. Gideon isn’t going to let me cheat by thinking the name.
Instead, he’s picturing one of the prints I’ve seen at street
fairs. I know he talked about this when we were doing the
portraits. Leonardo da Vinci seems too far back. Picasso maybe? Why
am I in an art class again?

“Van Gogh?” It comes out more like a question
than an answer.

“No need to sound so uncertain, Wren. Vincent
van Gogh was indeed one of the most prolific post-Rembrandt.”

He moves on, and I exhale. That wasn’t a
tip-of-the-tongue moment; it was an I-have-no-freaking-clue moment.
My answer came out of absolutely nowhere. Distracted enough to lose
my willpower, I glance left. Ever Casey continues to ignore me, but
his perpetual apathy allows me time to study his canvas. He’s
working on another abstract masterpiece.

Then it strikes me. Is he just biding time
until he can escape the confines of high school? Could he be that
bored?

The lunch period marks another round of
frantic thoughts about the dance and who’s asking whom. I smile and
don’t say much, since I’m not going to have to deal with it.

“Hey, are you guys up for dress shopping?”
Lindsay asks.

This is my cue to exit, stage left. I ask if
anyone wants anything and then make my escape. I get only a few
steps from the table when I notice that Josh is tagging along.

“I can get you something if you want,” I
offer.

“Uh, thanks. I just thought I’d keep you
company.”

I cringe inwardly and keep my pace
purposeful. I’ve nearly perfected deflecting Josh’s thoughts by
trying to recall lyrics to songs.

“So, hey. I was wondering …” He exhales. “I
mean I wanted to see if …”

I know whatever Josh is about to say isn’t
going to be something I want to hear. When he looks down at the
floor, I think: for once, can’t a disaster ever strike when I need
it to?

“Are you going to the dance?” he finishes
meekly.

I sigh and try to come up with a diplomatic
response; nothing comes to me.

“Not without a gun to my head,” I mutter
darkly.

Josh looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. I’ll
admit that my response is a little outside the bounds of the normal
scope of reactions to co-ed high school gatherings. Still, every
time I think of Jimmy Spangle, the little jerk that made fun of my
dancing in front of our entire sixth grade class, I’m transformed
into an embarrassed twelve-year-old.

“Believe me, the world is safer when I don’t
dance,” I mumble.

Josh smiles with obvious relief that my
reaction had nothing to do with him. And it didn’t. My problems
with dancing in public are deeply rooted.

“Come on. I can teach you.”

My face twists in horror, but before I can
stop him, he grabs one of my hands, puts his other arm around my
waist, and spins me around awkwardly. Tripping over his foot, I
catch myself at the last second before I fall face first onto the
linoleum. I stop and look around self-consciously, but nobody seems
to have witnessed my humiliation. Then my eyes lock onto Ever
Casey’s table. I flinch when I find him staring at us with uncanny
focus. For a second I expect him to laugh; then I remember—he
doesn’t do that. Wrenching free of Josh’s grasp, I stumble back,
breathing unevenly.

“See? That’s why I don’t dance.”

“Come on. You weren’t that bad,” he
laughs.

“Josh, drop it!” I snap before taking a deep
breath. “Honestly, I’d rather get my teeth drilled than go to a
dance. And I think there’s someone else who’s been waiting for you
to ask her.”

He looks over my shoulder to our table, and I
wait while he does the math.

“Taylor? No way. She barely looks at me,” he
says, confounded by this new development.

“Um, yeah. Why do you think?” I ask, still a
little peeved at his stunt.

“Huh,” he says, mulling it over, apparently
for the first time. “Really?”

“Trust me. Go. Hurry up before someone else
asks her.”

I push him toward our table before paying for
my juice. Walking slowly back to our table, I think it over.
Haven’t I been doing the same thing with Ever Casey—the person who
ninety-nine percent of the time doesn’t seem to care that I’m
alive? Embarrassment crashes over me again, making my stomach heave
with sudden comprehension.

Is that what Ever Casey has been doing? The
same thing I have with Josh—trying to avoid encouraging his
stalker? Stomping across the cafeteria, I swear up and down that I
will purge any and all thoughts of him from my head. I look over at
his table and scream silently.

Get out of my head
!

His eyes slowly come up, meeting my stare. I
flinch at the awareness in his gaze. My heart begins to beat faster
and faster until the thud of my pulse drowns out everything else.
Stumbling back to our table, I’m too agitated to care that Josh is
talking to Taylor.