For Ever (13 page)

“You look like you just saw your worst
nightmare,” Marcus says, leaning across the table to grab my
shoulders.

I smile and look at the hand holding my
juice. It’s shaking so badly that I have to put the bottle down
before I can drop it. My breathing is rapid and shallow. More than
anything, I want to think that what I just saw was a creepy
coincidence, but I can’t. A faded memory, something I saw behind
Ever Casey’s eyes, begins to claw its way to the surface, and fuzzy
impressions from my second day at Springview High School make the
skin on my arms crawl. My limbs grow cold with fear. Whatever I saw
in his mind was indistinct, but unmistakably sinister.

It hadn’t been
nothing
behind Ever
Casey’s eyes. It had been something
evil
. Something he
didn’t want me to see. When I look over my shoulder, he’s still
staring at me.

“Hey, I have to go to the office,” I mumble.
“I’ll see you guys later.”

Jumping up, I hurry across the cafeteria and
dump my half-eaten lunch in the trashcan. I walk quickly toward the
exit, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. I’ve
never ditched a class before, mostly because I know I would get
caught, but I’m seriously contemplating delinquency now. By the
time I reach the hallway, I’ve almost broken into a run. The only
logical explanation I can think of for why I always see nothing
when I look into Ever Casey’s eyes is because there is something he
doesn’t
want
me to see.

This means Ever Casey knows about me. He
knows what I can see in other people’s minds. Even worse, maybe he
can hear what I’m thinking. Panic chokes off the air to my lungs.
It finally makes sense—why he keeps appearing from out of nowhere.
He
knows
I saw something behind his eyes that I shouldn’t
have. I lurch toward the nearest exit. Outside in the cold, I
follow the sidewalk until it ends abruptly where the tall
evergreens rise up to surround campus. I plunk down on a large,
moss-covered rock and hug my knees, reviewing my options. I’m only
mildly comforted by the fact that I can see anyone coming or going
from campus.

Option one: I can start ditching first period
on a routine basis and avoid all moving vehicles and slick
flooring. Option two: I can pretend that nothing’s wrong and hope
this all goes away. And then it hits me. Or option three: I can
play by his rules and see how he likes it.

In the distance, the bell rings announcing
the end of lunch. Lucky for me, it’s only misting out, so I’m out
of breath but not completely drenched by the time I make it to
English. Rushing into class, I sit down next to Josh. He gives me a
funny look, which makes me wonder just how nuts I looked when I
bolted out of the cafeteria.

Smiling, I look forward as Mrs. Rose starts
her lecture. I take diligent notes, knowing that most of my English
teachers to-date have graded based upon how well you regurgitate
what they tell you, not how groundbreaking your papers are. But
there’s another reason why I need to concentrate.

I need the practice.

When I first discovered that I could lift
thoughts and images from people’s heads, I was terrified that
eventually someone out there would do the same thing to me. Totally
unfair, I know. As a defense, I experimented with walling myself
off by imagining a brick wall around my thoughts. It also helped to
concentrate on something safe, like an English lecture.

There are only two problems with this plan.
First, I have no idea if it works, since I’ve had no way to test my
theory. And second, it’s exhausting—like trying to balance a
balloon on the head of pin without popping it.

As soon as I get home, my first priority is
to reduce the chance of future run-ins with Ever Casey, which means
no more walking in downpours or being at the mercy of the bus. In a
frenzy, I send e-mails out to anyone selling a car in my price
range. Then, with my first task completed, I start on the second:
staying busy and keeping my mind clear and walled off. I gather up
all the laundry from my room and my mom’s. When the first load is
in the washer, I walk back into the kitchen and watch through the
back window as twilight begins to fade into darkness. The gray
clouds melt into blackness until the trees beyond our yard
disappear. Retrieving my iPod, I begin cleaning everything: the
dust bunnies under my bed, the sinks and counters, every surface in
the bathroom. By the time I’m done, the house looks pretty good.
Unwilling to stay idle long enough to think about Ever Casey, I
start my homework.

When I’m stiff from sitting for too long in
one position, I slip off the bed and go downstairs. Rifling through
the cupboards, I pull out spices and tomato sauce, going through
the motions of making pasta sauce even though I’m not hungry. When
it’s done, instead of going back upstairs, I grab my running shoes
and coat from the closet before poking my head out the front door.
Miraculously, it’s not raining—not that the rain would have stopped
me tonight.

Skipping down the steps, I follow the
streetlamps like stars since there are no stars visible above me,
just the blackness of a cloudy night. I walk, counting silently
backwards from a hundred, trying not to trip on cracks in the
sidewalk. When I finish counting down, I start again. And then
again. I try to force my brain into silence as I walk aimlessly,
not thinking about where I’m going, which is relatively easy,
considering I can’t see much. There are just shapes and shadows in
varying degrees of gray and black. Passing the last of the houses,
I look out at the outline of giants in the distance, the enormous
evergreens that have survived the encroaching suburban
development.

An image of Little Red Riding Hood skipping
through the woods pops into my head, and my heart begins pounding.
I never bothered to read up on Oregon’s wildlife. Coyotes? Bears?
Wolves? I try not to think of what kinds of nocturnal animals might
be prowling for dinner. Then I remind myself that this is the
suburbs, but I still can’t get the Big Bad Wolf out of my head.
Unnerved, I walk quickly back the way I came.

From out of nowhere, a screeching noise
erupts above me. I cower for an instant before I realize it must be
an owl, invisible in the darkness. I imagine its beautiful,
gigantic wingspan above, flapping silently as it circles over some
unsuspecting rodent. My tolerance for the dark, even with
intermittent streetlamps, evaporates. I begin trotting faster than
advisable with the limited visibility. Pretty soon I’m out of
breath, and I bitterly regret letting my running regimen die with
our move. Running had been a good way to lose myself. Plus, I had
been in better shape—all the better to run away from things.

By the time I get into the house, I realize I
forgot my phone. Upstairs I find five missed calls, all from my
mom. I call her back, my pulse hammering in my ears.

“Mom?” I rasp breathlessly into the
phone.

“Are you all right?”

“Me? You called five times!”

“I saw something on the news about the
Pacific Northwest and earthquakes, and I just wanted to make sure
you were okay.”

I laugh. “Okay. Well, now I know where I get
my paranoia from.”

“Where were you?”

“I needed to get out. I took a walk.”

“God, Wren. Alone? In the dark? You can’t do
that.”

“It was just around the neighborhood.
Streetlamps and everything.”

She sighs. “Just be careful. I worry about
you when I’m not home.”

“Thanks, Mom. But I’m fine.”

Before we get off the phone, I remind her
that dinner will be in the refrigerator when she gets home.
Returning downstairs, I cook some pasta and reheat the sauce I made
earlier. Then I carry on my new tradition of bringing dinner
upstairs to avoid sitting alone at the kitchen table. By the time
I’ve finished eating, cleaning up, and putting the clothes in the
dryer, I’m tired. I’ve also run out of activities to keep me busy,
so I take a hot shower, slowly feeling the knots in my shoulders
relax. I brush my teeth and change into a pair of flannel pajamas
before parking myself in front of the computer. I type in
Oregon
,
earthquake
, and
the big one
. The first
of more than a hundred thousands results makes my blood run
cold.

Is Oregon ready when the big one hits?
Experts don’t think so.

I scan the article. It’s not comforting. It’s
all about the Pacific Northwest being due for major seismic
upheaval. Another link goes to some guy’s blog, which rails about
the stupidity of living in the Northwest when the “big one” is
coming “any day now.” Turning off the computer, I try not to think
about doomsday scenarios.

When I get into bed, I stare at the ceiling
and listen to the creaking of the empty house. I weigh the
possibility that I’m being overly paranoid—about a lot of things.
For instance, my apprehension about Ever Casey could be my
imagination; or I could be trying to make him more interesting than
he really is.

Villain or hero is more interesting than
nothing, right? I close my eyes, but it takes forever to fall
asleep.

This can’t be right
. From my bedroom
window I see Michael Furey standing in the rain looking up at me.
Then, with a sudden spike of fear, I realize the person below isn’t
the character from James Joyce’s
The Dead
. And he isn’t
throwing gravel at the windowpane. He’s just standing there,
watching me from under a moonless sky. It’s Ever Casey grinning up
at me, his usually vivid green eyes now black as night.

My eyes snap open, and I sit up in bed,
shivering at the fragments of my dream. On the nightstand, the
little red numerals on the clock read two-thirty. The air is cool
as I slide out from under the quilt, but the wood beneath my feet
is colder. I’m not sure what I expect to see when I reach the
window, but there’s nothing out there. Just the same streetlamp
illuminating an empty sphere of sidewalk. Returning to bed, I stare
at the clock until sometime after four. I roll over at the sound of
my mom’s voice.

“Wren, you’re going to be late for
school.”

“It’s morning?” I frown, blinking at the dull
light coming through the window.

It feels like I’ve been asleep for five
minutes at the most.

“Come on, I’m making you toast and eggs.”

I turn over and stare at her.

“What have you done with my mother?” I
mumble.

“Very cute. Now hurry up. I’ve got a staff
meeting.”

By the time I get to school, the haze of
sleep deprivation has begun to wear off. I remember my resolution,
and with each step toward first period, I envision a brick wall
around my mind. I practice the look of utter disinterest that I’ve
come to recognize so well on Ever Casey’s features.

When I reach Mr. Gideon’s room, my face is a
perfect mask. At least I hope it is. Balancing my supplies, I walk
carefully to my easel. It’s too late to chat with Ashley, and I’d
rather not break my concentration, anyway. I clear my mind.
Unfortunately, sitting just inches away from Ever Casey, I can
easily see him in my peripheral vision. I focus my energy,
imagining the seat is empty, just like the first weeks of school
when he disappeared.

The imaginary brick wall in my head goes two
ways, though, which means I can’t tune into anyone’s thoughts,
which turns out to be a relief. And while listening to Mr. Gideon’s
fifteen minutes of fame, as he calls it, I slowly get better at
maintaining my mental wall. Throughout math, nutrition, then
French, and Chemistry, I maintain mental silence even though I’m no
longer sitting directly next to the subject of my experiment. I
have no idea if my mental barricade is working, but it’s worth a
try.

At lunchtime it’s more difficult to keep a
clear head while going back and forth between the separate
conversations at our table. I still manage to focus on my wall,
simultaneously pretending the person I want to keep out doesn’t
exist.

Then Ashley nudges me.

“Wren, don’t look, but Ever Casey is staring
at you.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Marcus,
Josh, and Lindsay swivel to look as well.

“Whoa,” Marcus says under his breath. “Death
stare. What’d you do to him?”

He starts humming the music from
The
Twilight Zone
until Lindsay swats him. When I finally look in
Ever’s direction, I focus on the invisible wall separating us.

“What’s with that?” Lindsay asks.

“I have no idea,” I say.

Dropping my guard for a second, I think one
thing:
I don’t hear you; you don’t hear me
.

Walking to English with Josh, I feel
victorious. My euphoria is short-lived, though. Because I don’t
think I can maintain radio silence every day for the rest of my
junior year. And then there’s the problem of having no more answers
than before.

With a shudder, I realize that I felt better
when Ever Casey was a blank page.

In a single moment, the usual excitement I
felt every time I saw Ever Casey has transformed into dread. The
following morning, intent on avoiding him—as much as I can since we
share a class—I get to Art early enough to switch seats with the
unfriendly girl next to me. She doesn’t say a word when she arrives
and sees her seat taken. She just smirks and takes my place. Mr.
Gideon doesn’t seem to notice, either; or at least he doesn’t say
anything about it.

Frowning, I wonder why I didn’t think of this
solution sooner. With Ever out of my peripheral vision, I’m
actually able to relax, though during lunch it’s more difficult to
go back and forth with my friends’ conversations without my eyes
drifting to his table. When Ashley whispers in my ear asking about
the seat switch, I shrug. There’s nothing I can tell her that won’t
sound miles past crazy.