Reckoning (18 page)

“How was the party?” he asks.

I refrain from answering for a moment, memories of the evening running through my head. “It was good. There were a lot of people there.”

“End up hanging out with anyone in particular?”

This time I
do
look at him, annoyed by the question. I can see the teasing glint in his eye. “Maybe,” I say, cocking my head, silently daring him to ask more.

He smiles and chuckles silently. “I’m just messin’ with you. I’m glad you had a good time.”

“Yeah. It was great.” I take another few steps toward him. “So, did your pizza ever get here?”

“Yeah. Wasn’t very good, though. Maybe I need to order from somewhere else next time.”

“Maybe.”

He looks at me, somewhat speculatively, I think, but doesn’t say anything.

“I meant to tell you the house looks good,” I say, thinking back to what I’d seen of it earlier. “You’ve really cleaned it up.”

He nods. “It’s coming along. Still got a lot to do.”

“I’m sure you’re parents’ll be happy with it.”

“I hope so.”

“Have you heard from them?” I ask, watching him closely.

He looks back at me, then shakes his head. “No. Not lately. But it’s not like we check in with each other every day.”

I glance toward my house and see Alecto sitting in the living room window watching me. “I better head inside. I’m sure my mom’ll be wondering where I am.”

“It’s not like she’d have to look very far to find you,” he replies, as though daring me to stay out.

“True,” I admit. “She’d probably
want
me to stay out here and talk to you.” Instantly I regret what I’ve just said.

Lovell raises his eyebrows and smiles. “Really?”

Clearing my throat, I say, “Yeah…well, you know…since I’m right here at home…” I stop talking, knowing I’m making it even worse.

He shifts position, sliding his hands into his back pockets. “You’re mom’s nice. I’m glad she seems to like me. Don’t want to get off to a bad start with the neighbors.”

Yeah, she likes you all right. Thinks your dreeaamy.
“Well, enjoy your stars and moon,” I say. “I’m gonna head in.” My phone rings, thankfully providing me with another excuse. “I’ll…talk to you later.”

“Goodnight, Kat.”

“’Night,” I reply and head inside.

Still in my clothes, I stretch out across my bed, too keyed up to sleep. I’ve spent the past hour talking to Rachel until my mom had stuck her head around my bedroom door, eyes heavy with sleep, giving me the enough-time-for-bed look. Although I feel tired, there is no way I can close my eyes and go to sleep. There are too many thoughts tumbling through my head: Rick. The bird. The exploding streetlamp. Rick. The girl in pink. Lovell. Rick

Rick…I can’t stop thinking about him. So many things in my life make no sense. But Rick is incredibly alive and real and…sane. It seems strange to feel that way about someone. As though describing someone as real and sane is a bad thing. But to me, it isn’t. The madness and insanity that seem to be swirling around me lately have left me hungry, eager, for something normal and real. Something that makes sense. Something that I can touch and feel and hold onto. Something – someone – like Rick. And the way I feel around him, the way he makes
me
feel normal and sane and ordinary…there is something almost intoxicating about it. I can’t wait to see him again.

I’m still astounded by the fact that we’ve known each other since middle school. And I’m even more astounded by the knowledge that
he’d
had a crush on
me
. Once Rachel had gotten over the shock of the Alex/Rick revelation, she’d been over the moon with excitement. Now she is even more convinced it is destiny.

“Just think,” she’d gushed, “he could’ve gone to any high school, but he came to Crestview. How much more serendipitous is that?”

I sigh, feeling ridiculously girly and foolish. Whenever Rachel starts waxing poetic and sighing longingly over her latest infatuation, I roll my eyes and tell her to get a grip. But experiencing it myself now, I’m beginning to understand her lovesick mooning. I grimace and groan softly. Have I become one of those girls? I pull a pillow over my face, suppressing a giggle.

Too restless to remain still, I toss the pillow aside and roll onto my stomach, remembering the feel of Rick’s hand in mine. The sound of his voice; his laugh; the shape of his lips; the dark beauty of his eyes. Hugging myself tightly, I roll across the bed, a delicious excitement building in my stomach. Kicking my shoes off, I fling my arms over my head, wondering what he is doing now; when he will call; if he is thinking about me.

Reaching for my phone, I check my contacts list. Mom. Dad. Rachel…Rick. I click on his name, staring at the number. I wish I could hear his voice. I think of calling, just to say goodnight. But I don’t. It is after midnight. And it seems be a bit obsessive. Rachel had said to just relax and give it time. Everything was going like it should. I know she is right, but it doesn’t make waiting to hear from him any easier.

I sigh and stand up, gently removing the barrettes from my hair. Heading to the bathroom, I run my fingers across my scalp and wince at the sudden, sharp pain on my head. Looking into the mirror, I see a thin cut, welling with blood, just above my hairline. Cringing, I grab a washcloth, dabbing gently as I pull the strands of hair apart. A small piece of white glass rests near my scalp. I gingerly pull it out, laying it in the palm of my hand. It is a shard from the globe of the streetlamp. I take a deep breath, letting it out shakily. I stare at the glass for a moment, before dropping it into the trash. Turning back to the mirror, I carefully search for any other pieces. Thankfully, there are none.

Grabbing a brush, I head back to my room and sit on the end of the bed, slowly brushing out the curls Rachel worked so hard to create. My giddiness and excitement have vanished. As much as I want to avoid it, to pretend it isn’t happening, I can’t. It’s not going away. I have to deal with it. I just wish I knew where to start. I can’t help but think that, maybe, if I had spent more time learning how to control these visions, rather than just ignoring them, this wouldn’t be happening.

But that line of thought is pointless. What I have to do now is figure out where to go from here. Because there is no question that things are becoming more violent. First, the shove down the stairs, then the exploding streetlight. What’s next? Laying the brush aside, I sit up straighter, a sudden chilling thought freezing my blood. Does this girl, or whatever force is behind her, want to harm me in some way? Does she want me
dead
? Is that what all of this is leading to?

Don’t be ridiculous, Kat.

Refusing to follow that line of thought, I slip out of my clothes and toss on a t-shirt and boxers. Sliding between the cool sheets, I turn off the lamp and stare into the darkness.

Ghosts can’t kill you.

I wake later than usual the next morning, my mind groggy from lack of sleep. Heading bleary-eyed to the kitchen, I find a note from my mom. She’s gone shopping with Pam, one of her friends from work, and will be back in the afternoon.

She’s been going out a lot lately, I’ve noticed. Lunches, dinner, shopping. It’s unusual for her. Oh, well. I shrug my shoulders. With her bad knee, she hasn’t done much over the past year, and she’s probably tired of sitting at home. How much news can a person watch?

Grabbing a bottle of water from the refrigerator, I head back to my room, checking my cell phone just to see if Rick’s number is there and I haven’t dreamed the whole thing. I grin. Still there.

Alecto jumps down from the windowsill and weaves around my ankles. Reaching down I scoop her up and snuggle my head against hers. Seeing Rick’s name and number, and recalling our conversation last night, fills me with happiness.

Holding onto that thought, I place Alecto on the bed and head to the shower.

_________

Slipping into a gray t-shirt and a pair of lightweight jeans, I grab my drawing pad and step out to the back patio. It is a beautiful day, warm and sunny, the sky a brilliant cornflower blue, the temperature already in the low seventies. Taking a seat at the table, I flip to a blank page and try to sketch Rick - his tousled hair; his dark eyes; the line of his jaw. Sitting back, I look at it critically.

Ugh.

Ripping out the page, I crumple it up, tossing it to the side. I am not good at drawing faces. Starting on a clean page, I doodle his name in different colors and styles instead, trailing thin, twining vines across the page.

Pulling my iPod from my pocket, I insert one earpiece, leaving the other ear open just in case my phone should ring. I scroll through my playlist looking for something to match my mood, when a noise from the other side of the fence brings my head up sharply. I hear a
thunk
, followed by scuffling and scraping. Setting aside the iPod, I stand up. I hear a grunt, then more scraping noises, like heavy boxes being shoved across a floor. Gazing through the slats of the fence, I see Lovell lugging a large, oblong tabletop from his garage.

Curious, I walk to the fence and pulling myself up, peer over. Despite Lovell’s obvious strength, it is an awkward shape and he is having difficulty getting a good grip on it. I take a deep breath and exhale silently. I really don’t want to spend time with him, but just standing idly by, watching him struggle, I feel guilty. “You want help with that?” I asked, hoping he will say no.

He looks up in surprise. “Hey, Kat! Yeah, that would be great! If you wouldn’t mind…then I won’t have to drag it across the yard. I think the front door’s open, if you just want to come through the house.”

Hoping that I’m not going to regret my offer, I slip through the gate and across the lawn. Hurrying up the steps and through the front door, I pause, remembering the last time I was in his house and he’d stepped half naked out of the bathroom. I blush at the memory, and hurry to the back door. The odor of fresh paint and floor polish hangs heavy in the air, igniting my curiosity as to what he’s done, but I resist the urge to look around.

Making my way over the patchy grass, I’m instantly struck by his appearance. He is wearing dark gray warm-ups and a navy blue t-shirt. A small trickle of sweat runs down his forehead, darkening the sweep of bangs across his forehead to an even deeper black. It is incredibly sexy. Looking away, I stare at the table.

“Man, it’s getting hot out here,” he says, wiping away the sweat.

I shrug. “I like warm weather, so I think it feels good. Where did you get this thing, anyway?”

“It was in the garage. I started cleaning it out yesterday and found this shoved against the back wall.”

“Does it have legs?” I ask, looking at it doubtfully.

He smiles, a slow, lazy smile full of meaning. “Yes, it does. They’re in the back corner, behind some boxes. If you want to get them.”

I shake my head quickly. “No, thanks. I’ll pass.”

“Spiders?”

I shiver and rub my arms. “Dark, unused garages aren’t my thing.”

“Fair enough.” He reaches for one side of the table. “Let’s see if we can get this inside. I don’t think it’s all that heavy, just awkward.”

I pick up my end easily enough and we get it inside, laying it upside down on the dining room floor. Lovell goes back out to retrieve the legs and a small toolbox. Extracting two screwdrivers, he hands me one and within minutes we’ve reattached the legs and flipped the table over.

Lovell steps back, crossing his arms, a look of satisfaction on his face. “I think if I refinish it, it’ll look OK.”

I run my hand along the edge, wiping away years of dirt and dust. The wood is dark and smooth, probably cherry or mahogany. There are some scratches across the top and a few dents in the legs, but it looks remarkably well preserved. Since it has been stored in a garage, I’m surprised there aren’t any water stains or mildew. I’m not sure how old it is, but it looks like it was probably made sometime in the early nineteen hundreds. “I don’t think you should refinish it,” I say, rubbing a finger along the grooved edge.

Lovell’s brows draw together. “Why not?”

“Well, first, it’ll decrease the value. And second, unless it’s beyond hope, refinishing something kind of takes away its original integrity. I think with a good cleaning and polishing it’ll look great.”

Lovell pauses, regarding me with interest, before responding. “OK. I’ll take your word for it. You’re the expert after all.”

“Hardly expert. That’s just general knowledge you can get from
Antiques Roadshow.
”

“Antiques what?”

“
Antiques Roadshow
,” I repeat, looking at him quizzically. “Haven’t you ever watched it on TV?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t watch much TV.”

“Oh.” For some reason, that didn’t surprise me. “I don’t either, but you should try it sometime. It can be interesting.”

“Maybe I will.”

I look away, focusing on the table. “I wonder how long it was in the garage.”

“Quite a while, by the looks of it.”

“Are there chairs out there, too?”

“No. There’s a bunch of boxes, but no other furniture.” He walks around the table, looking at it from the other side. “So I guess I’ll have to go buy some. Care to go on another shopping expedition?” He turns his head and looks at me, waiting for my response.

Remembering our last trip, and the incident with the picture, my stomach clenches. Looking away from him, I tuck my hair behind my ear and say as nonchalantly as possible, “Yeah, maybe.”

He leans over to examine one of the table legs, running a finger over a scratch.

“So what’s in the boxes?” I ask.

“I don’t have any idea. Haven’t looked. Do you want to find out?”

I shake my head, repulsed by the idea of thrusting my hands into boxes left to molder in a dark garage.

Lovell laughs. “That’s what I thought you’d say. But there is one other thing I could use your help with, if you have the time.”

I look at him skeptically. “What?”

“Nothing treacherous or spidery, I promise. I just need to hang some pictures and I could use another set of eyes. Let me know if they’re straight and centered and all that.”