Seeker (The Seeker Series Book 1) (3 page)
Read Seeker (The Seeker Series Book 1) Online
Authors: Amy Reece
She gave me a sly look. “Well, at least you’ll get to talk to him again. Grams said he was pretty cute.” She got up and smoothed my quilt around me like she used to do when I was little. “And try not to worry too much about what’s happening to you. Grams is going to do some research into the family tree and see if she can find out about any other women in our family that went through what you described. Goodnight, Ally-Bear.” She turned off my overhead light and shut my door as she left.
I had a hard time getting to sleep; I kept replaying the afternoon in my mind: Veronica’s stupid face, Jack’s sweet, concerned one. Grams and the tea party. Megan eating cookies, Tara and I eating noodles. I tossed and turned for hours until I finally dozed off around 3 a.m. Ugh! This lack of sleep would make tomorrow/today ugly.
“If you are out to describe the truth, leave elegance to the tailor.”
–Albert Einstein
We had a lab the next day in physics and were allowed to choose our own lab partners. I really dreaded not being assigned a partner because I had no friends in this class. I was mentally preparing myself to be the one Mr. Chiszowski had to stick with an unlucky pair to make a group of three when Jack Ruiz slid onto the lab stool next to me saying, “Is it all right if we’re partners? I promise I’ll do my share.”
“Sure.” I tried to sound nonchalant. I’m pretty sure that was a total fail because I had a hard time not staring longingly at his handsome face. Wow, he smelled really good too: that same spicy, warm scent I had noticed yesterday. “You should know I’m fairly hopeless at physics, however.”
“Oh, well, in that case,” he said, pretending to get up and leave. “I’m kidding. I’m sure it’ll be fine. We’re just doing some simple vectors.” I was barely able to stop myself from asking what the heck a vector was as he sat back down on the stool next to me.
Mr. Chiszowski explained that we would be finding the distance between two points that he would give us. Well, that did sound pretty easy. You just measure it, right? I should have known better. He gave each pair of students a protractor, a meter stick, a metric tape measure, and a roll of string. He then handed us a Xerox copy of a school map with points A & B highlighted and told us to go outside and figure out the solution. It still sounded fairly simple, until we all realized that the two points were on opposite sides of the school building. Yikes. Whatever happened to good old worksheets? What is it with all this newfangled ‘critical thinking’ stuff they’re trying to foist on us? What, do they want to turn us into a thinking citizenry?
I followed Jack outside and we spent the next few minutes tromping around the school building finding the two vector points. He seemed to have a plan or at least some idea of how to tackle the problem, so I happily took on the role of lab assistant. Can I just say that if we had to write a paper of any sort I would be a more active participant? Science is so not my thing.
As we began measuring the distance between our first point and the building, Jack having said something or other about establishing an x-axis baseline, he asked, “Are you feeling better today? I wasn’t sure if you’d be at school or not…You know, if you had the flu or something.”
“Oh, no.” I brushed off the suggestion. “I’m fine. It was a momentary thing. I’m sure it won’t happen again.” I sincerely hoped it wouldn’t.
“Well, good. Here, hold the end of this string.” As he back-stepped away toward a trashcan, he said, “I was really worried about you, you know.” He looked up at me as he kneeled to take a measurement.
“No, I’m really fine. Don’t worry, please.” As we gathered up our supplies, ready to go to the other side of the building, a nearby group of boys who seemed to be doing a lot of pushing each other rather than measuring anything, glanced our way and started murmuring. I caught the words “red” and “criminal.” I saw Jack’s jaw clench and a vein started to pound in his temple. “Hey,” I set my hand on his arm. “Don’t. They’re just stupid, rude jocks.” Oh, I made sure they could hear me. Nobody calls me “red” and gets away with it. They moved away, one of them giving me the finger. Jack made as if to start after them. I touched his arm again and shook my head. He visibly deflated, running his hands through his inky, black hair.
“Sorry. Old habits die hard. I used to get in a lot of fights,” he admitted quietly.
I thought about the “criminal” comment. According to the rumor mill that Tara mentioned last night, he had been in trouble where he lived before and had even served time in jail. As I told Tara, after starting to get to know him, I didn’t really believe any of it. He was way too nice to his sister and my grandmother to be a hardened criminal. Besides, I pride myself on making up my own mind about people. I am not a sheep. No, sir.
I held out the meter stick to him. “Come on. Let’s finish this up.” He gave me a half-hearted smile and took the stick. I tried to cheer him up, regaling him with stories of some of my grandmother’s more mild antics. It felt nice to be the one looking after him today. I really don’t want you to get the idea that I’m some sappy, helpless female. I’m a take-charge kind of gal. Really. Again, I marveled at how easy it was to talk to him. I could really like this guy. What would it take to get him to like me back?
We finished our measurements and trekked back inside to work on the math to get our solution. It was gratifying to be one of the few pairs that got very close to the true measurement. The stupid jocks were nowhere near correct. I couldn’t help giving them a superior look as I left the classroom.
We both had lunch right after physics and it somehow seemed natural for us to drop stuff in our lockers and walk to the cafeteria together. I thought Tara’s eyebrows were going to slide over the top of her head and down her back when Jack and I walked up to her table together.
It turns out Jack and I are both part of the un-cool minority that brown bags it. I personally am a vegetarian who wouldn’t dream of eating the disgusting slop they try to pass off as food in the cafeteria. When I asked Jack if he always brings his lunch he replied, “Most of the time. It’s way more economical than buying the cafeteria crap every day.” He unloaded a packet of what looked like three sandwiches, chips, cookies, and an apple. I unpacked my hummus, carrots, pita, and edamame somewhat self-consciously, aware of his eyes on my lunch. “Jeez, that looks disgustingly healthy,” he said with a shudder.
I introduced him to Tara and our other friend, Travis. I have to admit something here. I had a wild crush—that I now heartily regret—on Travis freshman year. We actually had a brief “thing.” Really brief because he soon decided he was gay and I had helped him clarify his feelings and he finally felt ready to come out. Great. Really boosted my self-esteem. I mean, I was happy for him, but I’d had a bit of a dry spell guy-wise since then. Dry as the Sahara Desert, actually, if you must know. As in nothing. Nada. Since freshman year. I know, right?
“So, Jack,” Tara wasted no time. “Rumor has it that you’re actually a criminal on the lam. Is it true that you murdered two of your teachers?”
I thought Jack was going to choke on his sandwich. “Wow, way to get right to the heart of things,” he said. “You should consider a career in journalism.”
“Tara!” I hissed, appalled.
“No, it’s okay,” said Jack. “I can respect the direct approach.” He set down his sandwich, took a sip of soda, and then said, “No, I did not murder any of my teachers. I’m not on the lam, either.” He looked at me hesitantly. “But I am on probation. Sorry. I should have told you yesterday, Ally, before you got in my car.”
I melted a little at the worried look on his face. “Hey, there’s no reason you should have told me. I like to think I’m not a judgmental person. So, why are you on probation…if it’s okay to ask?”
“Yeah, it’s fine.” He sighed. “I’m trying to make a fresh start here, so I really don’t want it spread around.” We all made noisy assurances that we wouldn’t tell anyone. “I’m on probation for various delinquent offenses, including distribution of a controlled substance. I got caught trying to sell drugs. I was a mess my first couple years in high school. But I don’t do any of that stuff anymore,” he assured us.
His honest admission seemed to win Tara’s approval. I was proud of her non-judgmental attitude. And being a truly critical thinker—Mr. Chiszowski would be so proud—I wondered why he was such a mess, but I thought this probably wasn’t the time to probe. So, clearly, no journalism career for me.
“So, welcome to the Island of Misfit Toys.” Tara gestured around the lunch table. “You’re in good company. Not of the criminal kind, but none of us fit into the ‘high school norm’ very well.”
“You seem rather proud of that fact,” Jack challenged.
“Damn right,” she countered.
He raised his soda can in salute. “What is the ‘high school norm’?” he continued. “Does such a fearsome thing truly exist?” I met Tara’s eyes, both of us with raised eyebrows. He didn’t talk like a typical 17-year-old, and I was sure he must be older.
Travis piped in, “Someone who fits into one of the cliques? You know, jocks, popular girls, brainiacs, druggies, etcetera?” He gestured around the cafeteria, which were fairly homogenous within each table.
“I’m not sure I buy that. It’s so cliché,” Tara began. “Aren’t people, even of the high-school variety, more complex than that? Can we truly be reduced to our lowest common denominator?”
“And what clique would we be?” I asked Travis. “I mean look at us: Tara’s a band geek…”
“Hey, that’s uncalled for!” she inserted.
“But where do the rest of us fit?” I felt like I had been asking that question my whole life.
“Well, I’m starting my own clique: the fabulously well-dressed, urban metrosexual clique,” Travis pronounced.
“But you’re not metrosexual. According to the Urban Dictionary, a metrosexual is actually heterosexual,” Tara pointed out.
“Well, yeah, but I like the word,” Travis countered.
“Hey, I don’t like labels,” Jack began, “but if I had to pick one for you guys, I would have to say semi-hipster group. I’m not sure you have totally committed to the hipster lifestyle, but you are definitely leaning that way.” We all began to object noisily. Jack broke in, “Travis, where did you buy your pants?”
“Well, I got these at Salvation Army. They have really great stuff there.”
“And do you own a Blu-Ray copy of
(500) Days of Summer?”
Jack questioned.
“Of course, but that doesn’t mean—” Travis sputtered.
“And you deny being a hipster?”
“Of course, even though I—”
“I rest my case.” Jack sat back with a satisfied smile. We all laughed, even Travis, after a minute. “But like I said, I don’t like labels. I think people should be what they want to be and not worry about fitting into a category.”
“So what category would you put yourself into, if you had to pick a category?” I inquired pointedly.
He pretended to think deeply for a moment. “Well, I would have to say the category that is sick and tired of eating lunch by myself every day. Since juniors aren’t allowed to leave campus for lunch, I’ve been relegated to either sitting by myself or just wandering around. Thanks for letting me crash your party.” His admission of loneliness was both sad and sweet.
We spent the rest of lunch dissecting high school subculture and went our various ways when the bell rang.
***
He grabbed his notebook, muttered, “Here goes nothing,” and shuffled to the front of the room. Wow, he actually seemed nervous about presenting to the class. He seemed so confident about everything else that I was somewhat surprised.
“In preparation for my presentation,” he began quietly, “I read several critical essays on Nathaniel Hawthorne.”
“I’m sorry, Jack,” interrupted Ms. Gonzalez. “Could you speak up, please?”
“Oh, sorry. Yeah,” he apologized, looking even more embarrassed. “The one I found that most resonated with my thinking talked about how Hawthorne took the symbols, such as the scaffold, which typically represented sin and penitence, and turned them completely around. Hawthorne manages to turn the tables and point out the evil lurking beneath the prim and pious outer shell of the Puritans. Hester is portrayed as a sensitive human being with a real heart and true emotions who has unfortunately been trapped by circumstances that don’t affect her unknown lover in the same way.”
I was amazed at the way he was able to convey his thoughts and synthesis of stuff he had read about the book, even though he was clearly not comfortable with public speaking. He didn’t come off sounding like he was trying to take credit for someone else’s ideas, unlike some people I know who copy Wikipedia, but instead made it clear that he read and thought about what experts had to say and put his own spin on it. I was momentarily distracted from my overall and over-the-top admiration of Jack Ruiz by a movement in my peripheral vision. Veronica was seated immediately to my left in the next row. She was gripping the edge of her desk really tightly—true white knuckles. I thought that was only an expression, but she had them. She noticed me looking and let go. I watched the blood flow back into her hand as she brought it back to her lap. I couldn’t help noticing that her nails were really ragged and chewed. Didn’t I remember them being perfect and fake? I know I shouldn’t care—it’s not like I’m jealous or anything—but they looked really bad now. She saw me looking and gave me a mean look. I was again reminded that I really, really don’t like her. But it was odd, on top of that ridiculous vision I had of her yesterday. I guess the stress of her pregnancy was getting to her. Oh, well. I tuned back into what Jack was saying.