Shining Sea (16 page)

NIGHT

The swinging beam of the lighthouse flashes across my face—

Or, it’s the bright light of the moon—

It’s white,
white
,
white
—

“No!” I wake scuttling backward on the bed, screaming. Music’s pounding in my head—

The air is cold against my chest—my pajama top. It’s open in the front. Something white spins by my window—

I scream again, louder this time, because I know—

Someone was here, in my room.

The white, the wings—

“I only want to look. Only want to listen.”

It wasn’t a dream. Not this time. Someone was here. Someone spoke.

I wrap my arms around myself. My head feels heavy—like I’ve been drinking Dad’s beers, or—I don’t know. My hands too, as I lift them to button my top, are so very heavy.

My head is muzzy, but I know—I
know
—someone was here. Somebody said those words to me, unbuttoned my top—

What would have happened if I hadn’t woken up?

Trembling, I reach down to yank the blankets from the floor and then wrap them around me as I climb out of bed and walk to the east-facing window.

But all I see is a spread of stars.

I glance at the clock. Three a.m. I run a hand over my face.

After Logan dropped me off, I retrieved my backpack from the keeper’s cottage. Dad still hadn’t been home. Crumpling the last note I’d left, I remembered: Dad was making dinner for Logan’s folks tonight.

I was glad that Logan went home to a full house. I was just as glad mine was empty.

But I wish someone were here with me now. I consider heading down to the cottage. But the talk with Dad is already going to be epic. Adding the middle-of-the-night factor, not a good idea.

Wide awake now, I’m afraid to go back to sleep. Afraid white wings will whirl by my window—
and I’ll miss them
.

These final thoughts are equally distressing—I don’t understand what’s happening to me. But I can’t just sit here. I feel like I’m going to climb out of my skin. Scuffing into my slippers, I grab the teal turtleneck. I need to clear my head.

The bedroom door creaks as I open it, the sound echoing off the bricks of the cold tower. Padding up the stairs to the watch room, I listen for a moment to the wind as it whistles through brass porthole-shaped vents, fighting a disquieting urge to go out on the deck. It’s bitter out there for sure. Instead, I climb the ladder to the glassed-in lantern room that houses the Fresnel lens.

A lighthouse using a Fresnel lens is a rarity. This lens is of the first order, which basically means it’s huge, ten feet across. Sitting on the floor of the lantern room, I hug my knees tight to my chest. The prisms of the lens refract the light of the lamp, the sharp glass edges creating brilliant rainbows, all the colors missing from the nighttime world outside.

Logan was uncharacteristically quiet on the drive back to the lighthouse. At first, I thought maybe it was me, or the hug that had been something more than a hug. But then I figured it out: seeing the Summers had shaken him. And that worries me. I know depression, know how the endless loop of thinking can go around in your head like a noose circling a neck.

Watching the lens turn, I sing softly to the slow rhythm of the flashing light. Thunder rumbles as if in response, and raindrops begin to run down the glass walls . . .

Suddenly a jagged arc of lightning splinters across the sky—

The lantern room flares white, and I spring to my feet—

As the sharp edges of the prisms turn to glimmering gossamer membrane.

Heart hammering, I rub my eyes with the fingers of both hands. Cover them.

That was a
dream
, a nightmare, the boy with his bending, contorting body, the silver-scaled limb
—
it wasn’t real.
Isn’t real.

And when I look again—

The sharp edges of the prisms are just that
.
But still I hurry down the ladder, down the stairs, and back to bed.

Covers drawn up to my chin, it seems like hours before the calm comes, before I feel myself subsiding into sleep, and as I do, the words I’d heard at dinner echo in my ears, accompanied now by dark tendrils of music . . .

The sound circles me . . .

Like black birds in flight . . .

SYMPTOMS

It’s early. The room is bathed in silvered morning light.

The painted cement floor of the bedroom is icy cold beneath my feet—

Because the bathroom window is wide open.

Blanket wrapped around me, I stare. I didn’t leave it open, didn’t open it at all, I
know
I didn’t.

The white. The window. The person in my room.

My pulse picks up. But I can’t panic about this now—I need to get to school. And I don’t have a ride.
Damn.
There’s a slim chance Dad’s still down at the house. That’ll mean we’ll have to talk, but still. I glance at the clock. No, he’s definitely gone.

Gone.
A sharp pain nearly doubles me over—

Bo. I have to see him. Have to hear his voice.
I sink down on the desk chair . . .

What’s wrong with me?

A few minutes later, the strange cramp subsides. But my pulse remains erratic.
This is crazy—is this what Bo’s brother warned him about?

In the shower my tears mingle with the warm spray, and I berate myself. There’s nothing between Bo and me—nothing to cry over. And the pain . . . is a coincidence. It has to be.

God—how am I going to get to school? I’d told Dad not to worry, that I’d ask Mary or Logan to drive me to school this week—Logan. Hopefully he’s okay. I’ll find out in homeroom, but for now,
Rock Hook must have a cab company.

I put on a pair of jeans. Unfold the shell-pink sweater. My throat tightens unexpectedly. Mom likes to buy me things, as if that makes up for being MIA. It doesn’t. I wish she were here.

Yeah? And what would you tell her?

There’s this guy—I don’t know. I think he was in my room last night. I want him anyway.

I slip the sweater on over a camisole. A rumble of thunder rolls across the water.

Down in the cottage I start to second-guess myself, thinking maybe I should stay home, take a sick day. I feel anxious, like there’s something I need, badly, but have forgotten what that something is. I look myself over in the mirror by the front door, but other than being super pale, there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong. I’m dressed. I’m—fine. I head for the phone—

Then stop short, halfway down the hall.

Bo is standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. He cocks his head to one side.

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” Drops of rain splatter the windows.

“I thought—” I walk into the kitchen. “You told me goodbye.”

“Figured you must have car troubles, or you wouldn’t be driving your father’s truck.”

“Yes, but—” I shiver, and can’t help thinking,
Stalker guy.
“Did you even knock?”

“Of course I knocked.” He shrugs. “Guess I knocked pretty hard. The door just . . . opened.” We stand staring at each other. Shifting colors fill his eyes, then they darken like the sky outside the windows as he brings his hands to the tops of my shoulders—

My heart rate shoots up—I have a strong urge to push him away from me, know I should, but at the same time,
I want to back him up against the counter, press myself against him—

Suddenly he drops his hands.

Push. Pull. Both of us seem to have at least two personalities. One of mine is irresistibly attracted to Bo, the other terrified. And he acts like two people as well; he said goodbye, now he’s here. He wants me—I’m sure of it—but he doesn’t. And what he wants me for . . . is questionable.
He
wants
my breath.

I offer him cereal instead. Then eggs. “Fruit?” I finally ask.

“No, thank you,” he replies. “I’ve already eaten.”

I need to know what that means, but I don’t
want
to know what that means. More push-pull. Self-consciously, I nibble an apple, realizing:
I’m not hungry.
And also,
I feel better.

“That’s all you’re having?”

“Oh, I eat plenty, trust me.” The amount of sushi Logan and I consumed last night was criminal. Not knowing exactly why, I blush.

“I’ve decided I do. Obviously.”

“You do . . . trust me?”

He nods. I wish I could say the same about him. Should I even take a ride from him? But even as I ask myself the question, I know I will, because—

Midthought I notice the note sitting on the counter.

Arion,

Until we have a chance to talk about the truck, and I mean face-to-face, you’re grounded.

Love, Your Dad

P.S. See you got the package from your mom. Anything good? Chocolate?

“Oh,” I say. “Huh.” I look back to Bo. Our eyes lock. Slowly, I pick up the piece of paper and hold it gingerly between my thumb and index finger. Biting my lip, I let it drop to the floor, where it slips beneath the kitchen table. “I think . . . I didn’t see that note.”

“Good, because being grounded”—his lips twist—“would interfere with our plans.”

“Our—plans?” A thundercrack makes me jump. The lightning strike had been nearby.

“Grab your backpack, schoolgirl, wouldn’t want to be late.”

I look at his light hair, his ocean eyes.

I would like to be late.

Questions crowd my mind.

But Bo has questions of his own. On the drive to school he asks about my classes, specifically, which is my favorite. I tell him it’s a tie, between Music Theory and Oceanography.

The windshield wipers play a swishing backbeat for his voice. He asks about my friends.

All I can think is—
I want to touch you.
I say, “Thought you didn’t like small talk.”

He says, “This isn’t small. Not anymore.”

When we arrive at school, he turns to me and places the palm of one hand along the side of my face. Warmth spreads through me. I know I should go, but—I can’t move. Or maybe I just don’t want to. Slowly, he runs his thumb over my lips. Without even thinking, I open my mouth—

He jerks his hand back, looking down at his fingers as though they belong to someone else. Then he looks at me, one side of his mouth lifting. “I’ll pick you up after school.”

Slightly dazed, I open the door. Surrounded by straggling students taking the steps two at a time, Alyssa stands under the dripping overhang. One hand on a cocked hip, she’s watching us.

Bo’s smile is part smirk as his gaze flickers to Alyssa. He says, “High school.” But leaves it at that.

Still feeling lightheaded, I dart into the rain.

Alyssa tells me to slow down as the late bell rings and I push through the double doors.

I don’t, so she matches me, stride for stride now, as I head down the hall to homeroom. “He likes long goodbyes, huh? I expect details, and I mean
gory
details, at lunch.”

“Sure, but only the gory ones.” She slows, and I run on ahead of her.

Outside the rain persists, but inside me a little fire burns. Totally preoccupied, I almost forget to find out why Mary didn’t come to the “study session” on Saturday. Not that I stayed.

“So what happened?” I ask her at lunch.

“Nothing, really. Kevin was complaining, saying I don’t spend enough time with him, that I study too much.”

“
You
study too much? Isn’t he the one planning on spending the next decade in school so he can become a doctor?”

“Basically.”

“And this weekend . . . he wanted to see you. On a Saturday.” I start to laugh. “Leave it to Alyssa to turn that into a bad thing.”

“You’re kidding? She was trying to turn
that
into gossip?”

“Uh-huh.” I drum my fingers on the table restlessly.

“Your cheeks are, like, hot pink, Arion. Are you feeling okay?”

“I feel great.” I feel like I’ve had ten cups of coffee actually; sitting still isn’t an option.

“Hmm. You look like you’re burning up.” She reaches over and touches my forehead.
“Ssss,”
she hisses, drawing her hand back. “Seriously, what’s with you?”

“Well . . .” My eyes scan the cafeteria. Logan wasn’t in homeroom—I haven’t seen him all morning.

“He’s not here today,” she says.

“Logan?” She nods, and looks like she has something more to add, but I lean in, and, in a voice that sounds feverish even to me, say, “Bo’s picking me up after school.”

“
Ooh
, looks like I arrived just in time to hear the dirt,” Alyssa coos.

Damn. That girl’s everywhere. “Bobby and Pete are on the patio,” I tell her. “They said they’re cutting this afternoon. Have anything to do with you?” Alyssa turns toward the row of windows that looks out on the flagstone patio where students cluster under umbrellas.

“I’ll be right back.” She sets down her tray.

“Nice move,” Mary says. “So what’s going on with you and Bo?”

“
Mm
, I’m not really sure . . .”

“But,
‘Mm’
?
Did you just say,
‘Mm,’
as in,
Mm
, yummy?”

Damp air creeps up my neck as Alyssa reappears, holding the door open. “I’m going to cut with those guys. Anyone care to join us in a life of crime?”

“Mm,”
Mary says. “Let me think.
Mm
 . . . no, thanks.” She bursts out laughing.

“It’s going up to seventy degrees today, Mary, come. You can tell Bo to meet us, Arion.”

“Seventy and rainy,” Mary says, looking pointedly at the windows.

Alyssa continues as if Mary hadn’t spoken. “Or blow him off. Seriously, I know Bo. He’s not worth it.” Right. She knows him the way everyone does, which is to say, not at all. “I’m telling you,” she insists. “He’s a cold fish.”

At this, I’m unable to control my laughter.

“Fine. Laugh. But you’re not going to get anywhere with him. Mary, I’ll bring a Kevin or two for you. Come on.”

Mary grins but shakes her head. Alyssa tosses her hair and then lets the door drop closed behind her.

It’s probably a good thing that she isn’t going to be around later; she’d only be pissed to see that she’s wrong. I
am
getting somewhere with Bo.

I just don’t know exactly where.