The Guardian (21 page)

I scrape my lower lip with my teeth, mind flashing with possibilities.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he assures me.

I take deep, even breaths, releasing my pent-up anxiety, unwinding the tension knotting my muscles. I work to untwist and s
mooth my sheets,
then
rest my head on top of my pillow, fluffing it beneath me. I pull the sheet to my chin and close my eyes, feeling my Guardian as he wraps his arms around me, brushing the back of my neck with light kisses, comforted knowing that he’s a
lways close by.

T
WENTY-FOUR

The door to my mom’s room is still closed when I leave for school the following morning. I don’t bother waking her up. We aren’t speaking. The screen door slams as I bound down the steps. My shoes pull the morning dew o
ff the grass as I stride toward my bike. Despite the fact that Seth, true to his word, remained with me the rest of the night, I crawl out of bed with a headache, a dull throbbing that constricts my temples, and pain lingering behind my eyes.

I stop pedal
ing, letting my bike coast into the parking lot of a convenience store a block over. Thinking the headache might be a caffeine
issue,
I park and walk inside, and am met by the smell of tobacco and stale coffee. I grab a Mountain Dew from the row of refrige
rators at the back.

At the register, I hand the cashier two one-dollar bills.

And then it happens.

That sense of urgency washes over my body, consuming, rendering me immobile. I know what’s coming next. I close my eyes and brace for it.
A flash.
A flicker
ing of scenes I can’t quite piece together.
A little boy.
A street corner.
Some kind of danger. . . .

“You all right?” the cashier asks, interrupting my delirium, pulling me out of the mental chasm.

My eyes fly open. “Um, I—I have a headache,” I confess.

H
e watches me carefully, hesitating before reaching below the counter, his hand disappearing. When it re-emerges, he’s holding a tiny package between his fingers. He tosses the dose of Advil on the counter.

“I only have. . . .” I open my palm and show him t
he change he just returned.

He shakes his head. “It’s on me.”

I watch him for a moment, thinking that maybe he’ll reconsider. When he doesn’t, I tentatively reach out and pick it up, swallowing the heavy lump closing my throat.

“Um, thanks,” I mutter.  I
take a deep breath. “Thank you,” I repeat, stronger.

Outside, I rip open the package and chase the pills down with a swig of Mountain Dew. I stuff the drink inside my book bag, relieved knowing the pressure in my head will subside once the caffeine and med
s kick in.

I pedal toward school, racing against the warning bell, and arrive with a few minutes to spare. I hop off my bicycle when I reach the sidewalk, calves stinging, head pounding, and push it toward the rack in the grass. As I lock it into place, i
t happens again. I close my eyes, working to keep the tears at bay. The images flicker past, faster, more vivid than before.

A little boy.
Sitting Indian-style on a sidewalk.
A book bag.
A stop sign.
I concentrate, piecing together the scene.

Where is he? Is he lost? Why is this important?

My entire body screams at me to get this. To get it right.
Another deep breath.

Focus.

The next time the scene plays out, there’s another important detail: a man.
Someone lurking nearby.
The little boy bea
ten and bruised.
I choke, submerged in a wave of dread. My eyes fly open.
A drug store.
They’re in front of some kind of drug store.
Right now.

I fumble with the latch securing my bike, hands trembling.

“Genesis?”

I jump at the sound of my name.

“Yeah?”

Carter and Selena approach me from behind.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I reply, fighting to recover my composure, swinging my leg over the seat. “There’s just something. . . .” The words jam in my throat. I swallow hard, shaking my head.

They exchange
a knowing look.

“I’ll be back,” I promise.

“Is there somewhere I can take you?” he asks, mouth set with concern.

I pause for a moment, straddling the bike, feet planted on the still damp grass.

A car would be faster
.

But the warning bell ruptures my t
houghts.

I tuck my hair behind my ears. “Thanks, but I’ve got it.” I offer a tiny smile. This is my vision.
My responsibility.
I push away. They watch as I ride past them. With a few, hard pedals, I’m flying down the sidewalk. The wind makes it difficult t
o breathe; hair whips around my eyes.

Drug stores.
Drug stores.
But which one
?

I head toward The Strip. There are several different pharmacies in town. Most of them are located on the main road. It’s the most logical place to begin my search.

Please
, I b
eg.
Let this be the right way
.

I don’t know who I’m praying to, or if anyone hears me, or if it even matters. All I know is that someone is in trouble, and I might be the only one who can help. I race down the street, keeping my eyes peeled for stop signs
. I alternate between the sidewalk and the asphalt, cutting through parking lots when necessary.

How am I supposed to know where this kid is? What if he’s not even in this town?

I continue down the street.

What do I do?

I reach the other end of The Stri
p, where the uptown switches to downtown. The area itself is seedy—like hookers and drug dealers and murderers seedy—and there are few relevant businesses. Not a single pharmacy. I steer right, cutting down a side street. The houses are small. Many have fa
llen into disrepair and others are boarded shut, condemned and overgrown.

There’s a drug store by the hospital
, I remember. I continue down the shaded road, avoiding potholes and piles of debris—pinecones and leaves and plastic bottles—that collect at the
storm drains. In a few minutes I’m on another main road, circling back the way I came. My eyes remain watchful, focused.

In the distance I notice a small figure, sitting
beside
a building. I squint, trying to zero in on the scene. It isn’t a drug store,
I realize. It’s a beach shop. This has to be it. What I saw. I pick up speed, lungs burning, legs on fire from the pushing. The streets are nearly empty. I crisscross the remaining two blocks. When I reach the store, I hop off my bike and push it the rest
of the way.

My chest is on fire. I wheeze, struggling to catch my breath. I prop my bike against the building and wring my hands as I walk over to the little boy sitting Indian-style on the ground.

I see him—the man from my vision—
before he sees me. He makes his way down the sidewalk, steps casual but steady, prowling.

“Hi!” I call loudly, still trying to even my breathing. The little boy turns to look at me.

The man slows his pace to a crawl, his expression cautious.

I jog the re
maining few steps to the street corner, then sit down.

“Hi,” I repeat. “My name is Genesis. What’s yours?”

He doesn’t answer. I take in his sandy blonde hair and chubby fingers. He keeps his head down, chin propped with his hands.

“Okay.
Stranger Danger.
I get it. I’m in high school. I’m a waitress. Um, can I ask you why you’re sitting out here all by yourself?”

Silence.

“Your mom and dad?
Are they at work?”

He nods.

Progress.
Stick to yes and no questions
.

“Are they coming to get you?”

He shakes his he
ad.

They aren’t coming.

“Do they know you’re out here?”

Another no.

I take in the book bag and lunch box next to him. “Are you supposed to be in school?”

He nods.

“What happened?”

He puts his hands in his lap, but doesn’t lift his head. “I think I misse
d the bus.”
Tears well in his big eyes.
He can’t be more than six.

“Please don’t cry,” I beg. “I’m sure it’s okay. We’ll just . . . call your mom and let her know. She can come and get you.”

“She’ll be mad at me,” he mumbles, wiping his snotty nose across
his sleeve.

“No. No. I’m sure she’ll be happy you’re okay. Let’s go inside. I’ll call her if you want me to. I’ll stay with you until she gets here.”

I help the little boy to his feet, then pick up his book bag and toss it over my shoulder. I turn around
as the automatic door whooshes open. The man shuffles down the sidewalk. He’s short and kind of stocky. Hair peppered with gray. His eyes meet mine.

I know what you are
.

We stand motionless for a moment, staring at one another. Then, as if snapping back
to reality, he tears his eyes away and heads down the street in the opposite direction—like this is what he planned to do all along.

“Are you an angel?” the boy asks after I end my phone conversation with his mother.

“No,” I reply, eyebrow peaked. “Why d
o you ask?”

“Oh. My grandma says angels protect us. They show up sometimes if we need them.”

“Did you need an angel?” I ask him.

He nods. “I was scared. I thought you might be an angel. You seem nice.”

I offer a half smile. “Thanks. You seem nice, too.”
After a few, quiet moments I continue. “You know, angels are really smart. I think they even use real people to help us sometimes.”

He gazes up at me, puppy eyes wide. “You believe in angels?”

My attention shifts to my left, where Seth leans against a maga
zine rack, arms folded, lips turned downward in a deep frown.

“Yeah,” I reply, nodding. “I do.”

T
WENTY-FIVE

The house is empty when I arrive that afternoon. I have an hour and a half before my shift starts, and I’m desperate for a shower.

I’
ve barely finished rinsing my hair when it turns lukewarm. I shut off the nozzle and wrap a threadbare towel around my body, then head into my bedroom, leaving damp footprints on the carpet behind me.

“Genesis!”

I jump at the sound of my name, and clutch
my towel tighter.

“Jesus!” I cry. “Why do you people
freakin
’
do that
?”

Joshua shrinks back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just that . . .”

“It’s nothing,” Seth informs me.

“It
is
something!” Joshua’s voice cracks. He turns back to me. “We h
ave to talk.
Right this second.”

“No. We don’t,” Seth counters.

Joshua pauses, seeing my towel-wrapped body, the water dripping from my hair, for the first time. “Um, this isn’t a good time, is it?”

“At the moment?
No.”

He hesitates, shifting uncomfortably
, then spins around to face the wall. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see anything. I swear.”

Seth rolls his eyes.

“It’s just that I have something really important to say,” he finishes.

“Okay. But can this wait like, two minutes so I can put some clothes on?” I ask.

“Definitely.
Two minutes.” Joshua walks straight into the wall, disappearing. I stand there for a moment, eyeing Seth cautiously, before grabbing a set of fresh clothes and performing my own vanishing act: back to the bathroom. When I return, Seth is perc
hed on the edge of my bed. I squeeze the water out of my hair with my towel.

“So what’s this about?” I ask.

“It’s nothing,” he answers curtly, teeth clenched.
Fear.
Concern.
Anger.
Each emotion has carefully woven itself into his angelic features. Clearly
this isn’t “nothing.”