The Watcher (2 page)

“Yeah. I saw this movie last week. It was set in New York after the apocalypse. A bear took over the city and started to eat people.”

“Oh my God, Fiona.
Apocalypse?
You don’t
believe
those horror movies you watch, do you?” Heather asked, hands on her hips.

Until this morning, I would have agreed with her. But what I saw could have come from a horror film. Not a bear, though. Something told me this thing was much worse
.
The memory of it receded, hazy now, as though I were recalling a nightmare.

“Of
course
I don’t.” Fiona crossed her long, lanky arms, ready to scrap. “How can you be sure it
wasn’t
a bear? Wild animals are displaced all the time by deforestation.”

“It’s probably a stray.” Heather turned her attention back to me. “What would make it attack you?”

“I wasn’t carrying dog treats, if that’s what you mean.” I meant it as a joke, but there was an edge to my voice. The entire experience had been surreal. How could I ever explain the way that shadow had formed over the old man? “Can we talk about something else?”

No longer paying attention, Fiona played with her hair and glanced around, no doubt looking for Dean.

Heather pulled a large envelope out of her bag and handed it to me. “Here. I found it at a shop in the U district—welcome back.”

“Wow. Thanks,” I said. My hands shook as I opened it, but if Heather noticed, she didn’t say anything.

Inside, on a piece of thin vellum paper, was a black and white design of angel wings, each feather meticulously outlined and shaded. They would fit perfectly between my shoulder blades.

“It’s temporary. Goes on matte, the kind they use in the movies.”

“They’re amazing, Heather,” I said, hugging her. “Thank you.” I’d wanted wings tattooed on my back ever since I first dreamt about them in the tenth grade. But my mom wouldn’t let me get them, not until I was at least eighteen.

“A real tattoo is so permanent,” Heather said.

“That’s the whole point,” I said, remembering the wings in my dream. Huge and white, they shimmered in the darkness. Someone was always trying to steal them. “They’d become a part of me.”
No one could take them away.

Fiona turned back to me. “How was Denver?” she asked. “Did you have a nice visit with your dad?”

“All right.” I shrugged. “He worked a lot, as usual.” More like he was avoiding me. I hadn’t been back in over a year, since Mom and I moved away. This was
supposed
to be our chance to catch up, but I hardly saw him. He couldn’t even make time to drive me to the airport.

“Well, it’s good to have you back,” Fiona said. Her attention kept shifting to some guy in the food court. He had caramel-colored hair. When he turned around and waved, I realized it was Dean. I didn’t remember his hair being so light.

Fiona waved back at him and said, “I should go.”

Heather rolled something cherry-scented on her lips. “Text me if you want to meet up later,” she said. When she finished glossing, she reached an arm around my back and pulled a dead leaf from my long, tangled brown hair. “I brought a brush. Let’s get you tidied up.”

Before I could even think about how many strangers had seen me in this state, she had me back on my feet, hurtling into the crowds.

***

Our next stop, the food court, buzzed like an upset hornet’s nest. It was even shaped like one: circular with at least a dozen vendors along the outside. Inside, a large seating area wrapped itself around a small cluster of palm trees, and a high, Pantheon-shaped glass dome bled direct sunlight on everyone eating below.

Heather rushed off to get herself a smoothie and find us an empty table, but I had no idea what I wanted. I must have walked the perimeter three times before settling on some onion rings and a cola. After I ordered, the woman working the counter gave me a number and told me to wait, so I searched the rotunda for Heather.

Instead, I spotted a tall, broad-shouldered guy with wavy dark hair standing with his back against one of the palm trees. As he scanned the area with a steady, watchful gaze, I noticed his hair, his size, his gray T-shirt and jeans.

The guy from the park!

Instinctively, I ducked behind the garbage station so he couldn’t see me, and wondered what he was doing there. Had he
followed
me? He was younger than I’d thought, around my age, but that didn’t mean anything. Stalkers didn’t have to be old. In the park, he’d been in shadows. Now, sunlight from the domed ceiling caught the dust particles in the air and bathed him in a golden light—as though he were the Persian sun god Mithra himself—and for a moment, I forgot everything that had happened.

It was one of those rare times where I wished I could paint, just so I could catch the effect of that light playing off his skin. His features belonged in a painting too: straight nose, even jaw, full lips that curled slightly at the edges as though something amused him. Under any other circumstances, I might have found him attractive. That is, if my stomach hadn’t kept turning over from the second I recognized him.

“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice said right behind me. She startled me so badly I jumped. “Number sixty-three?”

I turned. The woman who had taken my order handed me my food on a teal-colored tray.

“I called several times,” she scolded, and shaking her head, walked away.

Wondering if this woman had outed me, I turned back, but the guy was gone. Curiosity outweighing fear, I stepped out from my hiding place. He couldn’t have gone far. Had he run off? Sat down somewhere? Guys that tall usually stood out in crowds, but he had disappeared. When I was sure he wasn’t going to leap out at me from behind one of the palm trees, I went off in search of Heather. I found her sitting at a small table on the other side of the trees.

“What took you so long?” she demanded.

I raised my tray and made an apologetic face. “Had to wait for the onions to grow.”

I was so queasy I didn’t know if I could eat at first, but the onion rings and cola slid right down—the miracle of grease and sugar. I kept looking around in case the guy returned. He had to have gone somewhere. He couldn’t have just disappeared.

“Is everything okay? You’re acting weird,” Heather said.

“I don’t want you to freak out.”

“What do you mean you don’t want me to freak out?” she said. “What kind of opening is that?” Realizing how loud she was getting, she put down her drink and leaned across the table, lowering her voice. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Well, after the, um, dog chased me…there was this guy staring at me, and I’m not sure, but I think he’s here.”

“You
think
he’s here?”

“I might have seen him,” I replied.

She sat up, looking around frantically. “Do you think he’s following you?”

“I don’t know,” I said, wishing I hadn’t brought it up. There were plenty of guys my age who wore gray T-shirts and jeans. I could probably count a dozen today in the mall alone. Besides, this guy was taller, well over six feet, and broader in the shoulders.

“What does he look like?” She stood up. “We’ll go to security.”

“No.” Grabbing her arm, I pulled her back down. Now I had her fear to deal with as well as my own. “I can’t even be sure it was him. I think I’m just freaking out.”

“But—”

“Even if it was him, he hasn’t actually
done
anything, has he? So he was in the park and now he’s here? That’s not a crime,” I said, but I wasn’t sure which one of us needed convincing: me or her.

Taking a long, loud slurp from her almost-empty smoothie, she studied me, no doubt trying to figure out if I was telling the truth. “Okay, but if you see him again?”

“We’ll go right to security,” I promised.

Chapter Three

That night, I had the strangest dream.

Two great birds were locked in combat. Talons entwined, they spiraled toward the ground. One of them had blood pooling in holes where its eyes should have been. The other dripped blood from its claws. Behind them, the sky shone a purplish black, the color of bruises, and the air smelled of charcoal. As the birds fell, I kept wishing they would separate, that at least one of them would let go, flap its wings, and fly away.

I even cried out, trying to startle them out of their fight, but their battle seemed endless. And I could do nothing but watch, unable to reach them, unable to stop their fall.

***

It was the first day of school and the grounds hummed with excitement. Students hovered everywhere—some standing, some sitting, some walking and talking—greeting people they hadn’t seen in months. Above us, the September sun shone so bright and warm it could have been July. Blue sky reflected off the windows of the school, a tall, modern, wood building. Its three-story glass foyer let in tons of light and made me far too visible. Senior year should have been exciting, but all I wanted was to head inside where the walls could keep me safe.

“Safe” was a relative term. When I got to my locker, I discovered it was next to Elaine Carter’s. Apparently I got
her
spot in AP Ancient Civ last year when I’d first arrived at Westmont. She’d never forgiven me. I loved the class, but Elaine’s obsession made it like those ruby slippers in the Wizard of Oz—they came with a half-crazed witch chasing after them, too. Before Dorothy could find out what she was in for and say
no thanks
, it was too late. The shoes were already on her feet.

Elaine always wore designer labels, not the knock-offs, and she’d had her red hair cropped short over the summer. If she weren’t such a bitch to me, I might have said she looked good. Instead, we gave each other tight-lipped smiles and fake hellos before I opened my locker and unloaded my bag. No point in being rude. Elaine ran a gossip blog so scandalous it would make Perez Hilton blush.

Being her neighbor wasn’t only inconvenient, it was dangerous. I’d have to watch everything I said so it couldn’t be used against me.

One of Elaine’s friends rushed up to her, so I hid behind my locker door, hoping they’d forget I was there. As I put my things away, I could hear the two of them gossiping.

“Congratulations on getting your own column,” the friend gushed.

Elaine had a column now? In the school paper? What had the rest of us done to deserve that?

“Thanks, Lor,” Elaine replied. “It’s about time we put something relevant in there.”

Something
relevant?
I had to bite my lip so I wouldn’t laugh out loud. With all the things going on in the world, how was gossip relevant?

Lor quickly changed the subject. “That new guy you saw.” She chewed a piece of gum loudly as she spoke. “His name’s Michael Fontaine, and he transferred from Sealth High.”

“Yeah,” Elaine said, “but is he newsworthy?”

She cracked her gum. “He had a major accident or something last spring—almost died—and couldn’t graduate. So he’s repeating senior year.”

“You’re sure?”

“Uh-huh. I hear he’s really different, too.”

I wondered what Lor meant by “different,” but they changed the subject. Perhaps he had been disfigured, or confined to a wheelchair. Mom had told me all sorts of stories about terrible accidents from her years of working in hospitals, enough to put me off ever becoming a nurse. I was half-tempted to ask, but I made the mistake of asking Elaine a question about a guy last year, out of curiosity, and she posted on her stupid blog that I was interested in him. She hated me that much. So I kept my head down and hurried off to class. It was going to be a long year.

I didn’t see my friends until lunchtime. Westmont High’s cafeteria consisted of an indoor concession stand and a common area the size of Macy’s with a wall of sliding glass windows rolled all the way open to let in the sun. Outside, a patio overlooked our track and football field, and the far edge of the school grounds backed onto a ravine.

Heather dashed for one of the large patio tables. “Let’s sit out here.”

I hesitated. Out here we’d be unprotected. Any sort of creature could come rushing right at us. “What if it gets cold?”

“Are you kidding? It’s practically summer out here.”

I nodded and sat with my back to the cafeteria so I could keep watch. Other students had obviously thought it was a good idea to spend lunch outside today, too. Some guys ran around tossing a football on the field, and a group of girls sat on the concrete, their voices a mixture of murmurs and squeals. Beside us, a few kids did their reading assignments in the sun. Everything seemed fine. There was safety in numbers, I hoped.

Fiona soon joined us. As we ate, I told them both about the strange dream I’d had the night before—how real it seemed—expecting I don’t know what. Understanding?

“Freud said that flying dreams are really about sex,” Heather answered plainly. She was planning to study psychology at college next year and had been reading everything she could get her hands on, from Freud to
Psychology Today
. She especially enjoyed diagnosing her friends. We were test subjects to her, lab bunnies.

“Sex?” Fiona perked up. “Now we’re talking!”

“Did you hear
anything
else Mia said?” Heather asked.

“
Sex
? How did you even get sex out of
that
?” I gulped my orange juice and gazed out the window, wondering why I’d bothered saying anything. The dream was vivid and gory. The birds were tragic. Surely I didn’t see sex that way. Not that I’d had
that
much experience to base it on. Making out with Paul Mathers at a party last summer didn’t count.

“It could represent two sides of your own nature battling things out,” Heather said. “You know, a fear of intimacy.”

“I don’t
fear
intimacy,” I said, wondering if anyone else thought that about me. “Granted I don’t have a boyfriend, but does that make me frigid or something?”