Wicked Sense (37 page)

Going back inside, I really look at the house for the first time. It looks
modest
, put together more for functionality than anything else. The flat
screen
TV is new, but everything else, couch, curtains, tables,
are
worn and about at the end of their life. The kitchen cabinets are white, refinished. The walls are painted in bright colors, giving the house a cozy and happy vibe.

At the bottom of the stairs, I see the garage door to my right, but I don’t go there. Instead, I move upstairs, where I find three rooms. The master has a small bathroom and white walls, and it
is
even barer than the living room. I pass another small shared bathroom in the
hallway. The next bedroom is Drake’s. He tried t
o
hide the pigsty
-
i
shness
of it, with no success. The closet door opened,
probably
by itself, and now reveals a pile of
dirty
clothes crumpled
in a heap
. On the desk, a computer, some energy bar wrappers
,
and an empty Vitamin
W
ater bottle.
His school
books are stacked on a small bookshelf above the desk.

I sit on his bed. Fortunately the cover is a geometric, abstract pattern. I was afraid of finding Disney characters. I
bounce on it, and then I giggle
: am I unconsciously test-driving it for later in the evening? It
is
a good-sized queen bed, I notice.

“Come on, Skye
,” I whisper to myself. I
set the thought aside.

On the wall, I see a massive
Jimi
Hendrix
poster. Drake is old
school indeed.

The poster make
s
my mind itchy.
S
omething
’s
wrong, and I can’t pinpoint what. Then it strik
es me. I go back to the hallway
and
glance
to Mr. Hunter’s bedroom and
to the stairs at my feet. Except for
the
Hendrix
poster
, no painting
s
or pictures
hang
anywhere on this floor. I can’t recall seeing any downstairs either.

Mona’s bedroom door
stares at me—a purple door. I like her already.

I want to see if she has paintings on the walls. I shrug and open the door. There, I
find
the life in the house.

Her bedroom is a collage. The walls are covered with small posters and magazine cutouts. Blockbuster fantasy movies and indie cult flicks
share the wall
’s
real estate equally
. Top models of both genders
mingle
with Madre Teresa,
Che
, Obama, and other iconic figures. I see an Aztec mask
hanging on the wall.
Kanji characters
are
stenciled below it. Mona use
s
the w
alls
as
white
boards, sketch
ing
and writing stuff in every gap between the pictures.

The room smells of
lotus flowers.
I see
an incense burner on her
dresser
. I smile; Mona is a kindred spirit.

The
dresser
is
the only organized space of her bedroom. A huge mirror dominates the area above the dresser. It has little lights
that remind
me of Mum’s dressing rooms. But Mona’s dresser is personal, with small pictures framing the mirror, like a
miniature
version of the walls around me. She has an interesting collection of make-up, including every color imaginable of lipsticks, mascara, and even some hair paint.

The
smell
of Drake’s cooking invades the bedroom and fights
the
lotus
scent. It snaps me out of m
y journey to this strange land.
I
regret to leave.

On my way out, I notice
the walls have
no bookshelves, but piles of books litter the floor.
I’d like to take a look at some of them, but Drake yells from below
.

“Skye, would you make us something to drink?”

I give a last glance to Mona’s sanctuary and leave, closing the door. I go down two steps at a time, feeling good about myself, about Drake, about our evening together.

Then I see him waiting for me. He’s wearing a black apron with huge white block letters reading “Kiss the cook.”

I fe
el that
, as a guest,
I
must
oblige
.

***

Our (virgin) piñ
a coladas sit on the floor. We cuddle on the carpet
lazily. Drake is propped on some pi
llows, embracing me from behind
while we watch
college football
on the
telly
.

“
It’s like rugby, but with helmets and steroids
,” he whisper
s
i
n my ear.

“I
’ve
lived half
of
my life in the States,” I reply, showing off my American accent.
“I know baseball too!”

“
That’s ‘
airborne cricket
’
for you
.
Why do you use an American accent?”

I’ve never mentioned it to anyone before. “To blend in. I don’t want to attract attention.”

He snorts. “Good luck with that. Have you
seen
you?
Or your eyes?
”

My
hand
goes behind
him
and
slap
s
the back of his head, softly. “You’re so silly.”

“Hey,” he says, his voice playfully
malicious. “You’re not in
a position to be calling me names.” He tightens his embrace.

As an answer, I lounge further
back, and mold my body into his. I grin at his muscles stiffening.

His hands caress the front of my neck, a touch not soft enough to tickle me, nor too firm. Just
perfect
.

I want him badly, but this simmering is so nice. We have the
whole night
, and I’m waiting for darkness to
envelop
us. It just feels right.

He kisses
the
nape
of
my neck. A dry, soft touching of his lips to my skin. It gives
me
goose bumps, and I let out an involuntary, soft moan.

I lay the back of my head on
one of
his shoulders,
elevating my chin,
giving him access to my slightly parted lips. He takes the initiative. 

Making out with him is
sooo
good. My hand goes behind his neck, pushing his head down toward mine, making our kiss more intense.

A primal urge takes over me.
I
turn
around
and
lie
on top of him.
Even I am surprised by my eagerness. I push the pillows away.
My hands reach for his wrists
,
and I pin them against the carpet, leaving him at my mercy. He doesn’t fight it.
I c
an’t stop kissing him.

We lose track of time. In one of the rare moments when
I let
our lips separate, he whispers softly, “We should come up for some air.”

“Air is overrated,” I whisper back, and we resume our session.

He turns the tables on me, rotating our b
odies so he emerges
on top. He’s the one
holding my arms
gently
against the carpet now, my wrists above my head.

I’m lost in this
different world. N
o worries. No r
ush. Nothing, just the two of us.
I
even
feel a slight vibration as if a low-voltage electric current flows through the skin of my back.
It’s pleasing, and I notice it
s intensity is increasing.
Drake’s lips explore my neck.

“The ground is shaking,” I say, dreamily.

He gives a
soft
chuckle. “Already?” he whispers. Drake doesn’t stop kissing my neck.

A tingling.
Pleasant, stimulating
at f
irst, but—

Magical energy. A Sister is close to us. But I never felt it like this, so sparsely. It’s always a wave. This thin veil of energy is delicate, almost ethereal. And what’s up with the vibration?

“Something’s wrong
,
” I say. My eyes open. Knickknacks on the mantle are
vibrating
.

“What?
” he
asks
softly. “
Am
I…”

He doesn’t need to finish the question. The whole house shakes. Drake’s eyes bulge, and he leaps to his feet
.

“Earthquake!” My voice quivers as he helps me up. 

His eyes scan the house in a blaze
,
and soon he’s dragging me
to the front door. He opens it
and pushes me against
the frame
. He takes his place in front of me.

He holds my hand, trying to soothe me. “It’s a strong beam!” Drake yells over the
otherworldly
noise.

The house shaking is
surreal
, but what distresses me is the energy I feel. It gets stronger and stronger, as if an electric shock permeates me. The tingling overwhelms me, saturates my body, and soon I’m shaking too.

The trembling—
my
trembling—becomes uncontrollable, and I feel like fainting, my eyes losing focus.

Drake notices it and gets
a
hold of me
. He hugs me hard, trying to subdue my spasms.

We hear
a
n
ever-increasing rumbling sound. The noise of squeaky metal is terrorizing.
The
knickkna
cks
tremble to the edge
of
the mantle
and
plunge
to the floor,
like
mindless lemmings. The
TV
follows suit and falls f
r
om the stand, crashing on
to
the floor
where
we were just seconds ago.

I’m regaining control of my body.
My shaking
weakens
, but
not
the shaking around us.

Drake feels my body
r
elax.
“Are you okay?” he yells over the noise.

I nod to him, and he lets me go slowly. The tingling is still there, but now
it’s
a steady flow. Still, it’s the strongest signature I’ve ever felt.

It’s got to be the Singularity.

Car alarms set off, and their
blaring make
s
us turn
our
attention to the outside. It’s bizarre. Cars
shake
from side to side
in a macabre jig
, and the street itself seems to pulsate. I’m unsure if everything is vibrating that hard, or
my
own quivering makes
it
all blurry.

I look back to Drake, who tries to reassure me with a
friendly grin
. But I can see the uneasiness behind the smile.

For some reason I think of Mona’s neatly arranged dresser upstairs. In the midst of the panic, the image of all her make
-
up and jewelry knocked over
and her delicate belongings
shattered makes me sad.

We hear glass breaking in the distance, some cries. A few neighbors
imitate us
and
find
shelter by their front doors. On the street, I see a
young
boy skateboarding fast, pointlessly trying to run away
from all of it
.