Glimpse: Book One of the Glimpse Quartet, page 2
If we had been home for Mrs. Baxter’s visit, she’d have asked how we were doing. Her eyes would crinkle in the corners while she feigned interest in whatever the answer was, all the while thinking about how sad the trailer is and how empty our eyes look. The only reason rich people love charity so much is the superiority it brings.
Gia is the only soul in town who knows anything real about me. To everyone else, we are caricatures, hollow models painted over and over again in whatever style they see fit. Gia saw through me when we came to town, having lost her father to divorce when she was two and to travel ever since. Her stepdad is nice, but we both know it’s not the same.
The moment I’m inside I head straight to my room and fall on the bed, running my hands over the stitches in the handmade quilt. I can almost hear the intricate blackbirds singing from the fabric; Mom was quite a fan of The Beatles back then.
The considerable stack of homework in my backpack beckons, but I can only take so much monotony at once and the shower is far more inviting.
It’s impossible not to notice my reflection in the bathroom after the Liam fiasco. My hair is too long to be practical, falling just above my waist, but I can’t bring myself to cut it—even if it is somewhat stark against pale skin that refuses to tan, no matter how much oil I slather on it. Not that Oregon offers a lot of opportunity for sunbathing, anyway.
At least my eyes are pretty, though they pale in comparison to Liam’s. I shake my head in the mirror, green eyes staring back at me with reproach. As if it matters what he thinks of me. I don’t even know him. But there’s something about seeing someone so beautiful that makes it hard not to feel ordinary.
One mountain of homework and a whole lot of doodling later, I hear the front door swing open.
“Hey, Mom,” I call into the kitchen.
“I brought dinner,” she answers. The sound of shuffling bags lures me out of my room to help her unload.
“How was work?” I ask as she flicks short, black curls out of her face.
“It was fine.” Her shoulders tense, her lips pressing together too soon. An implacable air steals into the kitchen.
“I’m sorry, I should have made dinner.” I keep my eyes on the floor and one hand on my elbow in case I am the reason for her poor mood.
“Don’t be silly. I had a coupon for Chinese.” Her lips turn up in a sad smile. The smell wafts out of the bag, teasing the air with sweet and savory scents that make my mouth water. We work in sync, laying out plates and cups and setting out food the way we have a hundred times before.
“Thanks for dinner,” I offer as we sit down. Her mood clings to the room like a shadow, hovering close to the ceiling and waiting to pounce.
“How was school?”
My brow sinks until my eyelashes graze skin. “Fine. We started Hamlet .”
“Ooh, your favorite,” she answers through a mouthful. Busy as I am trying to discern her secrets, I forget to control my expression when I remember the sound of Liam’s voice while he read.
“What’s going on there?” She gestures at me with her fork.
“What?”
It’s her turn to be suspicious. Her eyes zero in, seeing everything. “You bit your lip. Spill.”
“I did no such thing.” My foot taps unbidden against the linoleum, giving away my lie even if she couldn’t see it in my expression.
“Honey, I gave birth to you. What’s up?” She leans forward on the table, ever eager for new information. She’s worse than Gia last semester when Gabe asked me to go to Homecoming.
“Okay,” I surrender, shoulders deflating. “There’s a new kid in my class.”
Her eyes light up, as pleased with her win as she is with the tidbit. “Is he cute?”
“Yeah.” I shrug. Though “cute” is not the word I would use.
A slow smile spreads over her face, in time with the redness seeping into mine. “Uh-oh.”
“He’s seriously hot. And he reads Hamlet like a champ.”
Her tinkling giggle bites at the shadow, chasing it back to the edges of the room. I swear the lights shine a little brighter with her smiling so freely. “Sounds like a catch.”
“Too bad I can never speak to him again.” If my face gets any redder, it might actually burst into flame. But her eyes remain glued to me, taking in every minute change and cataloguing it for later.
“Why not?”
“He sort of came up to me after class.” And I thought he was coming to say hi, or at least excuse me can you please stop staring at me like a total creep?
“Sounds promising.”
“It wasn’t. He just wanted to tell me I had toilet paper on my shoe.” And maybe to check if I’d faint due to proximity.
She waves it away and makes a face. “Oh, that’s not so bad.”
“I think I should transfer schools.” There’s nowhere else to go, unless she has the sudden urge to move. But it would save me a semester of avoiding him until he forgets that I’m a complete moron.
“I wouldn’t worry about it. On my first date with your father, he waited until he was about to kiss me goodnight to tell me I had spinach in my teeth.”
My eyes widen. “He did not!”
“Right as he leaned in.” She nods, laughing freely for the first time all night.
“Wow.” My own memories are hazy, built through the screen of youth and never quite decipherable when I try to pull them into reality. Stories from her are so rare that I find myself scooting closer, eager for every detail down to the color of his shoes at the time.
“If I can come back from spinach teeth, you can come back from a little toilet paper.” She winks, carrying her plate to the sink.
“I’ll clean up.” On my way to the counter, I catch sight of a grocery bag tucked by the front door. Through the plastic, I can see the label on a six-pack. My heart plummets into my stomach, cementing my feet to the floor.
“Mom. How was work, really?” I turn to look at her. It’s been almost nine months since her last drink.
She leafs through the mail on the table, oblivious to the damning evidence I just found. “I already told you it was fine.”
“Then why did you buy that?” I point an accusing finger at the bag. Her eyes dart to it, and then back to me. The wheels are turning in her head, I can tell. But we’ve done this dance before.
“I was laid off today,” she surrenders after a long, tense silence.
I fight to keep my breathing level on my way back to the table, my heart turning to frenzy in my chest. “What happened?”
“Nothing. Routine downsizing.” She shrugs. “I don’t want you worrying about it. I’ll find something else in no time.” She runs a hand through my hair and offers me a smile that does not reach her eyes. My teeth are clenched too tight to answer; my nails bite into the flesh on my palms.
When I don’t answer, she continues checking the mail, all the while refusing to make eye contact. I want to scream—or cry, I can’t tell which. But my body betrays me and all I can do is stand there with my fists balled at my sides.
“Thank you for cleaning up. I need a shower.” She walks to her bedroom without another word. It takes me a few minutes to will my body back into function and I force myself to focus on the task at hand to keep from hyperventilating. She can’t fall apart now. Not when graduation hangs in the balance. I can only fit in so many hours at Reno’s Restaurant unless I’m willing to drop out.
The beer on the floor sings to me while I put away leftovers and clean dishes. Blood runs hot and fast through my veins, making my hands shake. On impulse, I march to the bag and rip the six-pack free, emptying the cans one by one before tossing them in the garbage, each one harder than the last.
The rest of the night passes slowly, the shadow of imminent rage returned and unwilling to negotiate. The postcards smattered across the wall above my desk boast of faraway places and I close my eyes, wishing to every power in the universe that I might disappear inside one of them.
When my mother finally finishes her shower, I freeze, my whole body turned to stone as I listen to her footsteps in the kitchen.
Here comes the meltdown. Any moment she will appear in my room, the picture of rage.
But soon enough the footsteps retreat and silence falls over the house. I release my limbs one by one and slump over the desk, ruminating in the hollow victory. She’ll stay sober tonight, but I’ve only postponed the inevitable.
I’ve won this battle, but I will lose the war.
Chapter Two
Liam
There has to be a better place to hide than this godforsaken town on the edge of civilization. But if anyone is willing to follow me to the most gothic place I’ve seen outside of Europe, I’ll eat my hat.
The view, at least, is magnificent—even if I had to pick through the bungalows at the very edge of town to find it. The bay window at the back of the house boasts a stunning scene of grey water below, churning at the cliffside with an animosity that I know in the deepest parts of myself.
The incessant ticking from the clock on my new wall reminds me that I am late for my first full day of high school, though I’m still undecided on whether to throw myself over the cliffs instead.
As much as I wonder what would happen to me when I hit the bottom, suicide is highly uncharacteristic. With one last sigh at the foreboding landscape, I reach for a jacket and surrender to the wet, bland morning that awaits me.
The town is small—too small, perhaps, to conceal my stay, but it beats losing myself in a bustling metropolis and counting down the days until I’m found.
No, if anyone seeks me out here, at least I’ll see it coming.
It appears I am not the only one who’s late this morning. When I reach the monotonous parking lot of the school, a plume of exhaust seeps into the air from a blue Ford in need of at least a few days at a shop judging by the grinding noise emanating from the hood and the bumper hanging on for dear life with a frayed zip tie.
The girls in the car are familiar, as one stands impatiently in the rain with her leg shaking. Ah, yes. Toilet paper girl.
I could wait for them to go inside, but showing up late draws unwanted attention as it is. If I can slip in behind them, I’ll be less noticeable.
The girl, whose raven hair spills out from under her hood, shuts the door and turns for the school, a strange urgency in her step. Why would anyone be so eager to get inside this place? I follow, my ridiculous prop of a backpack tapping on my shoulder all the while.
Announcing myself would make my approach feel less threatening, the sound of my steps masked as they are by the light rain, but she’s too distracted to notice me behind her. If I’m lucky, she’ll go to class without a second look and I won’t have to speak to her again.
We are yards away from the entrance when her foot hits a slick spot on the pavement, sliding out from under her and throwing her weight backwards.
“Christ,” I whisper under my breath, too quiet for her to hear. If I let her hit the ground with that enormous backpack strapped to one shoulder, she’ll hit her head. Closing the distance between us in three strides, I catch her slight form with ease.
Her breath hitches when she hits my arms, eyes filling with mortified recognition when they settle on my face.
“Are you okay?” The faint smell of honeysuckle wafts off her hair, keeping her in my arms longer than is strictly necessary. Her heart beats with frantic abandon, color staining the roses of her cheeks and contrasting against her pale skin.
“Y-yeah, just clumsy.” Her eyes are striking—deep green with flecks of gold and the occasional shade of blue mixed in. It takes another second to help her stand, keeping one hand on her elbow in case she can’t keep her balance.
For fuck’s sake, how could I have missed this yesterday?
“Are you new to Oregon?” The question is out before I can comprehend my own absurdity. It’s those damned eyes, staring into mine with something distinctly inhuman.
One of her brows rises, a surprised smile on her lips. “I wish.”
She doesn’t like it here. A point in her favor. But her eyes remain fixed on mine and I can tell she’s growing more curious by the second. Yesterday’s entrance in her English class was less than optimal, and my indiscriminate conversation with her certainly didn’t help things. I need her to lose interest, and fast.
“What’s your first class?”
“Calculus.”
Of course. In a school this small, I’ll be lucky not to end up in all her classes. “With Mrs. Reilly?” I offer her my arm, more out of habit than concern, and instantly regret it when she looks me up and down, her brow drawn low in scrutiny.
“I think I can make it.” Her hands retreat to her pockets. I shrug, hoping she doesn’t see the rage in my face before I lead the way into the school.
“Where did you come from?” she bursts on the stairs, sounding breathless despite her sporty physique.
“I was walking behind you.” Short answers, I remind myself. The more unfriendly I seem, the better.
“No, I meant before Oregon.”
“Florida.” Again, I answer her honestly without thinking. One day in this ridiculous, rainy wasteland and I’m already screwed. What are the odds I’d run straight into a Nephilim, here of all places?
My lips seal together, a physical reminder to keep my mouth shut the next time she presses for information.
“That’s a big move. What made your parents pick Ash Wood?”
How easily she assumes my parents brought me here. I can’t help but roll my eyes. Humans are so boringly unoriginal. As much as they love to read about the fantastic, they remain ever entrenched in the ordinary.
Then again, she’s not human. Is this an interrogation?
“New job?” she prompts when I don’t answer.
“Something like that.” The classroom door beckons and I escape gratefully, sighing with relief when I see the open chair at the back of the room. The girl hurries to the only other open seat in the front row, shrinking into her chair as if it might swallow her if she can make herself small enough.
Curious. What has she to hide?
My first calculus class is as bland as I imagined. I leave a notebook open on my desk, nodding once when Mrs. Reilly insists on introducing me to the class. If I had any hope of Vaughn actually ending my misery—should he find me here, that is—I would set off a flare this instant.
Instead, I do my best to act my part. But each hour is a new agony, watching as pasty-faced teenagers fight for their place in the teetering hierarchy of their tiny social pond. By third period, I have learned about five separate trysts—including a cheating scandal that threatens to rewrite the junior caste.
“I wouldn’t sit there. Mr. Henson’s cologne could take out a grizzly.” A tall redhead with a smattering of freckles taps on my desk on his way past, his green letterman jacket well-worn and marking him as a decorated athlete.
“Thanks for the warning.” I move to the back row before it fills up, keeping my eyes forward when he sits next to me.
“I’m Bradley, by the way.” He seems nice enough, trying to befriend a new student who undoubtedly looks one lecture away from fleeing. That, or he’s sizing me up as perceived competition, in which case he’ll be disappointed to find out I could not possibly care any less about his world.
“Liam,” I answer. Perhaps I’ve made a mistake coming to a town where nothing ever happens. They all wear the same five expressions, ranging from curiosity to outright contempt. But I’ve yet to go unnoticed.
The only stroke of luck is that I do not share every class with the dark-haired girl, as I’d feared. Something about her stare leaves me deeply unsettled. Does she know what I am?
It’s not as if I can leave until I find out. If she does know, I can’t risk her alerting anyone to my presence here.
Bradley, who I’ve decided by the end of Spanish is friendly as opposed to threatened, offers to take me off campus for lunch to show me around town, but I can only take so much bullshit at one time.
Tomorrow I will be forced to integrate in some small way so as not to arouse suspicion, but for now I allow myself a shred of peace in the safety of a used—but new to me—Honda Accord, the most common car in Oregon according to Google.
I don’t even bother to turn on the radio, preferring the sound of the rain over whatever drivel the stations here have to offer.
“Let’s get reading, people.” Ms. Yates takes her place at the front of the classroom with a level of exuberance unmatched by any of the other teachers here. “We’ve got a lot to cover, so we’ll keep the same readers as yesterday.”
She stops the progress every so often to outline iambic pentameter, at which point most of the eyes in the classroom glaze over. My brief stints as Hamlet offer a tiny window of solace in this endless day, losing myself to the bard’s rhythm.
“He can read to me any time,” the girl with long braids—Gia, I’ve ascertained from roll call—whispers to her dark-haired friend after the bell rings. I refuse to think of her as Blair, lest I allow familiarity to make me soft.
“Look at us. A couple of lemmings.” Dark hair shakes her head, staring at me while she thinks I can’t see her. As impressive as her wit is, I make a point to keep my focus forward on my way out.
Knowing I have an entire semester before me, I make a point to wave to Bradley on my way through the parking lot. His answering smile tells me I’ll have another lunch invite tomorrow.
At least I’ve managed to do one thing right today.
“You make a great Hamlet.” Alicia, the blond who read for Ophelia, touches my shoulder before I can reach the safety of my car. The smirk on her face betrays deep-seated insecurity that immediately draws my pity.
