Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
From then on, I have no idea what to make of Duncan.
Every time I see him, my stomach twists, my heart pounds, and on more than one occasion, I have the weird urge to sniff him.
Luckily, we’re never close enough for me to act on that compulsion, but it’s still humiliating.
I don’t think I’ve ever intentionally sniffed someone I wasn’t dating, and it kind of freaks me out when we pass in the hallway and I suddenly want to smash my entire face into his hair and inhale.
I’m pretty sure I don’t have a scent kink. Duncan definitely wasn’t wearing cologne when I last saw him, but even if he was, I wouldn’t have cared. There’s no reason for any of this.
At least, not that I can think of.
A week later, he sits behind me in History.
I have to breathe through my mouth. My focus is shot already, but his presence makes it worse.
A long morning in the gym, a longer night spent studying, and an hour-long conversation with my Aunt Gretchen has ensured that I’m barely able to keep my eyes open.
I have a test in Prophecy and Prediction that I’m definitely going to fail.
Hours of study won’t save me from the fact that I can’t seem to tap into my intuition when I most need it: during class.
No matter how I quiet my mind or try to focus, I can’t seem to stop seeing all the same things: a terrible storm over the sea and Duncan Stirling’s stupid face.
At least that stupid face is behind me, where I can’t fixate on it.
Today, he’s wearing a crisp, white button up shirt with black slacks and a wristwatch that doesn’t double as a pedometer, which means it’s probably expensive.
His hair is neatly arranged so that his bangs sweep to one side of his forehead.
He’s clean shaven, bright-eyed, almost feverish when he ducks into the seat behind me.
On the other side of the classroom, Felix Cervantes twists around to scowl at us.
I nibble on the eraser of my pencil and remind myself that I have every right to be here. That I can’t control what Duncan does.
But I can feel him sitting there, and it makes me nauseous.
Dr Ward paces across the room. We’re discussing magic and the Industrial Revolution, a topic that should be interesting but so far has me on the verge of dozing.
“While it was suggested that factories could be made cleaner with the use of magic, the risk of exhaustion was considered too great, so the idea was discarded. Can anyone remind me of the proposed solutions?”
Her gaze sweeps across the room. I think back to the assigned reading, but all I can remember are the debates around the subject, not anything resembling a real solution.
There’s an urgent tap at my back. I don’t move, terrified that Dr Ward will assume I’m volunteering.
“No one?” she purrs. “It’s not that difficult. Who can remember?”
Not me, I think. Don’t look at me.
The tap is more frantic, a series of jabs. My shoulder tingles where Duncan has touched me.
I do not inhale. Do not lift my eyes from my notes.
“April,” hums Dr Ward, turning to my left. “What do you remember from the assigned text?”
“Um,” April stammers, shooting Jane a panicked look.
With Dr Ward distracted, I turn to look over my shoulder.
Duncan waves a slip of paper in my face. I snatch it, cheeks burning, and quickly stuff it into my notebook before anyone can see.
I don’t look at it, and he doesn’t say a word the rest of class.
This becomes a ritual. Whenever I freeze up in History, there’s a quick tap at my back. Whenever I turn around, Duncan thrusts a piece of paper at me and says nothing.
I never open it.
He’s just trying to help, I tell myself.
But another part of me is absolutely convinced that he thinks I’m a fucking idiot, and that’s not something I can abide by. If I unfurl those slips of paper, I’m going to have to confront this.
I know he’s not flirting or trying to carry on a conversation. He only interacts with me when Dr Ward acts like she’s about to randomly call on someone.
“I wish he’d just talk to me,” I groan to Jane one afternoon in the library, where we’re seated at a massive oak table with textbooks and papers scattered around us, taking up far more room than two people are entitled to. “Why does he keep passing notes?”
“I think he likes you,” says Jane, shrugging.
Her long, dark hair is pushed over one shoulder, stark against her red sweater and pale skin.
We’re finally in the thick of autumn, and Jane has a sweater for every day of the week.
This one is a knit turtleneck that looks like it might’ve once belonged to some ancient mariner, it’s so thick and warm. “And he’s afraid of Dr Ward.”
“I think he wants me to cheat.”
“You cheat all the time,” Jane hums, unimpressed. “Seriously. I catch you looking at my notes whenever she asks you a question.”
I sigh. “I have test anxiety, OK?”
“And classroom anxiety, and social anxiety, and food anxiety…” Jane shakes her head.
As much as it pains me to admit it, she’s right. “I should probably jog more. That usually helps.”
“You work out like four hours a day,” she scoffs.
I don’t turn down an opportunity to flex my arm.
“OK, yeah, total beefcake.” She rolls her eyes, but she’s laughing. “But you’re a disaster.”
I deflate. “I’m trying,” I grumble, turning back to my notes. “I’m grieving, remember?”
She doesn’t say anything. When I finally raise my gaze to her, she’s staring out the window, contemplating something. Dark clouds have gathered in the sky, threatening rain. I watch orange and gold leaves drift by and think, This is my first autumn without Mom.
I turned twenty-three yesterday. For the first time in my life, she didn’t wish me a happy birthday, because she’s fucking dead. A whole bunch of family members and even Mom’s old friend, Kevin, called and sent text messages, but it isn’t the same.
My chest aches. My eyes are still red from silently crying last night.
Then Jane asks, “Wanna go to the beach?”
I freeze up.
I should say no. Should run as far away as I can get. But outside, there’s a storm brewing. A part of my soul yearns for the ocean, and I’m exhausted down to my bones. Every day is an endless grind of exercising, studying, stress.
What if I don’t fight it? What if I just lie down and let the current take me where it will?
I close my notebook and glance to the window, where heavy drops of rain pelt against the glass. “Right now?”
“Sure, why not?”
I look back at her, just to be sure, but she’s scrutinizing me, waiting for an answer. If I say no, she won’t push. She’ll just ask again another day. And another.
There’s no time like the present.
I start gathering my things. “Sure.”
I didn’t know Jane had a car. It’s a dinged-up Subaru more than half our age that grumbles to a start like a snoring old man. We plug down the hillside in the pouring rain, wipers screeching across a cracked windshield. The radio doesn’t work, so Jane pops a Pearl Jam disc into the drive. It skips.
Nausea roils in my stomach. My soul is alight with the promise of the sea—of salt, of water, of life—but my body is terrified and shaking.
I am repeatedly struck with the urge to apologize to my mother, as if her ghost is sitting in the back seat, arms crossed, indignation radiating from her like the stench of death.
Over and over, I’ve made promises. Since I was old enough to remember, I’ve sworn I’ll never go near the ocean.
What if I don’t step into the water? What if Jane and I just walk along the beach like an old married couple and stay far from the tide? I could treat it like exposure therapy. Work my way into water, inching closer each week?
But I already know I’ll fail. Something bone deep pulls me toward the sea. I’m sick of fighting it.
We pull into a parking spot just off the main road. Gravel crunches beneath the tires. The brakes squeal. Jane winces, apologetic.
I have lost the ability to speak.
Before us, green grass pokes out from dark sand. Absently, I wonder if all beaches are so dark, or if it’s just this one. I’m used to the white sandy beaches in commercials, not this gravelly, gray expanse. Is this a volcanic beach? Are there volcanoes around here?
Half a mile of sand, craggy rocks, and swimsuit-clad tourists await. Beyond, a boiling sea, nearly black under the stormy sky.
I think of Prophecy and Prediction, and wince. In my visions, pitiful though they are, I’m always by the cliffs. Night has fallen, and the sea beats against the rocks. There’s a raging storm, but the clouds break to allow the faintest sliver of moonlight.
It gives me the fucking chills.
And even though it’s only mid-afternoon, and the sun is peeking out beyond the hills, the atmosphere is uncomfortably tense. Something nasty claws its way up my spine, lodges between my vertebrae like a parasite.
We stalk through the tall grass and into the sand.
I guess I’m not very well-traveled, because I’ve never walked through sand before. It’s a strange sensation, squishy beneath my feet, but also resistant to every step.
No wonder people jog along the beach every morning. This would make for a great workout.
Buoyed by this discovery, I creep closer to the water. One step, then another, and another. At some point, Jane has kicked off her boots, but I’m still in my sneakers.
Then I sink deeper into the sand, and falter.
It’s waterlogged, I realize. The tide is far off, ebbing and flowing in streaks of pale foam, in no danger of touching my feet.
But the sand is another story. If I continue, water will seep into my shoes and then fuck knows what’ll happen.
Whatever horrors Mom hoped to prevent will finally come to fruition, and I’ll—
What, exactly? Die? Combust? Turn into an octopus? Grow fifty feet tall and feel compelled to munch on some buildings?
I want to laugh, but I’m completely frozen. Fuck, what if I am a monster?
I’m not ready to find out.
The sand slowly rises around me. I lift my foot to see that water has pooled in my footprint.
“Um,” I say very loudly, panicked. A few paces ahead, Jane turns to look at me. Her feet are completely submerged in wet sand.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, and I shake my head frantically, unable to say more. Panic has seized my throat, twisted my tongue.
She starts toward me. My sock is getting wet.
I am definitely about to die. Cold terror shoots down my spine, into my legs.
I bolt.
It’s not my proudest moment. Certainly, I’ll never forget the expression of bewildered guilt on Jane’s face. Sand sprays out behind me, vicious as shrapnel. It clings to my legs, stings my arms.
Anyone in their right mind would be embarrassed. Dozens of eyes light upon me, and I can only hope that they think I’m practicing for track or something. That my terror isn’t evident on my face. That they don’t know I’m fleeing the tide, freaking out because my sock got wet.
It’s more than that, though. It’s the ghost of my mom’s withered face peering out from an open casket, the beeping of hospital machines, and a promise I swore not to break.
Arms clenched tight around my chest, I wait by the Subaru and tell myself that the stinging wind isn’t an admonishment from beyond the grave.