Not only is Damen in my first period English class, and my sixth period art class (not that he sat by me, and not that llooked, but the thoughts swirling around the room, even from our teacher, Ms. Machado, told me everything I needed to know), but now he'd apparently parked next to me too. And even though I'd managed to avoid viewing anything more than his boots, I knew my grace period had just come to an end.
"Omigod, there he is! Right directly next to us!" Miles squeals, In the high-pitched, singsongy whisper he saves for life's most tlciting moments. "And check out that ride-shiny black BMW, ultra-dark tinted windows. Nice, very nice. Okay, so here's the deal, I'm going to open my door and accidentally bump it into his, so then I'll have an excuse to talk to him."
He turns, awaiting my consent.
"Do not scratch my car. Or his car. Or any other car," I say, shaking my head and retrieving my keys.
"Fine." He pouts. "Shatter my dream, whatever. But just do Yourself a favor and check him out! And then look me in the eye and tell me he doesn't make you want to freak out and faint."
I roll my eyes and squeeze between my car and the poorly htked VW Bug that's angled so awkwardly it looks like it's trying to mount my Miata. And just as I'm about to unlock the door, Miles yanks down my hood, swipes my sunglasses, and runs to the passenger Side where he urges me, via not-so-subtle head tilts and thumb jabs, to look at Damen who's standing behind him.
So I do. I mean, it's not like I can avoid it forever. So I take a deep breath and look.
And what I see leaves me unable to speak, blink, or move. And even though Miles starts waving at me, glaring at me, and basically giving me every signal he can think of to abort the mission and return to headquarters-I can't. I mean, I'd like to, because I know I'm acting like the freak everyone's already convinced that I am, but it's completely impossible. And it's not just because Damen is undeniably beautiful, with his shiny dark hair that hits just shy of his shoulders and curves around his highsculpted cheekbones, but when he looks at me, when he lifts his dark sunglasses and meets my gaze, I see that his almond shaped eyes are deep, dark, and strangely familiar, framed by lashes so lush they almost seem fake. And his lips! His lips are ripe and inviting with a perfect Cupid's bow. And the body that holds it all up is long, lean, tight, and clad in all black.
"Um, Ever? Hel-lo? You can wake up now: Please." Miles turns to Damen, laughing nervously. "Sorry about my friend here, she usually has her hood on."
It's not like I don't know I have to stop. I need to stop right now. But Damen's eyes are fixed on mine, and their color grows deeper as his mouth begins to curve.
But it's not his comFlete gorgeousness that has me so transfixed. It has nothing to do with that.
It's mainly the way the entire area surrounding his body, starting from his glorious head and going all the way down to the square-cut toes of his black motorcycle boots, consists of nothing but blank empty space.
No color. No aura. No pulsing light show:
Everyone has an aura. Every living being has swirls of color emanating from their body. A rainbow energy field they're not even aware of. And it's not like it's dangerous, or scary, or in any way bad, it's just part of the visible (well, to me anyway) magnetic field.
Before the accident I didn't even know about things like that.
And I definitely wasn't able to see it. But from the moment I woke in the hospital, I noticed color everywhere.
"Are you feeling okay?" The red-haired nurse asked, gazing down anxiously.
"Yes, but why are you all pink?" I squinted, confused by the pastel glow that enveloped her.
"Why am I what?" She struggled to hide her alarm.
"Pink. You know; it's all around you, especially your head." "Okay, sweetheart, you just rest and I'll go get the doctor," she'd said, backing out of the room and running down the hall.
It wasn't until after I'd been subjected to a barrage of eye exams, brain scans, and psych evals that I learned to keep the colorwheel sightings to myself And by the time I started hearing thoughts, getting life stories by touch, and enjoying regular visits with my dead sister, Riley, I knew better than to share.
I guess I'd gotten so used to living like this, I'd forgotten there was another way.
But seeing Damen outlined by nothing more than the shiny black paint job on his expensive cool car is a vague reminder of happier, more normal days.
"Ever, right?" Damen says, his face warming into a smile, revealing just another one of his perfections-dazzling white teeth.
I stand there, willing my eyes to leave his, as Miles makes a show of clearing his throat.
And remembering how he hates to be ignored, I motion toward him and say, "Oh, sorry.
Miles, Darnen, Damen, Miles." And the whole time my eyes never once waver.
Damen glances at Miles, nodding briefly before focusing back on me. And even though I know this sounds crazy, for the split second his eyes moved away, I felt strangely cold and weak.
But the moment his gaze returns, it's all warm and good again. "Can I ask a favor?" He smiles. "Would you lend me your copy of Wuthering Heights? I need to get caught up and I won't have time to visit the bookstore tonight."
I reach into my backpack, retrieve my dog-eared copy, and dangle it from the tips of my fingers, part of me yearning to brush the tips against his, I0 make contact with this beautiful stranger, while the other part; the stronger, wiser, psychic part cringesdreading the awful flash of insight that comes with each touch.
But it's not until he's tossed the book into his car, lowered his sunglasses, and said, "Thanks, see you tomorrow," that I realize that other than a slight tingle in the tips of my fingers, nothing happened. And before I can even respond, he's backing out of the space and driving away.
"Excuse me," Miles says, shaking his head as he climbs in beside me. "But when I said you'd freak out when you saw him, it wasn't a suggestion, it wasn't supposed to be taken literally.
Seriously Ever, what happened back there? Because that was some mega tense awkwardness, a real Hello, my name is Ever and I'll be your next stalker kind, of moment. I'm so serious, I thought we were gonna have to resuscitate you. And believe me, you are extremely lucky our good friend Haven was not here to see that, because I hate to remind you, but she did call dibs
"
Miles continues like that, yammering on and on, the entire way home. But I just let him talk it out as I navigate traffic, my finger absently tracing the thick red scar on my forehead, the one that's hidden under my bangs.
I mean, how can I explain however since the accident, the only people whose thoughts I can't hear, whose lives I can't know, and whose auras I can't see, are already dead?
Three
I let myself into the house, grab a bottle of water from the fridge, then head upstairs to my room, since I don't have to poke around any further to know Sabine's still at work. Sabine's always at work, which means I get this whole huge house to myself, pretty much all the time, even though I usually just stay in my room.
I feel bad for Sabine. I feel bad that the life she worked so hard for was forever changed the day she got stuck with me. But since my mom was an only child and all of my grandparents had passed by the time I was two, it's not like she had much of a choice. I mean, it was either live with her-my dad's only sibling and twin-or go into foster care until I turned eighteen. And even though she doesn't know anything about raising kids, I wasn't even out of the hospital before she'd sold her condo, bought this big house, and hired one of Orange County's top decorators to trick out my room.
I mean, I have all the usual things like a bed, a dresser, and a desk. But I also have a flatscreen TV, a massive walk-in closet, a huge bathroom with a Jacuzzi tub and separate shower stall, a balcony with an amazing ocean view, and my own private den/ game room, with yet another flat-screen TV; a wet bar, microwave, mini fridge, dishwasher, stereo, couches, tables, beanbag chairs, the works.
It's funny how before I would've given anything for a room like this.
But now I'd give anything just to go back to before.
I guess since Sabine spends most of her time around other lawyers and all those VIP executives her firm represents, she actually thought all of this stuff was necessary or something.
And I've never been sure if her not having kids is because she works all the time and can't schedule it in, or if she just hasn't met the right guy yet, or if she never wanted any to begin with, or maybe a combination of all three.
It probably seems like I should know all of that, being psychic and all. But I can't necessarily see a persons motivation, mainly what I see are events. Like a whole string of images reflecting someone's life, like flash cards or something, only more in a movie-trailer format. Though sometimes I just see symbols that I have to decode to know what they mean. Kind of like with tarot cards, or when we had to read Animal Farm in Honors English last year.
Though it's far from foolproof, and sometimes I get it all wrong. But whenever that happens I can trace it right back to me, and the fact that some pictures have more than one meaning. Like the time I mistook a big heart with a crack down the middle for heartbreak-until the woman dropped to the floor in cardiac arrest. Sometimes it can get a little confusing trying to sort it all out. But the images themselves never lie.
Anyway, I don't think you have to be clairvoyant to know that when people dream of having kids they're usually thinking in terms of a pastel-wrapped, tiny bundle of joy, and not some five-foot-four, blue-eyed, blond-haired teenager with psychic powers and a ton of emotional baggage. So because of that, I try to stay quiet, respectful, and out of Sabine's way.
And I definitely don't let on that I talk to my dead little sister. almost every day.
The first time Riley appeared, she was standing at the foot of my hospital bed, in the middle of the night, holding a flower in one hand and waving with the other. r m still not sure what it was that awoke me, since it's not like she spoke or made any kind of sound. I guess I just felt her presence or something, like a change in the room, or a charge in the air.
At first I assumed I was hallucinating-just another side effect of the pain medication I was on. But after blinking a bunch and rubbing my eyes, she was still there, and I guess it never occurred to me to scream or call for help.
I watched as she came around to the side of my bed, pointed at the casts covering my arms and leg, and laughed. I mean, it was silent laughter, but still, it's not like I thought it was funny.
But as soon as she noticed my angry expression, she rearranged her face and motioned as though asking if it hurt.
I shrugged, still a little unhappy with her for laughing, and more than a little freaked by her presence. And even though I wasn't entirely convinced it was really her, that didn't stop me from asking, "Where are Mom and Dad and Buttercup?"
She tilted her head to the side, as though they were standing right there beside her, but all I could see was blank space.
"I don't get it."
But she just smiled, placed her palms together, and tilted her head to the side, indicating that I should go back to sleep.
So I closed my eyes, even though I never would've taken orders from her before. Then just as quickly I opened them and said, "Hey, who said you could borrow my sweater?"
And just like that, she was gone.
I admit, I spent the rest of that night angry with myself for asking such a stupid, shallow, selfish question. Here r d had the opportunity to get answers to some of life's biggest queries, to possibly gain the kind of insight people have been speculating about for ages. But instead, I wasted the moment calling out my dead little sister for raiding my closet. I guess old habits really do die hard.
The second time she appeared, I was just so grateful to see her, I didn't make any mention of the fact that she was wearing riot just my favorite sweater, but also my best jeans (that were so long the hems puddled around her ankles), and the charm bracelet I got for my thirteenth birthday that I always knew she coveted.
Instead I just smiled and nodded and acted as though I didn't even notice, as I leaned toward her and squinted. "So where're Mom and Dad?" I asked, thinking they'd appear if I just looked hard enough.
But Riley just smiled and flapped her arms by her sides.
"You mean they're angels?" My eyes went wide.
She rolled her eyes and shook her head, clutching her waist as she bent over in fits of silent laughter.
"Okay, fine, whatever." I threw my body back against the pillows, thinking she was really pushing it, even if she was dead. "So tell me, what's it like over there?" I asked, determined not to fight. Are you, well, do you like, live in heaven?
She closed her eyes and raised her palms as though balancing an object, and then right out of nowhere, a painting appeared. I leaned forward, gazing at a picture of what was surely paradise, matted in off-white and encased in an elaborate gold frame. The oce~n was deep blue, the cliffs rugged, the sand golden, the trees flowering, and a shadowy silhouette of a small distant island could be seen in the distance.
"So why aren't you there now?" I asked.
And when she shrugged, the picture disappeared. And so did she.
I'd been in the hospital for more than a month, suffering broken bones, a concussion, internal bleeding, cuts and bruises, and a pretty deep gash on my forehead. So while I was all bandaged and medicated, Sabine was burdened with the thankless task of clearing out the house, making funeral arrangements, and packing my things for the big move south.
She asked me to make a list of all the items I wanted to bring.
All the things I might want to drag from my perfect former life in Eugene, Oregon, to my scary new one in Laguna Beach, California. But other than some of my clothes, I didn't want anything.