Chapter 3

Somehow, I finished my homework

that night, though I spent most of

the evening at my bedroom window,

watching the yard and woods. The

man didn't reappear, of course, and

I figured I had another eight years to

kick myself for running away from

him.

I searched the pockets of his coat

three times apiece, but there was no

wallet or phone, no business card or

receipt, no scrap of a hint about him.

I smuggled his jacket to school and

hung it in my locker.

My classes passed in a haze

punctuated by the bell.

Nobody knew it was my birthday, at

least, and for once I barely thought

about David.

Pll be your shadow...

The man was keeping his word. I

thought of him and our strange,

spontaneous conversation, which

now felt like a dream.

At lunchtime, I slid into his coat

and roamed untilI found a little

janitorial hall. I sat on the floor in a

centimeter of dust. Folded tables and

chairs lined the walls and two doors

braced the short space, one letting in

the white September light.

I popped open my soda and flattened

my paper bag like a tray. This would

be my new lunchroom, I decided.

Then I wondered if he knew about

all this-how I had no friends, how I

found places to eat by myself, how I

was wearing his jacket.

"Are you around?" I whispered

tentatively.

A beat of silence passed and I sighed.

I wore his coat for the rest of the day,

earning a few funny looks from my

classmates. I didn't care.I had been

in such a trance, though, that when

the last bell rang I had no idea which

textbooks I needed for homework. I

piled them all into my backpack and

rushed toward the exit. (The busses

didn't linger-I had missed mine

more than once-and the only thing

worse than being a senior on the bus

was being a senior waiting for your

mother to pick you up.)

At the rate I was going, though, I

would be riding busses for the rest

of my life. Most of my peers had

enrolled in driver's ed as soon as

they'd turned sixteen. Meanwhile,

I had stalwartly ignored the

phenomenon of driving and Mom

and Dad remained silent on the

issue. To me, cars would never

represent freedom and possibility.

They were speeding, four-wheeled

weapons. They were metal death

traps in the hands of children.

I moved with the current of students

funneling into the cold. The bright

afternoon dazzled me for a moment.

A dozen busses steamed at the curb

and people broke toward theirs or

headed to the cars in the parking

lot, but everybody was moving away

from the school.

Except for him.

He stood still, hands in pockets, with

the student body flowing around

him. I hesitated. Someone bumped

into me, propelling me forward.

"S-sorry," I mumbled. The crush of

bodies jostled me toward him. He

stood head and shoulders above

almost everyone and looked more

like a young teacher than a student.

I stopped in front of him.

"Nice jacket." He smiled faintly and

heat burst across my face.

"Oh. No, "Ibegan to wrestle off

his coat.

He reached to stop me, then stopped

himself and grimaced. "Don't."

"But"

"keep it ".

Something tugged at my sleeve. We

turned simultaneously and glared at

Gary Flincher, who shrank from the

man's peculiar eyes.

"Leda, you're gonna miss the bus."

Gary sounded more childish than

ever. His gaze skated nervously over

the man.

"Tm okay. P'm.. . getting a ride."

"With him?" Gary's voice faltered.

Yeah.

"Oh." Gary practically ran to the

bus and I felt a stab of pity as he

stumbled up the steps. Maybe now

he would get it, though. I was taken.

Sort of.

"Let's go." The man turned and

walked briskly along with the

thinning crowd. I hurried after him,

never letting him out of my sight.

That day, he wore a chocolate brown

shearling and leather coat with a

high collar. I resisted the urge to grip

the back of it as we moved. I wasn't

letting him disappear again.

He stopped beside a black car in the

corner of the lot. A jaguar snarled on

the grill.

"You have a car," I said, staring at it.

It seemed so odd that my nighttime

stranger lived in the real world with

cars and coats. Did he go grocery

shopping, too? Did he have a Netflix

subscription? Disappointment

nettled at me.

Yes. Shouldn't 1?"

"No. Of course. I mean, yes. You

should."

You don't like it?"

"What?" I blinked rapidly. "It's...

fine." I surveyed the car in what I

hoped was an appreciative manner.

" love this car." He folded his arms

and studied the vehicle while I

boggled over his tone. For the first

time, he had sounded defensive and

a little youthful, like I had hurt his

pride.

Slowly, I realized we weren't the

only ones admiring his ride. Seniors

around the parking lot idled by their

hand-me-down Hondas and Fords,

scrutinizing us-me, him, the car.

"I like it," I said in a rush. "I mean, I

can't even drive, but if I could, and

I had money, Id want"-I gestured

to the car, which was admittedly

gorgeous-"this kind of thing. For

sure."

"You would?" His eyes narrowed.

"Completely. It's beautiful. It's way

out of my league." I could have been

talking about him or the car, easily.

"Well, we better go. Your bus already

left."

What?I don't-"

Want to go home? I sense a pattern."

He was already moving around

the car. "You have a wonderful

home life. I don't know why you're

avoiding it."

Wait. Give me a moment." I pulled

out my old flip phone and hit the

Home contact. Mom answered after

one ring.

"Leda? Is everything okay?""

"Everything's fine. I'm actually

staying after school today, for art

club."

"Art club?"

Yeah. It's fun. And I need some

extracurriculars."

Well, that sounds neat. When

should I pick you up?"

"My friend can drive me home."

"Which friend?"

"Just a girl from art class. P'l be

home in an hour-ish. P'll call if it goes

longer."

"Don't forget our dinner

reservation."

"Of course. I love you." I closed the

phone before things could get more

embarrassing. When I looked at the

man, he was smirking.

A girl from art class?" He raised a

brow.

"That's you." I laughed nervously.

"I see. What now?"

I decided we should walk to the

middle school, which was just down

the street from the high school. If wwe

got in the car, I knew he would try to

take me home.

What is it with you and making

me go home, anyway?" I asked as

we cut across the football field. We

both walked with our hands in our

pockets, eyes down.

"I like you safe."

"Tm always safe. Too safe."

"She says as she walks away from her

school with a stranger."

"Okay, what's your name?"

"Hart."

Hart," I repeated. "That's different."

When he offered nothing more, I

squinted up at him. "What are you?"

"Excuse me?"

"What are you?"

"Don't be ridiculous." He looked

ahead-beyond me, above me-

in a way that made me feel small.

Apparently, despite the fact that he

didn't seem to age and claimed to

always be around, my question was

ridiculous. Or was my imagination

getting the best of me? Maybe he

did look a little older. He had a car;

he had at least two nice coats and

probably a house or apartment and

many other human things.

I think we've gone far enough,"

he said. We had reached the empty

middle school football field. He

turned around, but I plopped onto

the bleachers.

"Let me enjoy this for a moment."

"Enjoy what?".

"Having something to do after school.

Having a friend".

He considered that for a while. "All

right. Im happy to be a friend."

Oof. Now I knew how Gary Flincher

felt, firmly lodged in the friend zone.

But of course this attractive, older

guy only wanted me for a friend,

if that. His real motives were a

mystery.

How old are you?" I examined him

again.

"How old do I look?"

"Twenty...three?"

"Bingo," he said offhandedly,

and before I could question that

further, he drew a tin from his

inner coat pocket and held it toward

me. "Speaking of which-happy

birthday."

The unwrapped gift was a set of

twelve Prismacolor pencils. I gazed

not at it but at the serpent tattoo

coiled on top of his hand, forked

tongue flickering, diamond patched

skin so detailed that it seemed to

writhe in the sunlight.

"It's a gift," he prompted.

"Thank you." I took the pencils

quickly. "These are the best."

He pocketed his hand just as quickly.

That's what the woman at the store

said."

"What's on your other hand?"

"Skin."

Ihopped up and moved around,

trying to get into his field of view.

That would never be easy, the way he

loomed over me. "Don't treat me like

a child. Please."

He extracted his left hand

reluctantly. A dove spread her wings

across the surface, pinions touching

his knuckles, black eyes tranquil. The

tattoo was done in the same style as

the snake, in bold black ink.

I caught his wrist before he could

shove it back into a pocket. He

flinched.

Am I hurting you?"

"No. P'm fine." As if to prove the

point, he relaxed his hand in my

grip. I clamped the colored pencils

under my arm and pushed up the

sleeve of his coat. The ink continued,

the dove's tail feathers tucking into

jagged rose leaves, blossoms, and

thorns. Slowly, I turned his hand.

The flowers wound up his forearm,

under his sleeve. I wondered how far

they went.

All at once, the intimacy of our

contact bore down on me. The air

in my throat turned to glue and my

tongue refused to move.

I peered at him. He was breathing

very carefully, visibly, his lips parted

and his chilly eyes glued to my face.

He slipped his hand out of mine.

"The things we do when we're young

and dumb," he said quietly.

I stepped back and clutched my

colored pencils. I needed room to

breathe.

"No, they.."Iwanted to

say that they didn't look like

young-and-dumb tattoos, not at

all, but like artworks laden with

meaning. "They're beautiful," I

managed.

"We should go." He started back

without waiting for me. I took the

opportunity to collect myself and

then jogged after him, my pulse

thudding.

"Thank you for the pencils. I love

them. Ill use them."

"For your art he said".

"Right".

We walked the rest of the way in silence.

He held open the car door and I slid

in without hesitation. I didn't care if

I was putting myself in danger, and

that recklessness frightened me more

than anything else.

He caught me studying his hand on

the shifter-the snake tattoo.

What?" he demanded.

"Nothing," I lied, and I pretended

to care about what was outside

my window: Trees, lawns, houses,

nothing as intriguing as the man

sitting next to me. Despite his

standoffish attitude, he had visited

me on my birthday, and he had

given me a gift. People had seen us

together. Now I was in his car. He

was very real and, at the same time,

more surreal than ever, but we had

made some kind of progress today

and i knew i couldn't go back.

"Will you drive me home

tomorrow?"

"What's tomorrow, science club?"

I wrinkled my nose. "No, she'd never

buy that. How about"

"I don't think so, Leda."

"You can't disappear again."

Something in my voice-maybe the

raw fear-made him glance at me.

Ino longer cared how desperate I

looked or sounded.

We shouldn't do this again until

next Tuesday. Art club, right?"

I sagged against the door. He wanted

to see me again, or he would let me

see him again, at least. "Tuesday," I

agreed.

He dropped me off at the entrance

to Winterberry Ridge and I walked

the short distance home. My mind

followed him, wondering where he

was going and what he would do.

He was my secret now more than

ever, and it felt so good to remember

his quiet voice and cynical smile. I

bounced on my heels as I walked.

I would fill the hours until next

Tuesday with daydreams.

I wadded his coat into my backpack

before I went into the house.

"There's my birthday girl," Mom

said, hugging me a little too long.

For the first time in a long time, the

balloons tethered to a kitchen chair,

the flowers, cards, and modest stack

of presents on the table didn't make

my stomach churn. I gave my mom

a big. bright smile, and I showed her

my new colored pencils.

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