Annabeth Neverending (19 page)

I grin numbly in response, trying to remain enthused.

“Although you stole Gabriel’s first, didn’t you?”

“Well, um…”

Even though my parents are aware of the boyfriend trade
-
in, they’re clearly caught off guard by Dora’s uncouth remark. My mother looks especially embarrassed, her lips pursing in displeasure. They remain silent, however. It’s not like they can defend it. It happened.

“It’s fine, Dora. Annabeth and I are better off as friends,” Gabriel offers up, trying to act unaffected, playing it cool. C. J. smiles a bit awkwardly. This isn’t exactly the ideal situation when you’re trying to sell your family on your new girlfriend. “As a matter of fact, I’m dating her friend now,” Gabriel adds.

I didn’t realize they were
dating
, as in the verb. I hoped it was a one
-
time proposition, nothing more than a noun. The thought makes my whole body jolt to attention.

“How cozy,” says Dora with condescension.

“Tell me, young lady, are you the one who slathered those ridiculous symbols all over your house? I’m sure it drove down our property value,” grumbles Richard, though right now he’s seeming more like an “Old Man Danvers,” the grumpy neighbor nobody likes.

“We’ll be painting over it soon enough; it’s not like it’s permanent,” my father promises, even though I never knew this was his intention. I guess it’s to be expected. Some misguided Yorkers may consider my masterpiece to be an eyesore, I think with a smile, knowing that the more enlightened ancient Egyptians would’ve viewed it differently.

“I hope you aren’t interested in all that archaeology mumbo jumbo. It’s a good thing C. J. has much more common sense than his brother. He’d never pick a useless field like that.”

“I’m sitting right here,” says Gabriel meekly.

“I think we all know how the ancient Egyptians learned to build the pyramids: aliens,” Howie says with glee, looking to stir up trouble in typical fashion.

“Well, that’s always the easy answer for the unexplained, isn’t it?” I cry a bit too fervently.

“Why is it so hard to believe that the ancient Egyptians were simply a more advanced culture?” asks C. J., and I nod in agreement.

Howie shrugs. “Because nobody else can do what they did.”

“Just because we can’t replicate their accomplishments doesn’t mean that aliens masterminded everything. Must society consistently try to strip the ancient Egyptians of their greatest achievements?” I demand, incensed.

“Look, it’s not my fault if aliens came and bred with them,” says Howie with a grin. I suspect that C. J. finds Howie’s outlandish notions funny, though Richard and Dora don’t look amused. My parents glare at him, sending him unspoken signals to stop antagonizing me, and while it looks like he’s finally relenting, he’s already set the wheels in motion.

“The ancient Egyptians were advanced in their own way, but in my opinion the Vikings were the real deal,” says Gabriel, who looks like he’s in his element, with a crack of his knuckles.

Gabriel effectively closes down our lively conversation by introducing the blasted Vikings to the mix. I sigh. For some reason I view his Viking fixation as less valid than my understandable and thoroughly engrossing passion for ancient Egypt.

“Now, I don’t mind you having history as a pastime, so long as you don’t build your life around it,” Dora says, making an unwelcome jab at her stepson.

“I won’t,” promises C. J.

Dora shakes her head in disdain, and everyone looks uncomfortable. Richard clears his throat, which is surely a sign to Dora to stop talking. She takes the hint as she defensively flips her bleached hair.

C. J. looks disheartened for the duration of the meal. In the end, C. J. is the one who seems to be ashamed of his family. It’s almost amusing now, thinking back to how concerned I was about mine, never thinking that his parents would come off as anything less than picture
-
perfect. Even though Gabriel had mentioned things there were some hard feelings there.

After dinner, Gabriel, C. J., and I hang out on the Danverses’ refinished porch. The tension in the air is thick now that Dora and Richard managed to broadcast their dysfunction so successfully. I give Gabriel a closed
-
mouth smile, the kind that accompanies a commiserating shrug, which I provide as well.

“You just need to get to know her better,” C. J. implores.

“Why? She’s never taken the time to get to know me.”

“I don’t know why you think she has it in for you, Gabe. She’s done nothing but love you,” C. J. insists.

“She’s tolerated me, but she’s never loved me. Look, I’m happy that you two get along. You connect in a way that she and I don’t,” Gabriel says, sounding resigned, until he adds, “but just remember one thing. She stole our dad from Mom when she was still dying.”

My heart goes out to Gabriel, but I have to dampen my sympathy. Be friend sad, not girlfriend sad.

“What’s done is done. And we don’t need to dredge that up now,” C. J. says, not wanting to get into it further in front of me, I wager. Which is why I suspect that he changes the subject.

“Hey! I don’t suppose you and Kerry would want to join us on our excursion tomorrow? We’re going to the Desert of Maine. I mean, assuming you don’t mind. Do you, Annabeth?” asks C. J.

Now, two sets of eyes are on me. While I don’t want Gabriel to come, I can’t exactly articulate that. At least, not out loud. He’s already feeling so low. But in my head I’m pretty pissed.

“Of course not!” I say, not liking being backed into this corner but seeing no other option. I remind myself that there are more important things than being alone on a special outing with the boy you currently crave. Like being emotionally present for the one you used to desire. And kind of still do.

“Sure. Maybe it’ll help take my mind off my problems,” grumbles a heavy
-
lidded Gabriel.

I smile tightly, but I’m unenthused by this turn of events. It might take his mind off his issues, but it shines a spotlight on mine. Having these two brothers around at the same time is both confusing and unsettling. It makes me evaluate my feelings too deeply, and they’re too frail to be so carefully examined.

19

T
he overseer at the Desert of Maine, Marvin Briggs, is a burly old codger with a graying beard, denim overalls, and steel
-
toed boots. He grins at us with his tobacco
-
stained teeth and allows us inside, even though it’s off
-
season. Mrs. Lansing knows him through the flea, and he agreed to let us take a quick look round anyway. Antiquers are a tight lot and trade favors like they swap antiques.

“Welcome to the Desert of Maine!” Marvin says with a husky voice that was probably clearer before he started smoking. He tells us some background, and it sounds like he’s gone through this spiel so many times he could repeat it forward and backward.

“The Desert of Maine is a huge lot of grainy, sand
-
like silt that was deposited by a wayward glacier. Over time, it was hidden under countless layers of dirt and rock. After a clueless farmer failed to rotate his crops properly, the soil gave way, and the sand started to peek through. Eventually, it took over, and the farm was abandoned completely. The Desert of Maine now stretches out for roughly forty acres.

“Some conspiracy theorists contend that it’s a big hoax
—
that trucks full of desert sand were dumped here to create a tourist destination
—
but geologists stand by its authenticity.”

Being in this place pushes my memories to the forefront. It’s like speeding through a reel of my recollections in a View
-
Master, the kind I’ve sold at Mrs. Lansing’s table. This specific desert resonates with me deeply, probably because glaciers swept the whole of the globe. I mean, it’s possible that particles of the sand here came from prehistoric Egypt! The notion makes me tingle down to my toes.

We inspect the property, the geographic anomaly, in awe. From certain angles it seems that we could actually be standing on the golden sand of the Sahara, yet in other spots we can see the spindly evergreen trees lining the lot. There’s a tumbledown farmhouse on the perimeter that’s been turned into a museum. I try to stand where I can’t see the hints of Maine. I want to pretend I’m there, and then…

“It’s a little piece of Egypt, right here in New England,” C. J. points out.

I nod in happy agreement.

“Well, why don’t you kids take a look around. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” says Marvin, who I assume is rushing off for a smoke. Once he’s out of sight, and we’re finally left to our own devices, the fun truly begins.

“Can you believe I’ve never been here before? My class came once when I was a kid, but I was too sick to go,” I explain.

“Maybe you could sense how boring it would be,” says Kerry.

“Yeah. It’s more of an elementary
-
school field
-
trip destination than anything else,” says Gabriel cockily. I shoot him an annoyed look. Why does he have to undermine me at every turn?

And why don’t I despise it?

“So why am I here again?” asks Kerry, who’s playing with her hair to emphasize her disinterest.

“Good question,” I reply, grinning at my friend. I say it jokingly, but I’m dead serious. She’s an unintentional interloper.

C. J. and I examine a kitschy camel statue, and he playfully flips around the zipper pull on my coat.

“This place is…so us,” he says.

“Tell me about it,” I say, unable to argue.

I can see it out of the corner of my eye. Gabriel is watching us flirt, and it makes me ill at ease, though his face remains stony, unflinching. Couldn’t he at least display the teensiest hint of jealousy?

“Whatever. Since we’re here, might as well make the most of it,” Kerry says, grabbing Gabriel’s hand and yanking him toward a remote cluster of trees.

“We’ll, uh, see you guys later!” Gabriel adds without putting up a fight.

For a split second, I’m relieved when Kerry is getting Gabriel out of my line of sight. But then, I grimace at the thought of them going off and doing God knows what. I tell myself repeatedly it’s a good thing they’re making themselves scarce; only then can I successfully complete my Desert of Maine mission. I have an objective, after all. I turn toward C. J., feeling determined.

“Come with me!” I command.

“After you, Princess.”

I stop in my tracks. Hearing him refer to me in the same way he did then causes my skin to break out into goose pimples.

“Is that what I called you? Princess?” he asks.

I nod. This is too much. It feels so…been there, done that. Because it has been done.

I resume my search for the perfect place in which to enact my plot and walk C. J. to an area that has particularly smooth sand. Even though it’s winter, we’re in the midst of a warm snap, so today is just temperate enough that the top layer of silt isn’t frozen.

I get on my hands and knees and take my index finger and pull it through the granules. I draw one large and very involved set of hieroglyphs. If only I could still execute this with the speed I did before. I spend quite a few moments at work while C. J. stands there watching me, patiently, thoughtfully.

Then, it’s all out there.

I’m praying that he can translate these two
-
dimensional figures in a variety of bowing and dancing poses, and the strange accumulation of symbols, both abstract and animal in nature. Maybe my hopes are too high, though lately I’ve been inadvertently overshooting them.

“Any idea what this says?” I ask, apprehensive. Wanting so badly for him to have even more of a connection to our past than he already does.

“Are you asking me to the Turnaround Dance?” C. J. asks quizzically. His brows rise to a point over his eyes, which look especially golden. I attribute this to the way the light is bouncing off the sand. I can even make out circular lines within his pupils. Has he earned more with each lifetime, as a tree earns them with each year?

“You can read it?” I ask, brimming with joy.

“No, but it is November,” he explains, playfully kicking at the sand with his shoe.

“So much for that,” I say, sighing. I pout a little. I can’t help it. Though the more I think about it, he probably couldn’t decipher hieroglyphics then, either. He wasn’t exactly a native, or a free man, and learning to read probably wasn’t allowed. Yet another failure to chalk up to the collection. Or is it…

“But if it makes you feel better, the answer is yes.”

C. J. pulls me into his arms and rests his chin on top of my head. We’re a perfect fit. Like two halves of a whole. I could stand like this forever, molding myself into the open spaces of his body. He takes a hold of my hair and maneuvers my face so that he can kiss me. Again giving me what I was denied in my former life. I delight in his touch, the way our breath fuses.

But suddenly…

I’m pulled; I’m sucked; I’m pushed.

I’m met with the blackest darkness. I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

The world is closing in
—
is this the end?

20

I
’m drowning. I’m buried alive.

This can’t be water, because it feels like Jell
-
O. Or molasses. Maybe glue?

I gasp for air. My lungs feel as though they’re burning. I’m falling slowly, ever so slowly, deeper and deeper still. I try to struggle. I long to fight it, but I can barely move. I’m too weighed down. There is no wiggle room. I’m encased, enveloped, enrobed. My chest is being compressed, my whole body crushed, like I’m in a trash compactor.

Something…someone? Reaches around my shoulders, and I’m pulled upward. Finally, my limbs, my body has been extracted, providing a sense of freedom, of release. I’m then dragged to solid ground, where I lie, exhausted.

“Don’t open your eyes!” I hear Kerry cry out, though it’s barely audible. It feels like I have water in my ears, just as I do after I go swimming, but this is even more troublesome because it’s actually sand that’s worked its way into my tiny canals.

I keep my lids shut tight to prevent errant grains from entering my eyeballs. I reach out my hand and feel C. J. sitting next to me on top of the desert’s surface. I spit and choke and wretch. C. J. is hacking away as well. When I bite down, there’s a slight crunching noise, as I swallow some of the wet, silty concoction that surrounded me.

Somebody
—
probably Kerry
—
gently wipes away at my face until I’m finally confident that opening my eyes won’t cause retinal damage and that opening my mouth won’t result in a stronger flavor of dirt than I’m already tasting.

Marvin runs up to us, looking shocked but not as horrified as Gabriel, who’s pacing back and forth nervously, wringing his hands.

“Can both of you talk? You aren’t choking if you can talk!” Kerry screams.

“Annabeth, say something!”

“I can talk, Kerry! I can talk,” I sputter, though my throat feels raw, chafed.

“What happened?” asks the overseer nervously.

“They got sucked down in quicksand. Like, instantaneously. And Gabriel saved them!” cries Kerry.

“I didn’t think quicksand was real. I thought that was invented for movies,” I admit, rubbing my hands on my pants, though that doesn’t help clean them since my pants are filthier than they are.

“It’s real all right. But I’ve never seen it here. The sand must’ve gotten doused in water somehow. Maybe snow melted and infiltrated the sand?” Marvin asks while rubbing his sparse hair, probably wondering if he’ll be held liable for the incident. “See, this is what happens when I do favors. No good deed…,” he groans under his breath.

“It was weird how quickly we were taken under. Despite its name, I thought quicksand works pretty slowly,” confesses C. J.

“What I don’t understand is how you could’ve pulled them both out, working against that sort of suction,” Marvin says to Gabriel in wonder.

“It must’ve been the adrenaline,” Gabriel finally chimes in, his jaw clenched in distress, the muscles working so hard I can see them from where I’m sitting.

I watch as C. J. goes over and silently embraces his brother in gratitude for saving us. But Gabriel winces. He isn’t basking in the afterglow of a good deed well done. His face becomes a mask of detachment. If only I could tell…

Does he look responsible?

Does he look guilty?

Quicksand is a naturally occurring phenomenon. Because of its viscosity, it’s supposed to be impossible for a human to become completely submerged in it. To so much as remove a foot from quicksand would require the same amount of force as “that needed to lift a medium
-
sized car.” And I know all this is true because I found it on Wikipedia.

What transpired at the Desert of Maine should’ve been impossible.

Unless magic was at hand…

I have my suspicions. But I don’t want to accept them. Especially when I work with the potential perpetrator.

I work the stand while Mrs. Lansing goes to grab some change. Which means I’m the only one on hand to greet Gabriel as he shows up to drop off some appraisal paperwork. He seems uneasy because of this forced interaction, and the feeling is mutual. But I don’t want there to be continued awkwardness between us. So I’m determined to strike up a conversation as though nothing strange has happened.

Don’t they say to keep your enemies closer?

This is too close for comfort. Though strangely, I wish I was even closer.

“I didn’t get a chance to properly thank you for what you did at the Desert of Maine.”

Gabriel looks displeased, like I’ve overstepped my bounds by addressing it. Even though something of that magnitude could never go unspoken.

“You don’t need to thank me. Anyone else would’ve done the same,” he says stiffly.

“They might’ve tried, but I don’t know if they would’ve succeeded!”

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” he replies defensively.

“Can you tell me more about what happened?” I ask.

Gabriel hesitates. It’s obvious that he doesn’t want to discuss it in detail but probably feels he has no choice.

“I don’t know. I mean, I saw the two of you kissing and I…found it pretty damned upsetting. Can you blame me?”

I shake my head. I can’t.

“And I’m not proud of this, but I wished for the ground to swallow you up right there. And then…it did,” Gabriel says, clearly trying to accept this but not wanting to let it in.

“I see,” I say calmly. Attemping to contain my fear, even though it threatens to ooze out of every pore.

“Maybe your reincarnation ideas aren’t so crazy after all. Maybe it happened before. I think that’s why I thought it could happen. Because it already did.”

I’m gratified that he’s finally beginning to suspend his disbelief, but the reasoning is off. I think he may have unwittingly pushed us down into the quicksand with his magic powers. But whatever helps him sleep at night, I suppose.

“We need some time apart. I’m going to ask Mrs. Lansing to schedule us separately for a while,” he says.

“So now I’m getting punished? You’re the one who stepped aside. You let me go. You let us go,” I say, trying not to sound as bitter about it as I really am. Even now. And obviously I did more damage to Gabriel than I’d realized, although it was involuntary.

“It’s for the best,” he says consolingly.

“Whatever you say,” I respond, though my tone is probably giving away too much. Gabriel doesn’t look the least bit comforted by my sorrow. In fact, he looks even more hurt. And I’m guessing more confused.

Mrs. Lansing returns, and Gabriel bids us both a hasty farewell. Mrs. Lansing looks at me questioningly. “What’s going on between you two now?”

“Nothing much. Just that Gabriel was an evil sorcerer in ancient Egypt, and I fear that he’s unknowingly accessing his black magic from his past life.”

Mrs. Lansing stops short. “Annabeth, that’s absurd. I’m willing to entertain most of your notions, but Gabriel isn’t evil and never was. I know him well enough to say that beyond a doubt.”

“You haven’t seen what I’ve seen. You weren’t there.”

“Please. If he were so powerful, would he waste his time working at the flea?”

I shrug, knowing that this is hard for her to accept because she’s so fond of him, which is why I put off this talk as long as I did. “None of it makes sense if we apply the laws of physics, of nature. Gabriel had to have caused that accident at the Desert.”

Mrs. Lansing shakes her head resolutely. “You know I’m open
-
minded. But maybe it was just a freak occurrence that had nothing to do with magic. Let’s face it; that is the likelier story,” Mrs. Lansing points out.

“I hope you’re right.”

I grow quiet, wishing that I could be as confident and as rational as she sounds. But I fear what’s swaying her isn’t logic but emotion.

“Please, don’t accuse him of anything right now. And certainly don’t share your theory with C. J. Gabriel’s dealing with enough as it is.”

All of this causes my head to spin in bewilderment. I want to be there for Gabriel, help him through. I want to be on his side…carefully, quietly. I can’t make any more waves, cause any more problems. Especially when I’m convinced that even if he is a purveyor of black magic, it isn’t really his fault. So for now, I’ll keep it all to myself. I decide to settle into my silence. I owe Gabriel that much.

I’m slowly learning to erase Gabriel from my mind. The close proximity to C. J. helps. He’s everywhere. I can nonchalantly keep tabs on him by seeing whether or not his bedroom light is on, and I imagine he probably does the same with me.

I peer out my arched window and see that he’s left his blinds open. He’s home, studying, just as I am. Maybe algebra will be a little less miserable if we work on it together. So I text him with an invitation to come over. He looks up at me and nods in agreement, arriving with a book in hand and a hopeful look on his face.

“So, where are your parents?”

“They’re out.”

“They are?” asks C. J., beaming. He takes my hand, pulling me along behind him, and we run up the stairway. We enter my mishmash of a room, and he closes the door.

“I don’t have a lock…And they could be back any minute,” I say quietly. Though he does not seem dissuaded by that idea. In fact, he looks even more intent than before. And I have to admit, that element of danger
—
the idea that we could get caught
—
adds to the allure of messing around.

My hieroglyphics loom in the background, as do some small pharaonic statues I picked up at the flea for a song. They can’t touch what was in the storage room from my memory, but they’re decent stand
-
ins. I’m hoping this will be an accurate re
-
creation of the scene from ancient Egypt that I wasn’t able to see to completion.

C. J. gently pushes me backward, leaning me up against the wall. My shoulders rest against it, and my hands slide in around his waist. He lowers his face and rests his cheek on mine. His eyelashes fan against my skin.

“Oh, Annabeth…”

C. J. kisses me, slowly, deliberately, taking his time as he goes deeper, gets more intense. Then he seems to think the better of it and stops.

“Is this what it felt like…to kiss me…back then?”

“I wish I could remember, but I don’t,” I say with a sigh.

“I’m kind of relieved. Then I won’t suffer by comparison.”

He grows pensive, his brow furrowed, and I know what he’s thinking. It’s obvious.

“I didn’t kiss Gabriel either. It never got to that point,” I say, hoping to disguise any hint of sadness.

“I would’ve understood if it had, but I’m happy that it didn’t,” C. J. admits.

“Um, let’s not talk about your brother right now. It’s kind of a buzzkill.”

I run my hand over C. J.’s chest, and then I feel something bumpy beneath his thin cotton tee. I push my hand up under his shirt and over his abs, which are washboard, washboard, washboard…Then I finally reach it. It’s shaped like a bullet. It’s his scar.

The scar!

“How did you get this?”

“Oh that? It’s just a birthmark.”

“You had this back then. They branded you when you were enslaved.”

C. J. considers this. A birthmark he’s known his whole life has its own origin story. That might be enough to put a damper on his mood. But it’s not.

“It’s fitting…because I’ll always be a slave to you.”

I gasp, awash in newly awakened emotion. We move to the bed, but I make sure things don’t go too fast or too far. The ramifications wouldn’t be quite as severe as they were in ancient Egypt, but this is still fraught with danger. If my parents catch us, we won’t live to tell the tale.