Destined (5 page)

Too skinny, but cute
.

Corinthe shook her head. She must have hit it during the accident: he was human, and she could hardly ever
tell the difference between humans. But something about this boy seemed different.…

He started to reach behind her, to lift her out. The fog in her head cleared immediately.

“Don’t touch me,” she said.

“I’m just trying to help.” His voice was low. For a second, his tan hand skated along her shoulder, sending a chill through her. It felt like the touch of the firefly’s wings against her palm, uncomfortable but welcome at the same time. “Look—you’re bleeding. You were in an accident. Do you remember anything?”

The accident. The firefly. Corinthe slid out from the car and pushed the boy out of her way with her elbow.

“Hey!” He tried to stop her, but Corinthe shoved her way through the thick crowd of people. She clenched her fist tighter around the tiny spirit, which fluttered in her palm in protest. The wail of sirens grew louder, getting closer by the second.

She had to get away.

She ran as fast as she could. She ignored the shouts, growing fainter behind her, tried to push the feel of the boy’s touch out of her mind.

Her steps pounded on the concrete, taking her farther away from the disorder behind her. Her lungs burned, but she couldn’t stop. Not yet.

The firefly pulsed inside her closed fist.

There was still one more thing she had to do.

Lucas watched as the girl disappeared into the crowd, her shock of tangled blond hair obscured by the smoke.

For a second, he was torn. He had an instinctive desire to follow her. She had the craziest eyes he’d ever seen.… Gray, but tinged almost with purple, like the bay reflecting the sunset.

And that streak of blood across her forehead—it looked like she’d been hurt pretty bad. Poor girl. The woman in the car … he hoped it wasn’t her mom. Christ. She was probably in shock, running blind.

But she was already gone, lost in the throng of people that was swelling by the minute. Two police cars with flashing lights screeched to a stop at the intersection. Several people, Luc noticed, were filming the action on their phones. Sick.

Maybe he should have tried harder to stop the girl. She might have a serious head injury. She might need help.

Luc glanced back at the wreck again, really
seeing
it this time. The car still hissed like an angry snake and a figure was slumped over the steering wheel. Luc’s stomach lurched. He took several deep breaths, then moved out of the way as a pair of EMTs came running past him. He wanted to walk away, but for some reason he was rooted to the spot, both terrified and transfixed.

Cop cars, sirens, accidents—they always did that to him.

In under a minute, more emergency vehicles converged, their red revolving lights casting a dim, blood-colored glow over everything. A hush fell over the crowd and Luc watched a paramedic wheel a gurney away from the car. The figure on it was covered with a white sheet.

The lights, the people in white jackets all brought back sickening memories. His chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. When he was six, he’d found his mom passed out in the kitchen and had to call 911. And just last week, it was Jasmine who’d been loaded in the back of an ambulance. She’d taken Ecstasy at a party and passed out. Thankfully, one of her friends had at least called 911. Luc didn’t even remember getting the phone call, or making the drive to the hospital, half blind with fear. It wasn’t until he’d reached the parking lot that he realized he’d left the house without any shoes.

Jasmine had recovered. Thank God. But Luc was still furious with her—for doing drugs, for going off her antidepressants without telling anyone.

Again.

Luc turned away from the accident. Blood pounded in his ears, making everything sound distorted. He worked his way out of the mass of people crowded around the wrecked car and the ambulances. The air drifting off the bay felt cool against his skin. He drove his hands deeper into the pockets of his army jacket to keep them warm.

The street was crowded with cars, backed up by the accident, and the blast of horns punctuated the evening.

Luc sent a quick text to his girlfriend, letting her know he was running late. Karen hated it when he was late. And she was still pissed at him for missing dinner with her parents last week. He was going to have to be extra nice tonight.

He walked toward Market and caught a bus going south, toward the Mission, and descended when it stopped at Twenty-Second Street. Bright lights illuminated window displays full of bold-colored clothing and artwork. People were crammed together at the tiny tables outside various cafes, laughing and clinking glasses. The lit windows of the high-rises in the distance looked like rows and rows of teeth, grinning down at him.

Like he was being watched.

He lowered his head and hurried toward Trinity Café. He saw her before she saw him. She sat at an outside table. Her tanned legs were crossed, and he noticed a delicate gold-and-diamond anklet encircling one of her thin ankles. A gift from her dad, probably. She had recently cut and highlighted her hair, and for one second, in the half dark, he almost didn’t recognize her.

If not for the
Bay Sun Skeptic
, the school’s alternate newspaper, he might never have talked to Karen. He had joined on a whim after his guidance counselor told him that even with his soccer skills, he’d have a better chance getting into UC Berkeley if he seemed more “well rounded.” The
Skeptic
was the school’s answer to the
Onion
, and Luc found—mostly to his surprise—that he liked writing columns and sketching the occasional cartoon.

And, of course, he liked the editor in chief: Karen.

He remembered the first time they had ever hung out. He had stuck around after a meeting at her house to help her clean up. He had been soaping up the dishes in her pristine kitchen when Karen appeared next to him, laughing.

“Luc, stop.” Karen had reached into the sink to flick soap bubbles at him. “Leave them; Leticia will clean up the rest of the mess. I want to show you something. Come on.”

It was the easy way she’d grinned at him—her hazel eyes had lit up with excitement—that made him set the towel down.

“Ready?” she’d asked, and grabbed his hand.

He could only nod, too distracted by the way her hand felt to speak. He followed her upstairs, where she opened a narrow door and they went up another set of stairs, this set very steep. They had to walk single file; the walls pressed so close they nearly brushed his shoulders. It was dark, too. He heard the slide of a lock and another, narrower, door creaked open.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Just close your eyes,” she said, “and trust me.”

For some bizarre reason, he did. Even though she could have been leading him straight out an open window, for all he knew. He felt wind on his skin—they had to be on some kind of deck. She led him forward a few feet. He could hear her breathing nearby.

“Open,” she said.

They were standing on a small roof deck. It had an ornate wrought-iron railing on all four sides, and behind it the San Francisco skyline twinkled like thousands of fireflies in the distance.

“So, what do you think?” Karen asked breathlessly.

For a second he couldn’t speak. “It’s … amazing.”

“Captains’ wives used these to watch for their husbands returning from sea. They call it a widow’s walk. Isn’t that tragic?”

He had nodded.

“Anyway, I come up here when I just want to chill. When things get too stressful. Up here, everything is okay.” As she said this, she inched closer to him, until her shoulder was touching his upper arm.

He couldn’t imagine that anything about her life was stressful. She lived in a beautiful house. Her parents actually seemed to like each other. She’d already been accepted to Stanford.

“It’s sort of … my special place, you know. Mom is scared of heights and Dad gets claustrophobic in the stairwell.” She laughed and casually slid her fingers through his. “I wanted to show it to you, though.”

Then she looked up at him and smiled.

That was the beginning.

Now Karen was talking on her phone and at the same time gesturing for a waiter to bring her more water. She did that a lot. Talked to people without looking at them, talked to Luc
while
talking to other people.

When she finally saw him, she muttered a quick goodbye and put down her phone. Luc leaned down to kiss her, but she barely skimmed his lips before pulling away.

Oh yeah, she was still mad.

“You’re late,” she said as he slid into the seat across from her.

“Sorry, there was a crazy serious accident on Divisadero. I think someone got killed.”

Her eyes went wide. Instantly, he could tell he’d been forgiven. She reached out to twine her fingers with his. His pulse jumped under her touch. Her hands were so soft; she used lotion on them every day. “Smell,” she was always saying. “Like cucumber and pomegranate, right?”

“Holy shit. That’s crazy. I thought you were going to pull a no-show …”

He said nothing. His attention was still on her hands. They looked delicate next to his tan, callused fingers. Working part-time at the Marina was not glamorous by any stretch; after the first week, he’d had a blister the size of a quarter on his palm.

So different
.

Karen lived in the biggest house Luc had ever seen. They had gardeners and a live-in housekeeper. Luc
lived in a cramped apartment with his sister and dad, where the hot water only worked about half the time and he did his own laundry in the creepy basement of the building.

They had next to nothing in common, but for whatever reason, Karen had chosen him. He still had a hard time believing it. She was one of the hottest girls in school. And he was just … normal. Run-of-the-mill. Not stupid, but not too smart either. Not a dork, but not super popular. The only thing he even remotely excelled at was soccer, and recently he’d spent just as much time getting benched for bad behavior as he did on the field. That was what it felt like, at least.

Being with Karen made him forget, at least temporarily, about all the things that were bad and wrong and screwy and cramped in his life—about the dishes in the sink and the ants nesting in the cabinets, the piles of bills shoved into the TV console, the smell of weed that clung to Jasmine’s clothing when she came home from hanging out with her new boyfriend, and the bags of empty beer cans Luc had to cart out for recycling every other day because his dad was too hungover to do it.

But forgetting wasn’t enough—not anymore. Every day he expected to … feel more for her, yet the hollowness inside him never really went away.

“So,” Karen said, with false casualness, “I might have a surprise for you tomorrow night.
If
you actually show on time.” She quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Oh yeah?” Luc smiled at her. “Do I get a hint?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.” She leaned forward, her T-shirt slipping down a little bit over her left shoulder so he could see the lacy black strap of her bra. The one with red hearts sewn onto it: her favorite. “Bring a toothbrush. It involves sleeping over.”

Luc felt a thrill race up his spine. A few fumbling seconds of third base were as far as things had gone between them in the three months they’d been going out. But maybe she was finally ready to go further. There it was: the power of forgetting. “It’s your birthday, Karen. Aren’t I supposed to be getting
you
a present?”

She lowered her eyes and smiled at him. That smile made his whole body electric; he loved it when she looked at him like that. “This is a present both of us can enjoy.”

Luc leaned forward. He felt a familiar surge of adrenaline. “I can’t wait,” he said honestly.

“
Only
if you’re on time,” she repeated. For a second, she looked almost pained.

They flirted through the rest of the meal—three pizza slices for him, one “skinny” slice for her—and by the time dessert arrived, a triple chocolate cake that he made her try one bite of despite her halfhearted protests, Luc felt totally relaxed. More than relaxed—happy.

Until he looked up and saw T.J. sauntering down the street. T.J. was a deadbeat DJ Jasmine insisted on calling a friend, even though he was at least twenty. Instantly, Luc’s nerves were on edge again. T.J. had that effect on him: every time T.J. came around, Luc felt like somebody had jump-started his body with the wrong cables.
It was those stupid wannabe gangster clothes, the lazy smile, the hooded eyes that reminded Luc of a reptile. He knew T.J. dealt, knew that T.J. had probably given Jas the Ecstasy that sent her to the hospital. She denied it, said she’d bought it from some random guy at the party, but Luc didn’t believe her.

When T.J. caught Luc’s eye, he lifted a hand lazily in greeting. “Dude. What’s up?”

“Screw off, T.J.” It took a conscious effort not to jump across the table and crack him in the face. Karen was already giving him “the look,” and starting a fight in the street would only get him into more trouble—with her, and with his coach.