For Ever (11 page)

I look up and notice that the light from
outside seems even drearier than usual. Standing, I cross to the
salad bar and grab an orange. I stop and look up through the glass
at the sky. Instead of the typical gray above, the sky is a
menacing black. I shiver and start heading back toward our table.
On the way, I catch sight of Jeff. He’s sitting with his arm around
Emily Michaels. Had talking to other girls been enough to make him
interesting again to his fickle girlfriend? I wonder smugly. When I
get back to our table, Ashley points at me.

“Guess who Wren’s partnered with in Art for
the portrait.”

“No way!” Lindsay says, turning to look at
me. “What’s with that?”

I swallow.

“It sucks,” I grimace. “He’s going to look
like a troll when I get done.”

Marcus and Josh howl, thrilled by this
possibility.

“Impossible,” Lindsay scoffs. In my ear, she
whispers, “And poor you. You get to stare at him all week.”

I give her a lopsided smile and look down at
my homework.

“You guys are in Trig. Does anybody want to
tell me what I did wrong on my Algebra homework before Bellarmine
flunks me?” I ask, trying to change subjects.

Marcus frowns.

“Hey, how come you’re not in Trig this
year?”

I shrug.

“Mathematical impairment. It’s a recessive
gene on my mom’s side.”

“You forgot a minus sign on that one,” Josh
says from behind me.

I glance to my right and then flinch as he
leans over and rests his hand next to mine.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

This is exactly what I was hoping wouldn’t
happen. Erasing the problem, I try to think up a covert way of
forcing Josh to register that Taylor has a huge crush on him—before
she assassinates me with poison darts. Besides, something tells me
that Josh and I would get along just fine if he would give up
whatever skewed romantic ideal of the new girl that he’s made up in
his head. But my own double standard makes me frown. Wouldn’t
I
be better off if I took my own advice—and ignored my
alternating fascination and aggravation with Ever Casey?

As I walk to the bus stop after sixth period,
the sky still looks like it’s about to unleash, but I’ve already
turned down Josh’s umpteenth offer of a ride. I can’t in good
conscience accept when I know that he lives in the opposite
direction from my house. Debating for a second, I put on my
headphones and walk past the bus stop, feeling a sudden thrill in
doing something different. I haven’t gone running or done any real
exercise since the move, and I could use some.

Walking briskly, I estimate that it should
take forty-five minutes—an hour tops—to get home. Walking such a
distance for transportation purposes in L.A. would be considered
grounds for institutionalization, but Oregonians don’t seem as
opposed to bipedal transportation.

When I’m about halfway home, a crack of
thunder crashes above me. I look up, and a huge drop smacks me on
the forehead. Within a few seconds it’s pouring, even harder than
it did over the weekend. I pull up my hood and cinch it as tight as
possible, reducing my peripheral vision to zero. I reason that at
least my head will stay dry.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I know
without looking that it’s my mom. She’s working the evening shift,
having always preferred nights to early mornings, even if it means
she sometimes gets home long after I’ve gone to sleep. I miss her,
but there’s no point in making her feel any guiltier than she
already does about the move.

“Hey, Mom. How’s work?”

She sighs.

“Oh, you know. The usual. Craziness. Two
readmits. One guy is refusing to take his meds. Another walked into
the local convenience store in his underwear and a ball cap.
Alzheimer’s. So sad. The family was worried sick. Lots of
paperwork.”

“Wow. Sounds like you’ve got your hands
full.”

My mom thrives on drama and dysfunction, even
if she won’t admit to it. Honestly, though, I don’t know how well
she would handle it if I suddenly became an out-of-control
teenager. She likes fixing other people’s problems, which makes
sense. Other people’s issues are much less daunting.

“What’s that noise?” she asks.

I laugh.

“That would be water pouring from the
sky.”

There’s a long pause, and I hear a chair
rolling.

“You’re
walking
? In this? Wren, could
you have picked a worse day?”

Laughing, I stop on the curb and watch the
blinking red hand from the traffic light.

“I needed some exercise. Plus, my feet are
dry,” I say optimistically.

I wiggle my toes. I’m actually not sure how
much longer my new boots are going to withstand the downpour.
Either way, I’m going to need ten showers just to defrost. When she
speaks, my mom’s voice is muffled, and I can tell she’s not talking
to me.

“Call Dr. Carson in radiology.” To me, she
says, “Are you going to be all right on your own tonight?”

“I’ve got plenty to keep me busy. And if I
get really bored, there’s always laundry.”

“I just feel bad leaving you alone in the
house all night. Call me the minute you get inside so I know you
got home all right.”

The walk signal comes to life, and I step off
the curb into a growing river of run-off, feeling the first hint of
dampness in my socks. So much for waterproofing.

“Mom, I’ll be fi—”

A high-pitched screech followed by the
sickening crunch of metal draws my attention. Turning, I see a red
two-door car spun out crookedly in the middle of the intersection
half a football field to my right. A dark-blue sedan is plowed into
its rear fender. I can’t figure out why the driver of the red car
would have slammed on his brakes there of all places.

Then I see it.

A super-sized silver pickup, no headlights.
It’s right on top of me. My eyes lock with the driver’s
heavy-lidded, bloodshot eyes, and I see a snarled image of empty
beer bottles on an oak bar. There’s another man—the
bartender—shaking his head. The next second my own image is
reflected back on me. It’s blurred by the man’s drunkenness.

That’s when I realize: he’s not going to
stop.

But my life doesn’t flash before my eyes.
Instead, for some reason, I think I have enough time to step back
onto the curb before I get flattened. It’s an illusion, though—one
of those tricks your brain plays right before you’re going to die.
I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.

The grille of the pickup truck is inches from
my face when something wraps around my waist. I look up at Ever
Casey’s face. Then I feel a shockwave. At the edge of my vision, I
see the truck skittering away like a piece of paper being blown by
a strong gust of wind. Everything goes black, and it feels like the
entire world has stopped spinning, throwing gravity off
balance.

My chest spasms, and I gasp for air. I’m so
sick to my stomach that I don’t even care about the pickup truck.
And that’s when reality hits me full force. I’ve already been
hit.

I’m dead
.

How strange. I had always been afraid of
blackness, nothing—losing my conscious mind. And here I am thinking
… about being dead. A rude voice interrupts my contemplation.

“You’re not dead,” it hisses acerbically.

I frown at the familiar cynicism. My vision
is still black, and it takes a second to figure out that my eyes
are squeezed shut and my hands are balled into fists. I blink,
which makes my stomach pitch with a wave of nausea. I close my eyes
again, letting my head continue to spin in the darkness.

“Are you injured? Can you move?” the voice
asks.

“Um,” I mumble, trying to place the
overwhelming sense of déjà vu.

The voice is civil now, but clipped in a way
that implies haste. I shake my head, not even sure which question
I’m responding to. I don’t think I’m hurt, just sick to my stomach.
I open my eyes again, relieved not to feel quite so nauseous this
time. I take an extended moment to study the pair of jeans in front
of me. In the background I hear the wail of sirens. They’re getting
louder. My eyes drift downward. There’s wet concrete beneath me.
I’m sitting on a curb. And my jeans are soaked through. A hand
grasps my elbow, and before I know it, I’m standing.

Please don’t throw up, Wren. Anything but
that
, I plead silently.

Turning my head to the right, I finally see
the source of the sirens. A fire engine, followed by an ambulance.
And there’s a pickup truck—the one that should have hit me—crunched
into a lamppost across the street. I watch as a dazed man stumbles
from the truck, a grisly gash leaking blood across his cheek.
Before I can straighten out my thoughts, I’m abruptly being lowered
into the passenger seat of a black sedan. What worries me more is
that I’m too dizzy to question it. Instead, I watch in fascination
as an arm reaches across me and clicks my seatbelt into place.

The car door whooshes shut, and I grimace at
the smell of the expensive leather that I’m probably ruining.
Everything is suddenly too silent, with the exception of the
heater, which must be on high because I’m starting to feel my
fingers again. It’s only when my back presses into the seat that I
realize the car is moving at a speed suggesting jet propulsion. I
turn tentatively and study the profile that has illogically
scorched itself into my brain. My thoughts suddenly speed up.

“
Wait
! Aren’t we fleeing the scene of
an accident?”

“Were you in an accident?” Ever Casey asks
with a sidelong glance in my direction.

I have to stop and think about this. One
second I was crossing the street in the pouring rain; the next
there was a pickup truck about to mow me down.

“Um … I guess not. But then how … ?”

He glances at me, his expression quizzical,
before returning his attention to driving.

“I found you dazed on the side of the road.
You must have jumped out of the way of that truck. Then I helped
you to the curb. Perhaps you hit your head when you fell.” He looks
back at me. “Are you feeling all right now?”

I nod uncertainly while I begin to run this
version of events through my mind. My head is still aching, so the
dizziness makes sense, sort of. But when I try to picture myself
leaping out of the way of a speeding vehicle, I can’t do it. No one
I know would ever accuse me of being that agile—not by a long shot.
I strain my memory, latching onto a hazy image of a pickup truck
floating away from me. I try to grip the image, but it feels like
it’s being pulled away from me.

A vibration against my hip makes me jump, and
I wince as the edge of the seatbelt cuts painfully into my
collarbone. Then I remember—my mom! I was on the phone with her.
But I was holding my phone when … I shake my head, cutting short my
analysis of how I’m not dead and how my phone made its way into my
pocket.

“Mom?”

“Wren, are you all right?” Her voice is laced
with the same panic from the day I woke up in the hospital. “I
heard a screeching sound, and then your phone cut out. I thought
something happened. I’ve been calling …”

Her voice cuts off in a half-sob.

“Mom, calm down. There was an accident across
the street. Sorry, I forgot to call you back.”

She sighs, and I feel a stab of guilt, though
I’m not sure why. It’s not like I even remember exactly what
happened. This fact, unfortunately, doesn’t make me feel
better.

“Honey, you nearly gave me a heart attack.
Are you still walking?”

I sigh as her normal level of maternal
anxiety sets in.
Tread carefully here
, a voice in my head
tells me.

“Um, a friend from school was passing by and
offered me a ride.”

I can almost hear her mind clicking through
the names I’ve mentioned over the past few weeks.

“Ashley?” she asks, the relief evident in her
voice.

“It’s …”

I pause uncomfortably and glance in Ever’s
direction.

“Oh! It’s that boy, isn’t it? What’s his
name? Jake? Josh!”

She’s talking loud enough that he can
probably hear her. I feel my cheeks flushing.
Restrain yourself,
Mother
, I think savagely.

“I’ve gotta go, Mom. Love you.”

I snap the phone closed. When I look around,
I’m more than a little surprised to see that the car has stopped
moving. Turning toward the driver’s side, I find Ever Casey
watching me, waiting for me to finish the awkward conversation with
my mom. Just like every other time I’ve looked at his face, I can’t
stop staring. On the bright side, I’ve grown slightly more
comfortable with—or at least accustomed to—his mental muteness. I
had always thought that hearing people’s thoughts was awkward; now
complete silence feels even weirder. It doesn’t matter, though,
because it’s not like I can ask him why I can’t hear him without
revealing that I can snoop around people’s heads.

Well … everyone’s head except for his.

I can’t think of a single thing to say, so I
look out the window, squinting through the heavily tinted glass
that’s being blurred by the downpour. The house outside—it’s mine.
This new piece of information sends my brain spinning all over
again. Given I’ve never had a complete conversation with him, how
did this guy know where I live? I turn to face him and raise an
eyebrow. The idea of him stalking me is laughable, for obvious
reasons. On the other hand, I can see people stalking him.

“I asked where you lived when I found
you.”

Suddenly I know how people must feel when I
answer their unspoken questions: spooked and annoyed.

“You don’t remember?” he prompts. His
beautiful features have rearranged themselves into a mask of polite
concern. “Perhaps you hit your head harder than I thought. I’ll
take you to the hospital.”

He puts one hand on the steering wheel and
flicks on the turn signal. My stomach seizes when I imagine my
mom’s expression if I were to show up at the hospital for a second
time. She would never let me leave the house again. Reflexively, I
reach out and grab his sleeve.