For Ever (14 page)

“So, Wren. You never said if you’re coming
with us tomorrow,” Lindsay says.

Dress shopping. Now I feel like a complete
jerk for skipping out on this conversation yesterday. It’s not like
it did me any good. I study the table for a moment, trying not to
look like I’m facing execution. I’ve already gotten a preview of
how the dance is going to look if I go: three couples and me. I
imagine if there’s one thing worse than a dance with a date whose
toes I would step on, it’s being the token single person.

“I definitely want to go with you guys, but
I’m not … I can’t go to the dance,” I finish lamely.

“You’re not going?” Ashley asks, clearly
stunned.

I’m actually surprised that everyone’s so
excited about it since, to my knowledge, dances had never been that
big of a deal at Pali. I scrounge around in my head for an ironclad
excuse, but the one that comes to mind makes me feel sick. One,
because it’s a lie. And, two, because the last thing I want to do
is visit my father.

“I promised my dad I’d fly down to Southern
California.”

Josh looks at me funny. Belatedly, I remember
that I had told him the truth. When he doesn’t rat me out, I want
to hug him.

“That sucks,” Lindsay says.

I shrug and shake my head.

On the way to English, it occurs to me that
Josh has been less
attentive
since our dancing incident.
It’s nice, less awkward, for both of us. As we chat about the short
paper we have coming up, I finally decide that it’s as good a time
as any to ask about Ever Casey. After all, anything I can find out
might improve my chances of survival.

“Hey, Josh. Do you know anything
real
about Ever Casey? Like where he transferred from or who his family
is? Does anybody know why he’s here?”

What I really want to ask is: what planet is
he from?

Josh’s face darkens. It was a risk asking
him, both because of his potential reaction and Ever possibly
overhearing. The fact is that I have no idea about the range of
Ever’s eavesdropping capabilities. He might be able to read my
thoughts from the other side of the world, while I’m limited to
people I’m staring in the face.

“The guy’s a complete zombie, and you’re all
totally obsessed,” Josh says, slicing through my paranoid fantasy.
“What’s with that? I just don’t get girls.”

I suppress a smile. He doesn’t sound angry
with me as much as exasperated with all females. I shake my head,
even though I don’t exactly know how I feel about Ever. The only
thing I’m sure of is that something I saw behind his eyes isn’t
right. It was dark, possibly even dangerous.

“It’s not that.” I exhale. What can I say?
That I think he’s a super-secret evil comic book villain out to get
us all? “I mean, he kind of—”

“Freaks you out?” Josh finishes for me.

I shrug guiltily. What had Ever Casey done to
me? Nothing, other than pull me out of harm’s way on multiple
occasions. But I can’t think of a better way of explaining it. When
we reach Mrs. Rose’s classroom Josh cuffs me on the shoulder.

“Jeez, Wren. Don’t sound so guilty. The guy
brings it on himself. It’s too bad you missed his friends. It was
freaks-ville around here for a while.”

My skin prickles.

“Friends?”

Ever Casey had
friends
? I can’t
imagine it.

“They were exchange students or something.
They were here last semester for a millisecond before they went
back to somewhere in Europe, or wherever they were from. And get
this …” He rolls his eyes. “They didn’t talk, either. The three of
them all sitting around like zombies.”

Too good for all us mortals
.

I see an image of Ever sitting at his table
in the cafeteria flanked by a young man and woman. Their images in
Josh’s mind are blurry, just like his memory of Ever. I try to hold
the vision of the three of them, but it evaporates.

“Wren, will you be joining us this
afternoon?”

Mrs. Rose is staring at me. I look around and
notice that Josh is already in his seat. How long had I been
staring off into nothing?

“Sorry,” I mumble.

I rush to take my seat next to Josh, and Mrs.
Rose starts her lecture on selected chapters from Herman Melville’s
Moby-Dick
. We’ve been analyzing Captain Ahab, the crazy ship
captain obsessed with the white whale. In a strange way, I feel
like I can relate to Melville’s fictional seafarer, who is so
consumed by his quest that he forsakes all else. I know my own
preoccupation with Ever Casey is turning deranged, bordering on
unhealthy.

Ever Casey, white whale.

I look down at the book cover. Or he could be
Ishmael, the story’s narrator, the outcast who turned away from
human society. I sigh and tap my pen on the pad in front of me. The
fact that I’m comparing my classmate to a whale is proof that I’m
officially off the deep end. It also means that I lasted barely a
day and a half without obsessing about the guy who can most likely
hear my thoughts.

When I get home, I rush up to my room and
check my e-mail, thrilled when there’s a message from an anonymous
e-mail address. My future car! I get up and do a happy dance.
Opening the e-mail, I stop. It’s just a survey from the Web site
where I’ve been looking for cars, which means I have to keep
combing the used car postings again. Frustrated, I grab the cell
phone off my bed and dial my mom’s work number.

“You’re doing
what
?” she asks when I
tell her about shopping with Ashley and the others.

I laugh.

“Dress shopping. For a dance.”

There’s a long pause.

“Mom … ?”

“Dress shopping?” she asks.

“My friends are going, and I thought I’d hang
out and watch them try stuff on.”

Saying this out loud makes me feel
exceptionally pathetic.

“You’re not going to the dance?” she asks,
beginning to sound disappointed.

“That would be a no.”

“I swear. I’m going to hunt down Jimmy
Spangle one of these days,” she sighs. “Wren, honey, you’re not as
bad as you think. You should just go and have fun with your
friends. Who cares how well you dance!”

And there it is. Even my own mother knows my
dancing is appalling. Our difference in opinion lies in the fact
that she thinks I should keep embarrassing myself; I don’t. We’ve
already been through this conversation enough times, so I don’t
bother arguing.
She
can dance.

“Sure, Mom. I’ll see you in a couple of
hours.”

I hang up and puff out my cheeks. The subject
isn’t closed, not when my mom smells blood in the water. She’ll see
it as her crowning glory as a mother if she can get me to attend a
dance before I graduate high school. And I do worry for Jimmy
Spangle’s health if my mom ever runs into him in a dark alley.

On Thursday after school the rest of us
follow Lindsay to her house in Ashley’s car. Lindsay insists on
riding shotgun, and then cranks up the radio so loud that I’m sure
we’re all going to suffer permanent hearing damage—or crash.
Instead of driving to the shopping mall a few miles from school,
Ashley takes the freeway east toward downtown Portland before
exiting onto an unfamiliar freeway. Lindsay promises that there are
better shops at the mall we’re going to, but the drive takes
forever in rush hour traffic. I try not to fixate on the math
homework I have waiting for me when I get home.

The others chatter excitedly as we walk from
the parking structure past dozens of stores. At the dress shop, I
lift a price tag and feel renewed relief that I don’t have to
savage my bank account for a dress I’ll wear once. Still, some
small part of me feels wistful, like I’m missing out on a basic
rite of passage. I ignore it.

Dances only look fun in the movies.

After wandering the racks for several
minutes, I follow the others to the dressing area. Lindsay is the
first to appear, effortlessly spinning around in a circle. I
suppress my envy for her years spent in ballet.

“What d’ya think?”

“Wow.”

“Kinda punk rock, huh? I like the charmeuse.
What do you think?”

I have no idea what she’s talking about, but
the dress is very pretty, with a plunging neckline, alternating
stripes of black satin, and a see-through material over a short
pink skirting.

“It looks great on you,” I say honestly.

“Thanks!”

She disappears into the dressing room just as
Ashley comes out in a ruby-colored floor-length dress.

“Too much?” she asks, eyeing herself in the
mirror.

I blink. I’m utterly unqualified to play
dress consultant. I pinch my fingers together.

“A little?” I ask.

Ashley goes back into to the dressing room,
and Lindsay and Taylor walk out at the same time. Lindsay’s latest
selection is sea-foam green.

“Ugh, never mind,” she says. “This looks like
a bridesmaid’s dress.”

I laugh and turn to Taylor, who is studying
herself uncertainly in the full-length mirror. Her dress is short
with spaghetti straps, made of a shimmering copper. I give her a
thumbs up and pull out my copy of
Moby-Dick
.

“Are you sure you don’t want to try anything
on?” Ashley asks hopefully.

I look up and shake my head.

“Positive. I don’t even know my dress
size.”

She pauses for a second.

“So, can I get your opinion on something
non-dress related?”

Her eyebrows pinch together, and I get a
flash of Marcus’s face in my head.

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Do you think Marcus is going to ask me to
the dance? I mean we’re all going as a group, but I kind of thought
he was going to ask me,” she whispers nervously.

I had assumed he had already. My mistake.

“Definitely. Or you could ask him.”

I frown when I recognize my mom’s words
coming out of my mouth. Ashley’s face goes pale.

“No way. I’d throw up. I mean, what if he
doesn’t even like me?”

“Sorry,” I laugh. “That’s my mom’s advice.
Don’t worry. He’ll ask you.”

I make a mental note to see if I can skim any
clues from Marcus. Unfortunately, it’s sort of impossible to get
him to think, “
I’m going to ask Ashley to the dance
.” Mind
reading would be so much more useful if it were that easy.

“What about you? I’m going to feel so bad if
you don’t come with.” She pauses, her eyes lighting up. “What if we
set you up with someone?”

Ugh. Is
that
why everyone thinks I’m
not going to the dance? Because I don’t have any prospects for a
date? Ashley is picturing Matt from our Art class. I frown. Other
than practically accusing me of causing Ever Casey’s disappearance,
I guess he’s nice enough, but that doesn’t change anything. I’m
still not going to a dance.

“Uh, no thanks.”

“Well, you’ve gotta come to prom with us,”
Ashley says, nudging me.

My smile comes out lopsided. For the next
half hour, I watch the others come in and out of the dressing
rooms. But when Ashley hauls over another five dresses from the
racks, I realize I need a break from the satin and taffeta.

“Hey, I’m going to run over to get something
to drink. I’ll meet up with you in like fifteen minutes?”

“Sure. If we’re not here, we’ll probably be a
couple of stores down looking for shoes. Give me a call if you
can’t find us.”

“Thanks. Good luck. I really liked the
lavender one.”

My chest loosens as soon as I step outside. I
know I saw a coffee shop when we got here, but now I’m totally
turned around. I make a left, figuring I have a fifty-fifty chance
of picking the right direction. I pass a dozen storefronts, all of
them very chic and full of neutral-toned clothing. It’s still
strange to compare this urban well-heeled version of Oregon with
the anachronistic one I had in my head before we moved—mostly from
old Lewis and Clark documentaries.

I pass by a multiplex twice the size of the
one we went to for
Hell’s Army
. When I turn the corner, I
spot the coffee shop. In a place with perpetually gray weather, I
can easily see the appeal of hot coffee. Not surprisingly, the
place is jammed with an after-work crowd. But there’s only one
person crazy enough to be sitting outside. Slowing down, I squint
and hope that my imagination is getting the better of me.

It’s not.

Ever Casey is sitting by himself in the rain,
looking perfect. And crazy. I watch as a stylishly dressed woman
exits. She pauses in front of Ever, looking him over appraisingly
before juggling her umbrella to reach into her oversized purse.
Taking out a cigarette, she leans toward him seductively. I watch,
hypnotized, as he looks up at her and shakes his head, forcing her
to comb through her bag for a lighter. With her mouth pressed into
a thin line around her cancer stick, she stalks away from him. For
a second I nearly laugh. Then I shake my head when I realize that
I’m relieved that he’s not a smoker. What do I care?

He turns back into a statue, and before I
even know what I’m doing, I’ve started moving again. My legs pick
up speed until I’m standing right in front of him, feeling totally
unhinged.

“
What
? What do you want from me?”

He looks up at me, his features shifting into
an expression of carefully cultivated surprise that is tinged with
his typical indifference. I’m aware how crazy I sound, but I can’t
help it. My breath is coming out in uneven hiccups of alternating
anger and fear as I stare at him.

“I’m sorry?” he asks.

The exaggerated politeness in his tone
infuriates me.

“This crazy person routine doesn’t scare me.”
I’m lying through my teeth, of course. “And you can stop trying to
scare me.”

“Is that what I’m doing?” he asks.

“Look. I don’t know what your deal is, but I
don’t even want to know what it was that I saw in your head—”