For Ever (5 page)

Ashley smiles, but her brow is still pinched.
I smile back, but it feels forced.

I hope she’s okay
.

On the way back to my easel, I contemplate
how long it’s going to take for people to forget my little episode.
Forever? So much for first impressions. The bell rings, and I
glance at the empty seat to my left.

During lunch, our table suddenly includes
several faces I don’t recognize. And people are asking me about
what happened, like I have some kind of explanation.
Um
,
hello,
I was unconscious!
I want to scream. But I guess I
can’t blame them. Some new kid shows up and does a demonic improv
scene out of
The Exorcist
? I would be curious, too.

“So what’d you do to Ever?”

I stare blankly at the guy across the table
from me, waiting for him to finish his sentence. His name is Matt,
I think. He’s in Mr. Gideon’s class with me.

“Sorry, I don’t get it. … Do to ever
what?”

“The dude you crashed into,” he prompts.

I see a flash of a tall form. The image is
indistinct and marred by Matt’s nervous excitement, but the person
doesn’t look like a student.

“That was a student?”

A meaningful laughter ripples through the
group like I’ve missed the joke.

“He flunked like five grades, I’m sure,” Josh
mutters.

I turn to Josh and find his eyes hard with
resentment.

God! Another one falls for Space
Boy
.

Okay, that’s creepy. I turn my attention back
to Matt, trying to piece things together.

“Ever?” Just saying the name makes goose
bumps appear on my arms. “He’s the one who sits next to me in Mr.
Gideon’s?”

“The dude
sat
next to you. He hasn’t
come back since you lost it.”

My cheeks redden at his word choice.

“I have low blood sugar,” I mumble.

This is true. I don’t do well without food,
and I did skip breakfast on Tuesday. But I’m pretty sure that’s not
why I
lost it
. Either way, Matt doesn’t seem to have heard
me. While he looked amused a second ago, his expression has faded
into a look of uneasiness.

Looked down at her like he killed
her
.

Trying not to be too obvious about it, I
stare into Matt’s eyes as his pupils dilate and try to follow his
thoughts for a closer look at Ever. Then I search my own memory,
trying to remember the person who walked into class late. But as
hard as I try to conjure the memory, it’s just not there. And no
matter how hard I concentrate, the image in Matt’s mind remains
distorted, like it’s being blurred by rushing water. Finally, I
give up.

In English, Mrs. Rose gives me a weeklong
extension on my first paper. We’re supposed to analyze the use of
the pastoral mode in Shakespeare’s
As You Like It
. Luckily
I’ve already read parts of the play. My freshman year English
teacher used it as an example of one of Shakespeare’s less
significant works compared to
Romeo and Juliet
. Happily ever
after, she said, was the classic mark of a fairy tale, and there
are no happy endings in real life.

I just found her theory depressing.

At the end of the week, I help my mom finish
fixing up the house. I’m fully aware that any time she thinks I’m
not looking, she watches me for signs of a relapse. By Saturday
night I get around to setting up my computer, a farewell
hand-me-down from my father that he sent me in the mail after a
brutal phone call with my mom that ended with her slamming down the
phone.

When I open my e-mail, I see only two
non-junk e-mails. One is from Liz, a friend from Pali. I called her
right after we got to Oregon, but it went straight to voicemail.
Her response is short and kind of impersonal, detailing things that
seem millions of miles away.

The other message makes my jaw clench. It’s
from my father’s work e-mail account.

Wren,

Picture of your baby brother. Jessica sends her
love.

Dad

--

Thomas Sullivan

Senior Vice President, Client Retention

Southwest Region

Dystel and Scott Advertising

Jessica sends her love? Jessica, someone I
had met all of one time—at my dad’s office when she was working
there. She couldn’t have been more than a few years older than me.
I stare at the picture of the two of them holding their baby.
Benjamin. My dad always wanted a boy. Another thought I could have
done very well not knowing about. When I close my eyes, I try hard
to pretend that they’re strangers. It’s easier that way to feel
happy for them. My mom and I don’t talk about it. My father, the
divorce, Jessica. She doesn’t want to say anything disparaging
about him, and I’m fine with that.

Deleting the e-mail, I stand up and sniff the
air. Even through the closed door, I can tell something is burning.
With the kitchen in working order, my mom is already experimenting,
mostly in honor of our neighbor Mr. Hannigan coming over for
dinner. I saw him in his front yard earlier in the day while I was
taking boxes to the curb for recycling. He was weeding in the rain.
When I went over to thank him for the desk, I accidentally found
out that his wife died last year. She was the one who kept up the
yard.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I stop
and study the large antique mirror on the wall. It was a garage
sale purchase of my mom’s. She said she put it at the top of the
stairs to improve the flow of
chi
in the house. For the
record, my mom doesn’t know anything about
feng shui
.
Instead, she’s relying on a little pocket-sized book that was a
parting gift from one of her former co-workers.

I haven’t said anything, but the mirror
bothers me.
Feng shui
or not, it makes it feel like
someone’s watching every time I walk past it.

“Wren, you coming down?” my mom calls from
the kitchen.

I recognize the tremor of panic in her
voice.

“Be right there!”

I reach back and tap the mirror. Feeling icy
water at my fingertips, I spin around and stare at the glass, which
has turned an inky, liquid black. My skin prickles with fear as the
blackness ripples like water. I shake my head and blink at my
reflection. When I raise my hand, I watch my mirror image do the
same, and the look in my eyes is a perfect reflection of the
surprise I’m feeling.

The smoke alarm’s high-pitched shriek snaps
me out of my trance. I rush down the stairs to evaluate the damage
in the kitchen. Covered in flour and surrounded by dirty dishes, my
mom is stabbing at the alarm with the handle of a broom. She’s
usually a great cook—at least when she’s not trying to impress
guests.

I laugh before choking on the smoke pouring
from the oven.

“Do you miss L.A.’s air quality already?”

She smirks and then starts coughing.

“Well, I killed dinner.”

Crossing the kitchen, I open the back door,
which opens directly onto a small, mostly dirt back yard. It’s dark
outside, and the air is cold and damp. Turning to the refrigerator,
I run through some dinner options while debating the likelihood of
getting a fire started in the tiny fireplace in the living room.
Then I figure a sweater is easier.

“Baked potatoes and salad?” I ask. “And I can
make some vegetarian chili to go with it. Did we get cheese?”

My mom nods, and I grab cans of beans and
tomato sauce from the cupboard. The oven is still hot, but reeking
from the blackened mass that’s now sitting in the sink. I scrub
three potatoes and poke holes in them before tossing them onto an
ancient cookie sheet.

The phone rings, and I jump. My mom grabs for
it instantly without looking to see who it is.

“Hey, Pat!” she says, making her way into the
living room. I hear things being shifted around before she settles
on the loveseat—yet another garage sale purchase.

Caroline Sullivan. Always moving, always
doing something. Talking, cooking, rearranging furniture. Sometimes
I think it depresses her to slow down too much. Not me. I need time
to decompress and do nothing, or I would go crazy.

An image of the mirror upstairs looms front
and center. Had
that
been my imagination, too? Or another
symptom of a full-on freak out?

On Monday morning, when my mom drops me off,
it’s early again and she’s already fully caffeinated in preparation
for her first day at her new job. After a weekend of
less-than-restful sleep, I could have used the caffeine boost, but
most of the time coffee just makes it feel like I’m having an out
of body experience. I shudder at the thought. There’s no way I’m
going to power up for another episode of full-octane crazy just in
time for first period.

Rushing through the rain to the school
entrance, I look down at the new pair of boots my mom got me. I’m
still having trouble accepting the result of my weekend Internet
search—and the discovery that the northwestern corner of Oregon is
actually even rainier in springtime than during winter. Which means
I won’t see the sun for another six months. Hearing the squeak of
hurried steps on the linoleum, I spin around awkwardly, momentarily
terrified that someone had been watching me. I breathe a sigh of
relief when I see Josh rushing toward me.

“Wren!”

Cool! She’s here.

“Hey, Josh. How was your weekend?”

Through his eyes I see a flash of a movie
scene with lots of guns and explosions.

“Not bad. This paper sucks, though.”

His smile fades, and I catch an image of a
lone sentence on a computer screen. Our English paper is due
Thursday. I finished most of mine over the weekend, which is highly
out of character for me. Unlike math tests, I do well on English
papers, but I typically need the pressure of a deadline bearing
down on me for proper motivation. For better or worse, with no
transportation to speak of, I didn’t have much else to do over the
weekend.

“Yeah, Mrs. Rose gave me an extension,” I
smile.

“Lucky.”

I nod neutrally, feeling a spike of relief
when we get to Mr. Gideon’s classroom.

“See you at lunch?” I say, starting to turn
toward the door.

“Wren?”

I turn back to face him. His expression is
anxious. Singing off-key in my head, I try to drown out any
thoughts I might accidentally pick up.

“Never mind,” he mumbles. “See you at
lunch.”

I watch as he hurries back the way he came.
Continuing to Mr. Gideon’s room, I drop my bag at my easel and walk
over to the old CD player in the corner. It offers the same
classical music as last week. Feeling altruistic, but mostly bored,
I gather up a pile of dirty paintbrushes. After I’m done rinsing
them and setting them out to dry, I wander to the recessed alcove
where Mr. Gideon has collected all the student artwork that hasn’t
been picked up.

Keeping an eye on the door, I kneel down and
begin rummaging through the stack. After twenty or so projects, I
notice a distinct pattern. Even with no artistic credentials to
speak of, I can tell that some of the projects are gallery quality.
One of them has a sticky note on it.

Ever, needless to say, this is quite a
portfolio you’ve built up. Keep up the good work! – Mr. Gideon

The sound of footsteps—and Mr. Gideon’s
singing—forces me to abandon my snooping. Jogging to the door, I
hold it open for him.

“Thank you, Ms. Sullivan,” he smiles.

I stop on the way back to my easel.

“Mr. Gideon?”

He looks up.

“How long has Ever been in your class?”

It feels strange asking about someone I’ve
never really seen before, but I am curious, considering he’s the
one I crashed into.

“Let’s see. He transferred middle of last
semester.” I watch nervously as he glances at the stacks across the
room. “Talented kid. There were no art classes on his transcripts,
but I swear I’ve never seen someone produce as many viable pieces
as he has in such a short time. You should look at some of his
work.”

I try not to look guilty about my snooping. I
can tell the teacher likes him, but there’s a chord of uncertainty
when Mr. Gideon talks about him. And I pick up the same strange
underwater quality that I saw when my classmate, Matt, envisioned
Ever. The image looks kind of like a TV channel that’s not getting
reception: squiggly and indistinct.

“Everyone has their strengths,” Mr. Gideon
says reassuringly, misinterpreting my nosiness as anxiety. “I don’t
compare students’ work when I’m grading.”

I nod and think how silly it would be to
compare my childish rendering of fruit in a bowl on the same scale
as the dozens of pieces I just saw. While Mr. Gideon didn’t sound
worried about my classmate’s continued absence, I can’t contain my
inner conspiracy theorist—not after Matt’s dramatic allegation that
my little episode had something to do with our classmate’s
disappearance. When Ashley gets to class, I walk with her to the
supply closet.

“How was your weekend?”

“Great! What about you?” Ashley asks a little
too brightly.

I shake my hand to indicate it was all right,
and she bites her lip. That’s when I realize that
everyone
went to the movies. A little embarrassed, I remind myself that
these people barely know me, and I’m lucky I found a group willing
to talk to me at lunch.

“Hey, give me your number,” Ashley says. “I
forgot to ask you last week.”

I give her my cell number, which still has my
old area code, and ask for hers.

“Ashley?”

“Yeah?”

I’m on the verge of asking about our missing
classmate, but I decide against it.

“Did you have Bellarmine for Algebra II?”

She smirks.

“Yep, that guy’s an asinine jerk.”

I laugh.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”