Gypsy (The Cavy Files Book 1) (8 page)

It’s not as though I have any friends or plans. Yet.

The last thought lifts my lips into a smile, pushes my feet into a brisk walk, and drowns out my worry of accidentally touching someone. I’ve gotten through the reentry—the chats with the cops, the pokes and prods from the doctors, the school registration—and not one person seems to think there’s anything different about me at all. Or the rest of the Cavies. Sometime last night I started to relax, at least about being plucked up and deposited in a laboratory.

The rest of them aren’t as thrilled about not being different anymore, but I can’t help it. I am.

Possibility tastes sweet on the crisp morning air, coats the sidewalk like helium that threatens to lift my new black flats right off the ground. The new day dawns in gorgeous pinks and purples, and Charleston steals more of my heart every time I step out the door. There’s beauty everywhere, even in the winter, and my eyes dart back and forth trying not to miss a single thing.

Window boxes spill winter flowers toward the treacherous, uneven sidewalks. Camellias burst along every path, their bright pink blooms skipping and tumbling through gardens and graveyards. Spanish moss—its lazy, creepy air inseparable from the portrait of the city—drips through the twisted arms of live oaks standing sentinel over the dead and the living. Wrought-iron gates, leftover boot scrapers, and giant painted doors leading to tangled private gardens exude charm, making it impossible to forget the generations of humans who strolled these streets for centuries before me.

At Darley, the Professor did not neglect local history, and regaled us with tales of the city’s highlights—or lowlights, depending on one’s view of war and independence and slavery and such. But in person, the little curiosities twirling at every twist and turn tug on my clothes like the bony fingers of the ghosts that share this city, however grudgingly, with the living.

My father warned me that the spirit of Charleston’s last British governor haunts our street, but he doesn’t frighten me. Ghosts are extra tenants at Darley Hall, and our old slave cabins were favored places to pop up. Spirits and history live alongside us, after all, and sometimes they poke a hand or a face or a whole stinking body through the pale veil that separates life from death. Living in the lowcountry means making peace with that, which is what the Philosopher told us when we came screaming and crying to him as frightened children. The Professor kept books and articles about how to best handle the spirits, and as with everything else, knowledge calmed our panic. We learned to embrace the history of Darley, even when it insisted on tugging loose our blankets in the middle of the night.

We are Cavies, and we are different, but we are also South Carolinians. And no one knows with more clarity than me that every living thing must die.

I turn onto King Street, which is popular because of its upscale shopping but not one of my favorite spots after my brief explorations. The creepiest graveyard, maybe in the history of the world, sits on it, though, and I wander out of my way to stare through the open, overgrown gates of the Unitarian Church grounds.

A breeze, colder than the warmish air on the street, caresses my face, threads through my hair. The wild trees, grasses, and plants obscure concrete benches and memorials, and a brick path has sunk down into the earth as though pulled downward by some hidden force. A second gate leads into the oldest part of the graveyard, and a shudder works through me.

The word that pops into my mind is
foreboding.
This place, or something lurking inside it, wishes to be left alone, and despite my love of cemeteries and my special relationship with the dead, there’s no way I’d venture inside at night.

Instead of using the graveyard as a shortcut, I walk back down King Street, turn onto Queen, then swerve onto Archdale when Charleston Academy comes into sight.

It resembles a cathedral, which makes sense since it was founded as a Lutheran institution. The outside is tan stucco, grooved to look like more expensive stone, and the gates are flung open here, too. A different type of trepidation drifts out to greet me. The Academy reeks of the unknown, of a hundred kids who have known each other since they took their first steps but have never once laid eyes on me. Then again, if any of them watch the news, they know
too
much about me.

Remembering how easy the aptitude test was relieves some of my anxiety. At least I won’t have to deal with being the dumbest kid in school, and with the uniform, I don’t have to worry about not fitting in because of my lagging fashion education.

If I can avoid touching people, this place won’t look to me like the graveyard across the street.

The pep talk marches through my head, each letter waving little pom-poms of encouragement. It’s like
Bring It On
in my brain, and just as ridiculous as the original.

I take a deep breath and pass through the ornate wrought iron, enjoying the little fleur-de-lis cresting the tips. The concrete steps are sturdy and new, not a crack to be found, and the massive wooden doors at the back of the courtyard tower above me by at least ten feet.

The noise in the foyer buckles my knees, as with every new place in the “real” world. Kids—some older than me, others younger—whiz every direction, their feet scuffing the marble floors, arms slung through one another’s as they laugh and shriek and swap stories about their weekends. In the movies, everyone stops and stares at the new girl; they might give her weird looks or whisper behind their hands. But here no one notices me.

It’s a strange feeling, both unsettling and comforting. I loved my afternoons alone at Darley, but since leaving, I miss the easy companionship of my friends. Being invisible makes me sweat, and my heart begs for one single person to look my way, to reassure me I haven’t suddenly taken on Haint’s power to disappear.

On the other hand, nothing about me is screaming out to be noticed, that they should treat me differently or give me a wide berth in the hall, and that relaxes the majority of the tension still stiffening my neck.

If I knew where to find the office, it might go away altogether.

Before I can make an educated guess of which direction to walk, someone stumbles into me from behind, knocking me off balance. The whack from behind doesn’t ruin my day—accidents happen—but my fingers, in their scrabbling desperation to break my fall, connect with bare skin.

The number
18
flashes, burns black, and etches into the backs of my eyelids.

Chapter Six

“Oh, Lordy, I am so sorry! My mom’s always sayin’ I’m so clumsy I could trip over a cordless phone.”

A breathless, sweet female voice chatters the apology as she tries, with little success, to drag me upright using the straps of my backpack. She’s behind me, so she’s not the person whose age of death I just saw in my first two minutes here. Not the person causing my lungs to collapse from dread.

Fail, Gypsy
.

“Are you okay?” A second voice, male and with a smooth, local drawl, mingles with the first.

The dead kid is a boy.

I jerk my hands into my chest, trying not to be obvious about it. Wishing with all my might I could take it back. Forget. Turn away without seeing the attached face. Of course there isn’t, and when my body remembers how to breathe again, I open my eyes.

He’s tall, a few inches over six feet, with hair the color of sand and eyes that shift between gold and brown, like maple syrup in the sunlight. More than the intriguing shade, it’s the genuine kindness in them that stands out to me. My heart flutters, then seizes.

Dead. He’s dead
.

“It’s okay, I’ll live.” I wince at my choice of words and busy myself with brushing imaginary dust off the skirt of my uniform.

The clumsy girl stands as high as my shoulders, and her upturned nose and smattering of freckles combined with her chin-length white-blond hair reminds me of Tinkerbell. At least she seems to have a better attitude than the jealous, spiteful fairy.

Her pale eyes fling more apologies my direction, but I hold up my hand. “Really. No big deal.”

“Oh my gosh, thank you for being cool.” She grins, and it lights up her entire body. “I’m Maya.”

“Norah.”

“You’re new?”

“How could you guess?”

“Because the rest of us learned by seventh grade to avoid Maya when she’s double-fisting coffee and a cell phone.”

Oh, good night nurse.
The boy who’s going to die before he graduates from high school
would
have eyes that make my stomach attempt to fly. I imagine iron plates of armor clicking into place over my face, my skin, my heart, then flick a glance his direction. I snatch my cell phone from his palm. “Thanks.”

“I’m Jude.” He sticks out his hand.

Even though my aversion remains, even though I don’t want to confirm what I saw, there’s no point in keeping to my
hands off
rule. Not touching him now won’t change anything.

“Norah,” I say again, laughing a little at the absurdity of repeating my name. Our hands touch, his skin soft and electric at the same time, like he scooted his feet across a shag carpet. The little hairs on my arms, at the back of my neck, stand up.

I pull my hand away, fixing my smile and swinging back toward Maya. “You caught me, I’m new. And I’m supposed to be in the office but I have no idea where that is, so this is at least half my fault, stopping in the middle of the hall like that.”

“I’ll walk you. It’s right on my way,” Jude offers.

Maya rolls her eyes at me in a manner that suggests we’ve been interpreting one another’s nonverbal cues for more than two minutes. “If you don’t want to be alone with Jude, I understand. But if you don’t care, I’m going to let him take you because I’m supposed to meet with the yearbook sponsor…” She glances at her phone. “Five minutes ago.”

“No, it’s fine. He’s fine.” Lord in heaven, did I just say that?

Maya snorts, and the heat in my face promises she didn’t miss my unintentional comment.

I grew up around boys, so snorts at double entendre aren’t exactly new to me, which only makes the fire in my cheeks all the more vexing. It’s surprising to learn that things can still embarrass me.

“You know, it’s not the first time I’ve heard that,” Jude jokes, his smile catching my attention.

My lips return it without permission, even though my face is about to melt off.

“Yes, it is,” Maya chirps. “It
so
is the first time he’s heard that. Norah, we’ll have lunch instead, okay?”

I nod, but she doesn’t see me because she’s already halfway down the hall, waving over her shoulder.

“Well, shall we?” Jude extends an arm, an invitation for me to loop mine through his elbow, and since he’s wearing a long-sleeved Oxford, I do it.

Then I remember it doesn’t matter anyway and want to run away.

We start down the hall to the left, and I’m not invisible anymore. The social strata remains a mystery, not as easy to puzzle out as
Mean Girls
or
Clueless
or
Pretty in Pink
would have me believe, but Jude obviously fits in somewhere. Guys look up, some nodding, a few tossing fist bumps his direction, and everyone sizes me up for being at his side. No one’s hostile, but no one else introduces themselves, either.

“So, where do you come from, Norah?”

I close my eyes for a second, playing out all the fake stories I came up with over the weekend. It doesn’t make sense to lie, even if the truth about where I come from and how I got here will bring me unwanted notoriety. It would be weirder to lie and then have someone see our Cavy faces in the paper or something.

The news of our “rescue” has been all over. They haven’t reported any of our names in the media or displayed photographs, at least not yet, but the trial, if there is one, will be a circus.

Might as well confess on my own terms.

“Did you hear about that old plantation no one knew about, Darley Hall?”

“Yeah, where they found a bunch of teenage kids living in the slave… Wait, you’re one of them?”

He’s perceptive, and the fact that he doesn’t stop walking to gawk at me makes me like him. Then I remember that
18
and tighten my armor. No point in liking him. “Yes.”

“You look pretty normal. Not like a wildling at all,” he jokes. “Maybe if we get to be better friends, you’ll tell me about it. For now, let me just say welcome to Charleston Academy.”

He stops, opening a glass door into a glass office, but not before I glimpse the spark of interest in his expression. He’s dying for the kind of details the reporters will never have. A secretary at the front desk looks up, a phone stuck to her ear, and ignores me to continue a conversation about whether or not the remake of some movie is strictly necessary.

“Thanks for showing me the office.”

I step through the doors, passing Jude a smile on my way, and try not to get caught up in how his eyes shine a little bit like wheat in the fields when they’re curious.