The Watchers (3 page)

“They’re in your jacket.” I paused, listening
to her thoughts. “Your jacket is in the living room.”

“Thanks!” She hesitated on her way out of the
kitchen. “Are you sure you don’t mind walking to school? It’s just
that I have to be at the office pretty early…”

“I don’t mind,” I assured her for the
millionth time.

She twisted her hands in anxiety. “You’re
sure?”

“Yes!” I laughed. “Go! You’re going to be
late.”

“But…are you sure you remember how to get
there?”

I gave her my best stern look.

“Mom. I didn’t get lost in New York or L.A. I
won’t get lost here…I’ll be fine.”

Outwardly, at least.

She smiled, not deceived in the slightest,
and gave me wishes for a good first day before rushing out of the
house. After she left, I washed my bowl in the sink, with extra
care, trying to decide what to do with the time I had before
school. I didn’t want to sit around the house waiting for it to be
my time to go. I definitely didn’t want to be late and have my
nightmare become a reality, but I didn’t want to get to school too
early either. Trying to decide what to do, not liking any of my
options, I walked out into the hallway and spotted the picture
Ellen had been so affected by. Curious, welcoming the distraction,
I stepped closer to examine it.

It was a colored photograph of a large group
of people standing around the long table I had seen in the dining
room. It looked like one of those Thanksgiving dinners I had seen
on television. Ellen and I always ate out for Thanksgiving. Looking
at the picture, I could tell why she was so against formal
Thanksgivings. They reminded her of home.

My eyes roamed across the people in the
photograph in excited wonder. I could see my features in the faces
I saw. One woman had my heart shaped face – another had my high
cheek bones. And one man, who was lurking in the corner trying not
to be seen, looked like he had my button nose. I searched for my
eyes, grey and stormy, but I didn’t see them in the mass of faces.
All the people in the picture had the same eyes as Ellen – a dark,
chocolate brown. I touched the picture, almost as affected as Ellen
had been, but for a different reason. I knew the truth now. I knew
that my eyes were my father’s eyes.

I had never met him – he had left before I
was born and had never tried to contact us – so I had no way of
comparing our eyes. Ellen had never described him to me, and I felt
awkward asking her questions about something that was obviously
still painful for her. Besides, I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to
know. Not only had he abandoned us, but he left knowing what my
life would be like, what my curse was. He had left knowing how much
danger Ellen and I would be in simply because I was alive. I
resented him for that.

I moved down the hall to a large gilded
mirror and looked at my reflection, wondering what else was his,
hating the connection to him. I categorized my pale skin, my nose,
and my dark hair, which I had styled in spikes at the front, trying
to see similarities to a person I had never met.

No… I looked too much like the people in the
photograph, except for the eyes. I squinted at the objects in
question, wishing suddenly, despite my anger at him, that I knew
the person who had given me the oval shape, the grey color. At
least if I knew him, I would have answers; I would know more than I
knew now.

I turned away from the mirror and the picture
– which I now understood was my mother’s family, my family – and
went upstairs to get my school things, coming to the conclusion
that whatever the day of school threw at me, it couldn’t be worse
than hating my own father for abandoning me, and in turn, hating
that part of me that was his.

The light was dull over the purplish-blue
horizon, casting everything in long shadows as I walked into the
wind. I wrapped my jacket tighter as I stepped off the porch,
wishing for the warmth of Savannah, our latest stop-over. Even in
the dim light from the rising sun, I could tell that there wasn’t a
cloud in the sky. It was strange, so different from the boiling
storm of yesterday.

I turned off our street, shivering slightly
from the wind, as I dwelt on my father. I couldn’t stop thinking
about what else was his. Did I act like him? I knew I didn’t act
like Ellen; she was too carefree, too emotional, and almost more
organic in her actions than I was. I thought too much. I
internalized too much.

I rounded the corner onto the main street
through town, which coincidentally enough was called ‘Main Street’,
and the stately houses faded abruptly into the brick buildings that
made up downtown. The shops were dark and silent; the streets empty
save for the occasional car. My thoughts as dark as the morning, I
trudged up a hearty hill in search of the school.

Couldn’t he at least have shown up once to
explain the things Ellen couldn’t? Couldn’t he have written me a
note to tell me why I was a freak, or explain why he had left?
Couldn’t he have explained why he let me be born? Couldn’t he have
told me one thing? I gnawed on my lip, my temper starting to rise a
little. Why was that too much to ask?

Spotting a large obvious sign on the crest of
another hill that read “King’s Cross High School: Go Saints!” I
bumped back down to earth. I pushed the anger aside for the moment
as the irony of that sign hit me. Saints? Of what? Chuckling
sarcastically, I looked across the short sloping lawn to the large
trees which flanked either side of the brick buildings, then to the
school itself. The main building, the largest of the three
buildings, was huge, its façade stately and positively reeking with
southern charm. Large white columns, which were spaced at regular
intervals, beckoned unwitting students in to the innocent-looking
school.

Resigned to my fate, the feeling of martyrdom
settling into my gut, I walked up the grassy slope and crossed the
lawn. I shoved the large door open with an unhappy grunt and looked
around the oppressive, uniform, and deserted corridor. I was
instantly unsure of where to go, my dream haunting my footsteps.
Luckily, I saw the sign. As I followed bold arrows with the words
‘Main Office’ above them, I wondered idly why a school this size
would have signs while my last school, which was three times
bigger, hadn’t.

I stopped when the arrows ran out at a small
cluttered office with a glass door and glass windows. A large,
young woman, with curly black hair, was at the large counter which
cut the room in half. Before I could open the door, I heard a
muffled sound through the glass. Hearing people’s thoughts was new
to me, but I had learned the hard way that when I heard a person’s
thoughts outside of a room it meant that person was loud and
obnoxious. I took a deep breath before opening the door, steeling
myself for the onslaught.

She looked up from the papers she was
going through when I stepped in, and I saw her face transform from
boredom into curiosity.
What in the world
is she wearing on her head? Oh, goodness, that’s her hair!
I heard as soon as I stepped in. “Can I help you dear?” Her
voice was light and nasal, echoing the sound of her
thoughts.

“Um, yeah…” I need a comb so I can make sure
you’re happy with my hair. “My name is Clare Michaels…”

Oh God, that’s Ellen’s daughter! They don’t
look a bit alike. Well, maybe a little in the shape of the face. I
wonder who the father is? It serves her right for getting knocked
up. Tramp. I can’t believe I was ever jealous of her!

None of this showed on her face.

“Of course!” she said. Her smile became
fixed as she smoothed her blue jean jumper. “How’s your mother? I
went to school with her, you know.”
If you
could call hating someone with a fiery passion, going to school
with them
, she tacked on spitefully. She looked down
and started searching through a pile of papers on the
counter.

“She’s
really
great,” I answered. “Amazing,
even.”

“Good…good. Here.” She grabbed a set of
papers from the bottom of the pile and handed them to me. “Here’s
your schedule. The rooms are listed next to the corresponding
class, but if you have any trouble finding anything just ask one of
the teachers.”

I nodded, knowing even if I didn’t have a
clue where I was going, I wouldn’t ask.

She pointed to another paper in the stack
she’d just handed me. “Make sure you get all of your teachers to
sign this for attendance purposes, and bring it back to me at the
end of the day.” She rattled the three other papers in my hands.
“And these are for your mom to sign.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

I turned to leave, wanting to get away from
her nasty thoughts about my mom, and her eyes, which were watching
my every movement, but she stopped me.

“Tell your mom Heather Thomas, I mean,”
a false little giggle, “Heather
Smith
says ‘hi’,” she said in a sweet tone that
didn’t quite match the look on her face.
Oh, I cannot wait to tell everyone what this one looks like!
No one will believe it! I hope she tells Ellen about my name
change! She will be so jealous that I got married, to an
ex-boyfriend of hers no less!

“I will,” I replied.

“Have a good day!” she called as I slipped
out the door and out of her line of sight.

Ha!

I found a small bench hidden by a recessed
wall and sat, so I could go over my schedule without being bothered
by anyone, especially an overly jealous Heather Smith or Thomas or
whatever. Trying to clear her nasty thoughts from my head, I
noticed my first class was gym. Irritation swirled up around the
gloomy feelings. I wasn’t sure what imbecile thought of forcing
people into gym class first thing in the morning but whoever it
was, they were sadistic – or perhaps they had a profound hatred of
teenagers. Or, perhaps, they were both. Not that I minded exercise,
it was just the idea of having to exercise at eight in the morning
in those stupid clothes they called a uniform. It was torture.

Disgusted, I leaned my head back and closed
my eyes trying not to think about the coming hours, feeling that
having gym first thing was a bad omen. Finally, when I felt more
composed – which is to say, not like my brain was going to explode
– I got up and made my way to the back of the building where,
logically, I figured the gym would be.

The halls had filled up with gossiping
students during my sojourn on the bench. Kids crowded the halls as
they talked to their friends. Several people did funny double takes
when they saw me. The rest just stared. Slivers of excited thought
ghosted after me as I searched for the gym, pounding into my brain
like tiny, annoying hammers.

I turned around when the hall ended, thinking
I might have passed the gym at some point. Unhelpfully, none of the
thoughts I was overhearing were directions to the gym. Where were
the magical signs when you needed them most?

“Hey!” a voice called in a pleasant song-like
voice.

I turned at the sound and spotted a girl, who
was leaning against the too white wall as if she’d been there
forever, smiling knowingly. I looked her over curiously. She was
shorter than me, but still tall, maybe 5’6” to my six feet, skinny,
yet very curvy. She reminded me of pictures I’d seen of Marilyn
Monroe, complete with the short, curly blonde hair which framed her
round face.

“You’re lost aren’t you?” she asked, laughter
in her voice.

“Yep,” I admitted.

I listened for a moment, but her thoughts
were really quiet and hard to hear over the excited buzz I was
being subjected to. She laughed softly and held out her hand to me.
“I’m Alex Lawson.”

I shook her hand, feeling strangely at ease.
Maybe, it was because her face was so open and friendly, or maybe
it was because she wasn’t staring at me like I’d invented
humanity.

“And you must be Clare,” she said
confidently.

“Must I?” I asked.

“If you want to be.”

“I suppose…”

“I’m Sam Lawson’s daughter… you know…
the lawyer your mom is working for?”
She
seems cool. Dad did say that Ellen was really nice. I bet they’re a
lot alike.

Ah. There she was.

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “I didn’t realize
he had a daughter,” I tacked on, wondering why Ellen hadn’t
mentioned her. She had definitely mentioned Sam. A lot.

“Yeah, he keeps me in the basement most
days,” she joked. I laughed, liking her humor. Smiling back she
asked, “What class are you looking for?”

“Gym.”

She grabbed my arm, hooking her hand through
my elbow with a natural, friendly gesture. “I’ll show you where it
is.”

She steered me down the hallway, maneuvering
us between gaggles of gossiping people who turned to stare again as
we passed. As we walked, her body steering mine gently, she said,
“Dad tells me that you’re from Savannah. I’m from Atlanta
originally. We moved back a couple of years ago. My dad missed the
country life too much.” She made a funny face. “At least that was
his excuse. I think he just hated the Atlanta traffic.”

No wonder she was being so nice. She
understood what it felt like to be the newcomer to this tiny town
and quite possibly how it felt to be dragged here against her
will.

“Yeah?”

“Yep. Have you ever been?”

I laughed dryly. “I don’t think there’s a
major city in the United States I haven’t been to, or at the very
least, driven through.”

She smiled and started talking about the
school and classes giving me pointers, knowing that I would
appreciate them, not prying into my history. I was grateful. I
didn’t feel up to explaining my gypsy nature quite yet. It was too
early. Her bubbling voice talked us all the way through one set of
doors, out the back of the building, through a covered walkway, to
another set of large doors. At the second set of doors, she stopped
and released my arm. “Well, here it is.”