Annabeth Neverending (2 page)

I come to amid a background of concerned chatter and find myself surrounded by a crowd of curious onlookers…and a strange boy. His muscular arms are holding me tight, making sure I don’t RSVP to the gravel’s invitation. He’s terribly good
-
looking, with the palest possible blue eyes and the darkest possible black hair.

He couldn’t be less like the slave in my…hallucination?…But he’s just as handsome. (Not like it’s a contest.)

“You passed out. Good thing I was here to catch you,” says my hero, while wagging a pair of thick brows.

2

S
till reeling from the aftereffects of my blackout, I’m so out of sorts that I allow this stranger to pull me to my feet. I’m swaying slightly, but he steadies me and gently rubs my back. His touch is soothing, even though I have no idea who he is.

“Thanks. I…I don’t understand what happened,” I sputter.

“Well, next time you faint, try not to do it in front of the stand. It’s bad for business.”

“Gabriel!” cries Mrs. Lansing.

“What? I’m kidding
—
sort of.”

“You’re Gabriel?” I ask. I’d be more surprised if I weren’t already tapped out of that emotion.

“So my reputation precedes me, huh?” he says, looking rather pleased with himself. I instantly get the impression that this is his general state of being. I ponder this and then suddenly realize
—
to my horror
—
that I no longer have my necklace.

“The ankh!”

Mrs. Lansing hands me a gray velveteen box. I pop it open, revealing the pendant and its accompanying chain.

“You dropped it, so I put it in here
—
for safekeeping.”

I mentally run through what’s just happened. I blacked out, and I was a princess of some sort. And my birthday gift was a slave?

“You should go home. Rest,” says Mrs. Lansing, her wrinkles settling into a deep, troubled web.

“Are you firing me?” I ask, worry clamping down.

“Heavens no! But you can’t work if you’re not well, dear. You can start again next weekend. Here, I’ll call your parents and tell them what happened,” she says, reaching for her cell.

“I’ll break it to them when I get home,” I insist, though I have a feeling she can see right through me.

“Maybe it would be best coming from you,” she says thoughtfully.

“Do you mind if Gabriel drives you back?”

I glance over at the demonically good
-
looking Gabriel, who’s watching me uncertainly. I shrug in casual agreement, even though my insides are twisting with anxiety at the thought of sharing a confined space with him.

Gabriel navigates the curving back roads to York, as we pass the fall foliage at its most vibrant. While I want to focus on him, the fiendishly charming boy sitting beside me, I can’t stop replaying my head trip.

It was visceral. All five of my senses were under assault. I can still feel the heaviness of the spice
-
scented air and the unrelenting heat. The sensation of loosely woven fabric lingers on my skin, and the sound of that strange tongue
-
clicking language rings in my ears. My neck feels naked without the ankh hanging from it, even though I’ve never worn it before.

It seemed so real.

Sethe seemed so real…

Did the ankh cause me to pass out? Did it instill the vision? Is such a thing possible? Why didn’t anyone else who touched it have that reaction? So many mysteries conjured up in an instant. As I sink deeper into my thoughts, I’m interrupted by my modern
-
day companion.

“It’s a good thing I got there when I did
—
and that I have lightning
-
fast reflexes. Otherwise, I hate to think of what would’ve happened,” Gabriel points out ominously.

“Me too,” I respond in earnest. Nobody wants to crash onto concrete.

“You know, most girls wait to meet me before they swoon. But I do appreciate your efficiency.”

So this is Gabriel. Mrs. Lansing failed to mention how young he is. Or how strangely appealing he is, despite his inflated sense of self. I’ll take a pleasant surprise over a hyped
-
up letdown any day. Not that he could disappoint. I examine him discreetly. Because his eyes are fixed on the road, this is the perfect time to do it. But the thought of being caught staring is enough to make my cheeks redden.

“Why waste time?” I say good
-
naturedly.

“You’re a firecracker. Should’ve guessed that from the hair.”

My red
—
auburn
—
hair is the bane of my existence, so any references to it immediately land you on my shit list. But Gabriel gets a pass. This time.

“It’s funny; you weren’t at all what I pictured,” I disclose.

“Interesting. And have I exceeded your expectations?” he asks leadingly.

“In that I expected an old codger.”

“Well, I am a college man. I go to Bowdoin.”

I can’t deny that I’m impressed. Bowdoin is a big deal around here. It’s hard to get into and even harder to graduate from. And the campus? Well, it’s like something from a period
-
piece coming
-
of
-
age movie. With social houses and buildings on the registry of historic places and an eccentric polar bear mascot because a world
-
famous arctic explorer was an alum, well, Bowdoin is for scholars, not your average student. And Gabriel seems like an early
-
decision kind of guy.

“Nice. The Harvard of Brunswick.”

“I like to think that Harvard is the Bowdoin of Cambridge,” he states matter
-
of
-
factly.

I laugh.

“Hey! I wasn’t joking.”

Gabriel’s just close enough to make me feel self
-
conscious. He shifts in his seat, and I catch a whiff of his cologne. It gives him an air of manliness. High
-
school guys don’t generally wear cologne. I’m happy if they wear deodorant.

“What’s your major?” I ask, though part of me doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I care.

“Archaeology.”

He takes one hand off the steering wheel and fusses with his black horn
-
rimmed glasses. I’m guessing they’re vintage. After all, a young Indiana Jones type wouldn’t buy his specs at Target.

“So you aren’t old, but you love old things.”

“Yeah, I guess I do. Most of the time,” he says, arching an eyebrow for effect.

I can tell that my face has turned completely crimson.

“How old are you, anyway?”

“Fifteen,” I confess, uneasy.

“Whoa! I didn’t think you were that young. You seem so…mature for your age.”

“That’s because I’m practically sixteen. How old are you?” I ask, hoping he isn’t in his twenties because I’d feel even more overwhelmed than I already do.

“I’m seventeen. I might’ve skipped a grade or two,” he says, gloating ever so slightly.

“I live up here,” I say, motioning ahead.

Gabriel pulls in front of my house. I’m grateful it’s getting too dark for him to see just how dilapidated it’s become, thanks to bills for exhaustive sleep studies that insurance chose not to cover.

He turns off the ignition and looks at me intently. Even though I’m sitting down, I can tell that my knees have gone rubbery, weak.

“Thanks for the ride,” I mumble.

Gabriel swipes his hands through his thick hair, parting it like it’s the Black Sea. He pauses momentarily and grows serious. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks.

I nod, trying to look certain even though I couldn’t be less so. Our eyes meet, but neither of us looks away. Finally, I give up on the little game of chicken we’re playing and unlock the door.

“Not so fast. Just how you are you planning to pay me back for my good deed?”

“So that’s how this works, huh? You’re quite an opportunist. Taking advantage of a pitiful girl who’s practically unconscious,” I say, before pushing my lip out in a pout.

“I take it when I can get it.”

“You, Gabriel
—
to use a
college
word
—
are a cad.”

“If you say so.” He smirks.

I’m not sure what irks me more: that he used my least favorite expression or that he looked so adorable while saying it.

I walk into the foyer and find my parents taking their jackets out of the closet. I keep my distance, not wanting to draw too much attention to myself. Obviously Mrs. Lansing didn’t sell me out, or they’d have pounced on me the second I entered the room.

If only I could confide in my parents what happened at the flea market. Yet I don’t dare. Even though it’s what I’d like to do, what I should be able to do. But it would help confirm their worst fears
—
that I’d inherited some horrible health problems from my birth mother. As if the sleepwalking isn’t bad enough.

“You’re home early,” my mom says, sounding alarmed.

I’m doing both my parents a favor, really, by omitting the truth. I’m sparing my mother the hassle of worrying about me and my father the hassle of worrying about my mom, who’s incapable of handling much in the way of stress.

“Mrs. Lansing wants me to start off gradually. Ease into it.”

I lie through slightly clenched teeth. I hope she can’t see the corner of my mouth twitching. It’s my tell. It usually happens when I’m nervous, but it also happens when I’m bending the truth. Which is why I never play poker.

“How’ll you save up for college with a schedule like that?” asks my father with dismay.

“You sure she didn’t send you home sick? Because you look a little flushed. Doesn’t she, Paul? Annabeth, are you running a temperature?”

My mother presses her hand against my forehead.

“She’s OK. Aren’t you, honey?” my dad asks in a way that makes it seem less like a question and more like a command.

I nod, not having much choice in the matter.

“Sometimes, you just need to let this stuff go, Norma,” he says softly.

My mom drops her hand and pulls away. Apparently she’s decided to follow my father’s advice because she puts on her double
-
breasted trench.

“We’re going to the grocery store. Want anything?” Dad asks as he jingles the keys in his pocket.

“How about some beer?”

My parents look at each other and laugh. I join in. But it’s forced. Because I’m not kidding. Ever since the flea
-
market vision, I’ve been insanely parched. For some reason, I feel like the only thing that will quench my thirst is beer. Even though I can’t stand the stuff, or its smell.

“I’ll pick you up some Moxie instead,” says Dad.

“I do love the Moxie,” I admit.

But Moxie
—
my favorite, a regionally brewed soda
—
won’t do the trick. It tastes more like flat sarsaparilla than beer. I need something sour, bitter…full of hops.

“I think I have a coupon for it!” my father, extreme couponer extraordinaire, brags.

“A coupon? Then you have no choice.”

My mom mentions that Howie will be home any minute, but I’m only half listening. My younger brother’s whereabouts are the least of my concerns. My parents are moving out the door at a snail’s pace. I’d love to prod them along gently, but that would raise some red flags, and then they’d never leave.

Do I go on a fact
-
finding mission by holding the ankh again and risk another blackout? Are blackouts really that bad? They’re basically the same as sleeping, right?

Though even the seemingly simple act of sleeping is a problem for me. I need some time to think. By myself. Uninterrupted.

After what feels like an eternity, they’re finally gone, and I take the stairs two at a time, the box containing the ankh in one hand and a Milwaukee’s Best in the other. I enter my bedroom and shut the door behind me ever so carefully. On the off chance that Howie is home, I don’t want to awaken the beast.

I’ve never needed to be within the lavender confines of my bedroom so much. I look around at the oversized teddy bear that’s missing an eye. The worn Amish toy chest, now reimagined as a hope chest. The four
-
poster bed with the sleepwalking restraints attached to the posts. Finally, I have some privacy in a familiar place. One that’s straightforward, lacking in mystery; one that allows me to contemplate something dripping with it.

I’d latch the door if I could, but my folks won’t allow us to have locks. They seem certain that the threat of entry at any given moment will result in good behavior. Of course, in this instance they’re wrong, I think as I brazenly chug my budget beer. Would expensive beer taste any better? I wonder. I sure hope so.