Annabeth Neverending (9 page)

It’s hard to know where to set my eyes; it’s all so lovely. The mansion, a wooden affair that’s painted lemon yellow, looks like it’s been frosted with layers of scrolling white woodwork. Spires of white jut into the air, giving it a Gothic feel. It’s officially known as the Bourne home, but locals refer to it as the “Wedding Cake House.”

I’ve driven past it before, but it lies right on the main drag in Kennebunk. Stopping alongside the road to gape can land you a citation, though I’ve longed to try regardless. Now that I’m standing on the property itself, I can fully admire its splendor as an invited guest, and not as a trespasser.

“When you said ‘estate sale,’ you weren’t kidding!” I exclaim.

“I aim to please.”

“Any idea why it’s decorated like this?” I ask while trying to figure out how many rooms the house holds. Maybe twenty? Though it’s hard to tell from the outside. At one point, a house so large would’ve been impossible to fathom, but the palace where Ana lived could’ve easily contained many Wedding Cake Houses inside its ample walls.

“According to legend, a sea captain was forced to up and leave his bride before they even had a chance to cut their wedding cake. During his anguished hours at sea, he carved all this woodwork to prove his love.”

“How romantic. Is it giving you any ideas?” I say while jabbing him in the side with my finger.

“Yes, but none I can execute. I practically flunked out of shop class.”

“Likely story,” I say, not buying it for a second. He probably aced every Tech Ed course he took.

I blink ferociously, as the house seems shrouded in darkness. Clouds accumulate in the sky, crowding out the sun, making it even more difficult to see.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m having some vision issues. It’s probably just dry eye.”

I can sense that Gabriel is watching me closely. We’re supposed to be working the sale, but sometimes it seems as though he’s working me. Making me care for him despite my confusion. Making me question my past because I feel like he’s my future.

All I want to know is, does he, can he, accept the supernatural? That doesn’t seem like that hard a question to ask, though it may be a difficult one to answer. I’d like to ease into it, but there’s no natural segue. My muscles clench in anticipation as I pause, trying to collect my thoughts.

I need to pull it off like a Band
-
Aid, I decide.

“So, tell me…Do you believe in reincarnation?”

He looks at me as though I’m an alien from a different galaxy. I guess it is a startling change of topic.

“No. You know what? I don’t. It’s just a fantasy, a pipe dream people have come up with as a way of dealing with our own mortality,” states Gabriel with too much certainty for something that’s so unknowable. “The best part is that nobody ever thinks they were a servant; they were a king or queen or something.”

“Good point. But I still think it could happen…may have happened…to one of us…even…,” I say shakily.

Gabriel stands there quietly, his hands hanging out of his pockets. “I’m a pragmatist, Annabeth.”

I’m not sure what that means, but I have an inkling that it won’t help my cause.

“Death may seem like a strange and far
-
off concept to you. But my mother was ill for a long time. And I watched her die,” he says morosely, his eyes welling with water.

“Gabriel…”

“When I began grieving, I went through all the possibilities. What I’ve come up with is that you live and you die. And if you’re lucky, you find somebody you care about along the way.”

“So you aren’t willing to consider that we’re reborn?” I ask, disappointed in the answer before he gives it.

“No, I’m not. I like to think that there’s a natural end to things. The alternative? Well…All it does it draw out the agony,” says Gabriel, his mouth making a determined line.

I don’t know how to respond. I can relate to a certain extent. I’ve had my own kind of loss. But his was different. She was in his life. And he saw it happen. As for my birth parents, I know that on a logical level they could be dead, but for now, I live with the hope, no matter how remote it is, that they’re still out there. Whereas Gabriel’s has been extinguished.

“Or, it adds to the possibility,” I say gently.

Gabriel grows thoughtful. I understand why it would take a leap of faith on his part to believe me. It might even rock the very foundation of his belief system to entertain the notion. But if he can’t so much as consider it, how can we go any further?

“Well, we better get moving and pick up some antiques, so we can get you to the big game,” says Gabriel, flashing me a sideways grin so bright I can see it even with my damaged vision.

“I wish I could skip it,” I say in a decidedly less optimistic tone of voice.

“Come on. I’ve been waiting to watch you cheer.”

“That’s cold, Gabriel.”

“What do you mean?” he asks playfully.

“You know I’m not on cheerleading. I’m on pompons. It’s totally different,” I insist.

“If you say so.”

9

T
he floodlights blast the stadium with a lumiscent glow. The football field stretches out in front of me, a grassy carpet of green and white. I look up, noting that the black sky overhead is filled with an ocean of stars, the very same bodies that once shone down on Ana and Sethe. It makes time seem like a neverending continuum, one that once brought me and the love of my lives together.

I watch the game vacantly, so consumed by my impending performance that I don’t know if the Wildcats are winning or losing. Though, to be honest, I never know anyway. I don’t have a head for athletics. I can’t seem to hold onto the rules; they simply slip away.

I keep blinking, now at superspeed. Under normal circumstances, I hate these bright lights. They illuminate all my errors, highlighting them for the whole crowd to see. But today, I need them. Otherwise there’s no way I could perform. Though I probably shouldn’t pompon (can that even be used as a verb?) anyway. Vision impairment be damned
—
my toe touches are my true enemy.

The marching band plays a bombastic version of “Louie Louie,” and we get into formation while we wait our turn. Standing on deck is the worst. The expectation, the nervousness before performing
—
it’s hard to contain. I look over my uniform
—
my thick two
-
toned sweater, my pleated skirt
—
to make sure it’s presentable. I think I’m ready. Well, as ready as I’ll ever be. Except
—
there goes my twitch. Hopefully it will be undetectable when I’m flashing my patented performance smile.

Bernadette walks up to me, and she must be able to sense my trepidation. She tightens the obscene number of curled blue and white ribbons shooting out of my ponytail before putting her arm around my shoulder.

“Now don’t sweat the toe touch. I didn’t wear bundies or panties. Nobody’s going to be looking at you,” Bernadette says, like only a true friend would.

“That should make for an interesting kickline,” I reply.

I envision it and giggle a little too hard, thanks to my nerves. I shake with apprehension, secretly hoping that some catastrophic event will suddenly bring the football game to an abrupt end. But my self
-
serving wish is not granted. Even if by some miracle Kerry is understanding of a failed toe touch, the crowd won’t be as kind.

Gabriel and C. J. appear next to the field’s fence. They stand beside each other, looking nothing alike. Looking nothing like the brothers they are now. Have they been brothers before?

“Ah, so you guys came…together.”

“We wouldn’t have missed it. Good luck!” C. J. says enthusiastically.

“I think you’re supposed to say ‘break a leg,’” corrects Gabriel.

“No, please don’t. I’ve got enough problems as it is.”

I look at C. J., and it’s clear that he’s checking me out, which causes my discomfort to heighten. If Gabriel notices C. J.’s clandestine glances, he pretends otherwise.

“Can you sit with us after you perform?” asks Gabriel.

“No, I have to sit with the squad. To show ‘spirit,’” I say, my bitterness evident.

“Let’s meet up in the parking lot after the game. I’ll take you out for fried clams,” Gabriel offers.

“With bellies or without?” I ask.

“With…,” he says, looking at me, knowing that I’m weighing his answer carefully. I don’t look happy. “Out? Of course! Without. Who likes those nasty rubbery black circles?”

“You do,” says C. J.

My face softens. Hey, Gabriel is willing to bend on seafood, even if we don’t see eye to eye on our fluctuating states of incarnation. “Great.”

“You coming too, C. J.?” asks Gabriel. I have a feeling he’s doing it out of a sense of obligation and not because he actually wants him to go with us.

“Nah. I’m going out with the guys from the wrestling team,” C. J. says evenly.

I nod and shoo the Danvers brothers away as the marching band files off in unison, their silver and yellow instruments shining and their flags swinging.

“Tough choice, huh?” asks Bernadette.

“You aren’t kidding.”

“You should try to juggle them both. Who knows? They might be into it.”

I contemplate that idea, which I have to admit has its merits, while Kerry commands that we wave our right arms in the air to do a pompon check. (Blue is always in right.) Once we’ve been “passed,” we enter the monstrous field and spread out into place as the pounding music blares.

Knowing that Ana was willing to perform in front of hordes of people
puts my puny high
-
school audience in perspective. And now that I’m less caught up in my pom career, thanks to my dalliances in ancient Egypt, something new pours out of me. Talent? I’m moving in time with the music! I know the choreography. I’m using my lips to smile instead of count. It’s…fun!

When the moment does arrive for my toe touch, it’s so high, so clean, the crowd goes crazy. For a few seconds, it feels like I’m flying, defying gravity. Even though it isn’t part of the choreography, I add two additional toe touches just to prove that this was no accident. I’ll deal with the fallout for showboating later.

We collapse to the ground in a falling wave as the music concludes. In unison, we rise and put our arms behind us, resting our pompons on the small of our backs. Our pointed toes kick up the hems of our skirts as we exit to rousing applause.

Once we’ve left the field, I’m surrounded by my teammates, who are congratulating me for my efforts. This is new: usually I get glares after the fact for tripping or turning in the wrong direction.

“That was killer, Annabeth!” says Kerry.

“Yeah, you really rocked it,” adds Bernadette.

I give them both a dramatic bow. So not just bad things like beer cravings carry over, but amazing things like muscle memory. Ana’s skills bled through from her lifetime into mine. Her coordination and gymnastic expertise came with me to the present day, and I was able to apply it to a much less violent pastime. Who would’ve thought that Ana would be my deliverance? I never could’ve done those toe touches without her. On occasion, reincarnation has advantages.

I enter the parking lot as I zip up my nylon team jacket, my pompon bag hanging over my shoulder. I’m still feeling elated from my killer performance. Now that I no longer have the stadium lights to rectify my vision, it’s hard to distinguish what’s in front of me. Suddenly, the overhead lights go out without warning. I’m thrust into darkness, unable to see at all.

Footsteps resound, loudly hitting the pavement nearby. Fright engulfs me, though I’m not sure why. This is part of my high
-
school campus. I should feel safe here. It’s like a second home.

Surely I’m being silly. My nerves are unraveled because of the flashbacks. There’s probably a tripped wire or a shorted
-
out circuit. But my intuition, my instinct, tells me to worry. Again I hear footsteps hitting the pavement nearby. It’s probably a booster parent, or a janitor. Somebody completely innocuous who should not be making my blood rush through my veins as swiftly as mercury.

“Who’s there?” I ask quietly. Hopefully.

But I’m met with silence. And a cold wave of terror runs through me. I hear the culprit making a throat
-
clearing sound, and now I’m certain that it’s a he, not that there had been much of a doubt.

The mystery man pounces. A scream barely escapes my lips before he pushes me up against a car, his hand cupping my mouth to stifle me. I go limp with fear. Ana would’ve sprung to action, but there’s no fight here. The warrior has fled. And now I just want this to be over. Please, let this end. Come what may.

The attacker pulls at my snug turtleneck, scratching me, searching me, but there’s nothing there to take. He grunts with anger. Frustration. He lets go of me and grabs my bag before he runs off into the night.

I feel violated. Invaded. I’m shaking so hard my legs feel like jelly. I think they’re going to give way. I’m not even sure how long I’m standing here, wearily wobbling, silently weeping…

“Annabeth? Is that you?”

“Gabriel, thank God!” I practically scream, my voice cutting through the empty parking lot.

“I wasn’t expecting that sort of a reception,” he says, and even though I can’t see him, I can tell he’s smirking.

“I just got mugged!”

“Mugged? Which way did he go? Tell me!” Gabriel yells, dogged.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s long gone. Besides, I don’t want you to leave me.”

Gabriel bolts to my side, and I finally feel like I can begin the long road to achieving calm.

“What did he look like?” he asks frantically.

“I couldn’t really see him,” I say, and I know this sounds ridiculous.

“You couldn’t see him at all? It isn’t that dark here. There really is something wrong with your vision,” says Gabriel in a worried tone. He takes me into his arms while gently stroking my hair. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?” he asks, his voice pitched with anger.

“Not physically.”

He tenderly rubs my arm, and his touch makes me quiver.

I need this. I need him.

“We should call the police,” he suggests quietly.

At first, that seems like a good idea. The obvious next step. But I can’t describe my attacker, which is a major problem that I can’t explain. To the normal person, unhindered by brutal side effects, it isn’t blindingly dark here, even after the lights are shut down. I wonder how he was able to turn them off
—
and how he knew about the pendant.

Who is this villain? Could it be a reincarnated Amun, Ramses, or maybe even Kha?

No, no. It isn’t Gabriel. I won’t let myself go there. It simply can’t be him…not when he’s here helping me through it…

But I do wonder, does the ankh fall in and out of my possession as I hop from one lifetime, one time period, to another? Is that part of some strange routine, a weird cycle that always happens when I turn sixteen?

“We can’t. You don’t understand my parents. They’d never let me go out again.”

Ever since the ankh’s appeared, I’ve been bending the truth in strange and unusual ways. I know that someday that house of cards is going to fall down, but for now I’ll add another to its construction.

“Why don’t you think about it? You should at least report it to your school,” insists Gabriel emphatically.

“Maybe,” I say, my lies flowing as freely as my tears.

“If only I’d gotten here earlier.”

I burrow my head into his broad, hard shoulder. I find it hard to stop trembling, even with Gabriel’s arms reaching around me and holding me tight.

I don’t tell my parents about my mugging, which is hard because it’s at the forefront of my mind. The pushing. The yanking. The clawing. I retreat to my room to change out of my uniform. I need to take off anything he touched. I must cleanse myself of him. My nemesis.

I look around at all the stuffed toys and dolls. I realize that I might need to do some purging and redecorate. This place looks like it’s inhabited by a tweenaged girl. And given what I’ve gone through lately, I suddenly feel more grown up. A few…thousand years older.

I remove the ankh box from my hope chest. I sit on my bed and make sure it’s still nestled inside. I stare at this: my worst friend, my best enemy. I can’t bring myself to touch it. With everything I’ve been through, the last thing I need is a seizure or some new and even more terrible side effect.

I decide to lie down and close my eyes for a second before I put the ankh away. I’ll get to it. As soon as I have the energy…