Gemini (14 page)

Amber frowned at me. “Clara,” she said with loud concern, “what's
wrong
?”

“Oh.” I realized I had been scowling. “Um, nothing.” I glanced at her as I settled into my seat. “I mean, I was just thinking that it sounds like our costumes are getting too predictable. But maybe this time we'll have a little surprise.”

While we arranged our bags and got out our notebooks, the door opened, and I almost jumped at the sound; but a couple of guys who weren't Max walked into the room and went quietly to their seats. As the door started to swing shut behind them, a large hand caught it, and Max walked in.

I froze, torn between Idiot-Girl's desire to stare at him and the Cynic's need to duck under the desk and hide.

If he hated me, I wouldn't blame him.

All weekend my brain had been buzzing like a beehive in summer. Despite what I'd told Hailey and Juanita—and what I'd consciously, firmly told myself, too—the truth was that when Max and I had been talking at his house on Friday night, I'd felt such an electric surge of excitement, of connecting with him, that I'd half-hoped, half-imagined, even half-believed that maybe, just maybe, he might feel some hint of that charge on his end too. And yet, wasn't
that just insane? Was I turning delusional, like my sister? Did I not understand what I was and how impossible my hopes were?

And then there had been the whole disaster in the kitchen. There he'd been, flirting with Lindsey, the second-prettiest girl in the school (after Juanita), and then something had happened and he'd turned into a quivering wreck. He'd stuttered worse than anyone I'd ever heard, right in front of Lindsey, who up until that moment had been throwing herself at him.

And maybe it had happened because of me. Because I'd been throwing myself at him too, after flirting with him at school and practically inviting myself over to his house. And then I'd put him in the awkward position of dealing with me in Lindsey's presence, when I wouldn't seem to take no for an answer.

And yet.

What if I hadn't imagined that connection?

What if he didn't hate me at all?

Standing in the classroom doorway now, Max met my eyes. Apparently Idiot-Girl had won, and I'd gone ahead with the staring.

For the longest time he seemed to have no expression at all. My heart beat wildly as I looked at him, waiting for something—a sign, a frown, a scowl, anything at all—that would let me know how he was, and where I stood. The seconds dragged on.

He hated me. Of course he did.

But then something twitched at the corners of his lips. And at the corners of his eyes. It was small; it was tentative; but maybe, just maybe, it was a hint of a smile.

And cautiously, slowly, as I filled with just the littlest bit of hope, I let my own lips curl upward too.

And there it was. The sparkle in his eyes. It still wasn't a full smile, but a quarter of a smile. Then a third of a smile. Three eighths of a smile. He held my gaze for a second, maybe two, and then he looked down, away from me, a hint of color rising up in his cheeks.

As he moved past me on his way to his seat, for a fleeting second his jeans brushed against my hip. I closed my eyes and took in a long, deep breath.

I was still a mess. I still had no idea what to think—about anything, really. But he'd given me three eighths of a smile, and that was a lot.

Idiot-Girl whispered, cautiously,
He doesn't hate me.

And the Cynic didn't say anything back.

After Clara and I were fully dressed in our Glinda/Wicked Witch costumes, down to the green skin and warts for her and the nauseatingly perky body glitter for me, our mom gave us a full inspection, while Dad stood back, faintly smiling. That was where he seemed to be a lot of the time, standing a little behind Mom, vaguely approving but with no real indication of what he was thinking about.

Like all of our Halloween costumes—and for that matter, all of our clothes in general—we'd bought these online, and then Mom had put them through some fairly elaborate adjustments to get them to fit us. In this case she'd adjusted them a second time, after we'd decided to trade, but she hadn't seen us in them since then. Her voice was a little stern as she said to me, “Hailey, that Glinda costume was not that revealing when your sister tried it on. What have you got stuffed in there anyway?”

The answer was her old argyle socks, but she didn't have to know that. I shrugged. “Well, how do you expect
us to turn tricks if we don't show a little skin?”

Dad turned away quickly, looking vaguely embarrassed—so at least he'd been listening—but Mom just laughed. The last time I'd managed to shock her was when she'd been pregnant with us and the doctors had showed her our conjoinment on the ultrasound. The power of that shock had left her immune to all others, like if you heard a bomb going off so loudly that it deafened you.

We let her take a couple of pictures—she would print them out on our home printer and mail them to our grandparents, as usual, for fear that any type of Internet posting or even email might be intercepted by evil reporters—and then we shuffled into the minivan, with Dad behind the wheel.

As usual, we sat in the backseat, listening to the radio and looking out the windows. The sun was just going down behind the clouds, and the whole world had a pinkish glow.

“So,” Dad piped up after a couple of minutes. “What's the story with this Max guy?”

I held back a laugh. Dad can seem so clueless half the time, you almost think he's got no idea what's going on. And then he asks questions like
this
.

“Um,” Clara said. After a second she added, “What do you mean?”

“Well, you went over to his house last week, right? So what's his story?”

She shrugged, in a confused and useless display of fake nonchalance. “I don't know. He just moved here for his dad's work. We don't really know him that well or anything.”

“Except,” I said, “we know he loves stargazing. Constellations. And what was it? Schmidt-Cassegrain telescopes?”

Clara made a small noise of frustration.

“Well,” Dad said, glancing back at us in the rearview mirror, “that sounds promising.”

I smirked, but managed not to cackle.

“We're just friends,” Clara bit out.

“I wasn't suggesting otherwise,” Dad said, his tone easy and calm. I had no idea whether he really hadn't meant anything else or was just covering his tracks. “He sounds like a promising new friend. You could use someone to talk stars and telescopes with. Couldn't you?”

Again Clara shrugged, despite the fact that Dad couldn't see it as he drove.

“Also,” I said—and maybe I was a little too revved up on pre-party adrenaline at this point—“we know that he's cute.”

“We should take him up to the observatory sometime,” Dad said, without necessarily acknowledging me. “Or out to the one at Chabot in Oakland. You know they've got a thirty-six-inch telescope? I think you'd get a kick out of it.”

Clara looked out the window. I was pretty sure she had
only two things on her mind at this point: murder and suicide.

“That sounds like fun,” I said.

“Really?” Dad asked. “
You
think telescope viewing sounds like fun, Hailey?”

It's kind of annoying that Mom and Dad can tell our voices apart, even when they're not looking.

“Yes,” I said, “I do. Well, not telescope viewing so much, but going to Oakland. And bringing Max. I'm up for it. What do you think, Clara?”

I was needling her, partly. But also I was desperate to go anywhere outside of Bear Pass. If an observatory was what it took, I would do it, for sure.

She kept looking out the window.

“I think she's up for it too,” I announced.

Clara elbowed me. “Could you just—please—could you . . .”

“Well,” Dad said, “let's think about it, anyway, all right? I'd like to get you two out more. I think it's about time you had a few adventures.”

“What about you?” I asked Dad. “Would it be fun for you, too? You barely get out of Bear Pass any more than we do.”

“Yeah,” he acknowledged, “it would be fun for me, too.”

He pulled up in front of Amber's house. The sun had just gone down; a little of its light still filtered in above the horizon. Already cars lined the street all the way down the
block. Most of the houses were decorated for Halloween, but none more than Amber's. Her whole front yard had been transformed into a haunted graveyard, with tombstones, skeletons rising out of the earth, and ghosts floating from wires between the trees.

“Midnight,” my dad said as we stepped out onto the ramp. “I'll see you right here. One minute after twelve, if you're not inside the minivan, you both turn into pumpkins.”

“Isn't it the minivan that should turn into a pumpkin?” Clara asked.

“The minivan,” I assured her as we scuttled down the ramp, “is already no better than a pumpkin. A pumpkin would be a step up in coolness.”

We waved good-bye and headed inside.

Just inside the front door, hordes of teenage werewolves, vampires, and sexy lady pirates filled the kitchen, all holding red plastic cups or cans of soda. Jack-o'-lantern lights were strung across the walls, and paper bats hung from the ceiling. People shifted around to let us pass. A couple of them nodded in our direction.

I just prayed to God that Alek wouldn't be here. Having him see me as sparkly sweet Glinda would make me want to bash my own brains in. This arts academy interview had better be worth it. I still wasn't entirely sure I'd gotten the better end of this deal.

Steam rose out of a big pot on the stove. I inspected it.

“Smells good,” I said to Clara, raising my voice over the hum of conversations going on in the kitchen, not to mention the throbbing, spooky White Zombie music floating in from the living room.

“Hot apple cider,” said a voice behind me.

Max.

I turned, angling myself so that Clara had no choice but to face him head-on. I could see him too, but I had made myself peripheral.

He was dressed as the Tin Man, from
The Wizard of Oz
. He had the whole costume, even the silly hat. It looked high-quality, probably a rental, but he hadn't bothered to paint his face silver, and his skinny wrists poked out from the not-quite-long-enough sleeves.

He said something that I couldn't hear over all the other voices and the music coming from the next room. Clara leaned in closer, pulling me with her as she cupped her hand toward him, straining upward toward his giraffe-like height.

He leaned down, raising his volume. “I said I like your costumes.”

To me he said, “Hailey, that's amazing. That Glinda costume really makes you look so much like Clara.” He laughed. “Okay, I know, I'm an idiot. But seriously, most of the time you look different. I guess it's the hair.”

I touched my blond wig, looking up at him suspiciously. I felt like such an incredible dork in the sparkly wig.

“In a good way,” Max said quickly. “You look beaut—I mean, the costume is great.” Turning toward Clara, he said, “And your costume is superscary. Too bad I had to go and be the Tin Man, though.”

Now, what was that supposed to mean? Was he worried that people would think we'd coordinated our outfits with his? Was he afraid of being associated with us like that?

I felt Clara stiffening and pulling back. I may have been frowning at him too. His voice became rushed. “I m-mean because you're the witch.”

“Yeah,” Clara said coldly, “I got that.”

Behind Max, at the far end of the kitchen, a group of jocks passed through—Gavin and Josh and a couple of others, all dressed as vampires. Gavin looked our way and held up a hand in greeting. I nodded back.

I was pretty sure that wouldn't have happened before last weekend's meteor shower—the only time we'd ever hung out together outside of school. It wasn't like we were friends now. I didn't even want us to be. But we'd known each other since middle school, and it was weird to think that after all these years, there could still be this tiny little shift.

Max's hand brushed over Clara's loose black sleeve. “In the book,” he said, “isn't there something about the Wicked Witch being responsible for the Tin Man's condition?”

“You mean having no heart?”

He shrugged. “I might be wrong.”

“I don't know,” she said. “I don't remember anything about stealing your heart, but I know you storm my castle at some point. Or infiltrate it.”

I clapped a hand over my mouth.
Did she really just say that?

There was this moment when they both seemed all frozen and red-faced, and I just knew that Clara was wanting to melt into a puddle on the floor. But then Max laughed. And after a moment, amazingly, Clara laughed too. Kind of a bubbly laugh, actually. Like maybe having her castle stormed wouldn't be so bad.

He cleared his throat. “S-s-so . . .
anyway
, I haven't forgotten about our bet. You saw more meteors, so I have to teach you something at the observatory.”

Yes! He still wanted to go! Now I had to stop myself from clapping my hands and squealing with delight. But Clara, like a moron, just stood there not saying anything.

His cheeks turned pink. “I m-mean, if you still w-want to go.”

“Um, yeah,” Clara said. “Sure. Definitely. Only . . .”

Max frowned. “W-what?”

Clara said something, but it was too quiet; even I couldn't hear her.

Max leaned in, frowning, cupping his ear.

She said it more loudly. “I don't want you to feel like you have to do that.”

Oh my God, what is she saying?

But she plunged on, as if she couldn't stop until she'd said every worst-possible-thing that she could come up with. “If you like Lindsey, hanging out with us might not be your best move.”