Authors: Artist Arthur
He shakes his head, just a little, not enough to break our contact. “I know what I want.”
“I know what I want, too. But—”
“No ‘buts’,” he says quickly, and then he tilts his head so that his lips can easily touch mine.
I absolutely love kissing him. His lips are so soft, but he always seems to be in control. I really want to be with him. He said that’s all that matters. I’m wondering if that’s true.
My parents would freak if they found out I was seeing Antoine. The cause of that freak-out would be for so many reasons: (1) he’s definitely not a Richie; (2) his brother was the one murdered by the pervert molester teacher a few months back, which was just too much scandal for the Carringtons to handle; and finally (3) he’s black. I don’t think my parents are racially prejudiced—just tied up in that social thing—but I think they’d prefer me with a white boy, again to cut down on scandal. Image, after all, like my mother’s mantra, is everything. But feelings should account for something. Especially
the ones swirling through me right now. It’s warm and giddy-like, reminds me of when I was a kid getting up on Christmas morning and seeing all my gifts. But ten times better.
His hands move on my arms, down until he’s grabbing my waist. Momentarily baffled, I stop concentrating on the kiss, but then he just lifts me up until I’m sitting in his lap. Who knew he was that strong?
I lock my ankles behind his back and hope I’m not blushing since this is the most intimate position I’ve ever been in with a boy.
“I really like you, Sasha.”
“I really like you, too.” And I hope this is for real. I mean, I hope he’s not playing me or anything because my “like” might just be moving in another direction.
His arms around my waist are holding me tight, mine are around his neck. I’m trying not to choke him, but I don’t want to let go. The kiss is deeper when he opens his mouth. My heart’s about to pitter-patter right out of my chest, so I hold on even tighter.
If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.
If this is heaven, death isn’t so bad.
But if this is fake and heartache is just around the corner…well, let’s just not even go there.
Things
that make me Sasha Carrington:
Things that make me a Mystyx:
Things that just make me…me:
Lists are like one of my other hobbies. I do it to keep myself organized, so that I don’t get all twisted up with stuff in my mind and go crazy. I’ve seen so many people go crazy. Well, not exactly firsthand, but reality television’s a curse and a blessing. I could probably lock myself in the house for the next five years watching only reality shows and grow up just as opinionated, obnoxious and emotionally disturbed as most of the kids at Settleman’s High will become.
So today’s lists are just to remind me that I’m juggling a lot of personality. All the different aspects of me are both intriguing and troublesome. Yet I don’t think I can change any of them. I am what I am.
That sounds so philosophic. But I’m convinced it’s true.
Riding to school, I keep thinking about my list, about how Sasha Carrington has morphed into a Mystyx. I like the power I have. I like the friends it has brought me: Jake, Krystal and even Lindsey. I’d really like to find out how we’re supposed to fight this Darkness so we can kick his evil dark butt and get on with our lives.
But, apparently, that’ll have to wait until after first period because the warning bell rings just as I get to school.
I hurry up to class, seeing Alyssa out of the corner of my eye and ducking into a crowd of kids so she doesn’t see me. I’m still ticked at her for what she did to Krystal yesterday and not at all sure how she got her claws into Franklin. So I definitely do not want to see her right now.
I would have liked to see Krystal, to make sure she is okay today, but I don’t have that kind of luck. I get into the
classroom just as the late bell rings and fall into my seat, not quite ready to start my learning day, but as close as I’m going to get.
Today must be my day to run late. It’s been lunchtime for fifteen minutes, but I’m just walking into the cafeteria. Mr. Emory stopped me for a report on the field trip last week, as if he wasn’t there and didn’t see the repulsive dead body come to surface for himself. So I spent valuable time talking to him when I should have been at the table checking on Krystal and telling the other Mystyx what I’ve learned.
When I get to the table, everybody shuts up. I mean, I think I actually hear the click of teeth as their mouths close so quickly, so completely.
“Hey,” I say airily. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Krystal snaps and looks away from me.
“Hi, Sasha,” Lindsey says, giving me a small smile. I notice she’s wearing a black blouse today. She can’t read any thoughts. That’s probably for the best since I don’t think my thoughts are particularly nice at the moment.
“Jake, you okay?” I ask because his face is all red and he’s clenching his fists.
“Fine. I’m just fine.”
“You sure? You don’t look fine.”
“Oh come on. What do you want him to say? How do you think he is after what your family’s doing to his?” Krystal thrusts these words at me with the force of a virtual slap to my face. I’m getting kind of tired of her attitude, especially since I haven’t done anything to deserve it.
“My family? What do they have to do with anything?”
Jake refuses to answer.
I reach out and touch his arm, but he pulls away from me.
Now I’m getting angry. “If you have something to say, Jake, just say it.”
For a few seconds it’s quiet—well, as quiet as it’s going to get in a room full of teenagers.
“You don’t have to have everything!” The words burst from his mouth. His lips tighten and he continues, “There’s nothing wrong with our house. I know it’s not as big and pretty as yours but we like it. It’s ours. My dad worked hard to pay for it. And your father has no right to it!”
WTH? I’m trying to follow his words and cut through the tension boiling at our table. Krystal’s looking at me like she’s really contemplating hitting me. Lindsey’s rocking back and forth, her forehead pinched like she’s in pain. Jake’s fists are planted on the table, but I know if he lifts them, if he directs the rage apparently boiling inside him, it’s not going to be good.
So I level my voice and look straight into his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jake. Did my father say something to your father? Tell me what happened. Maybe I can help.”
“You can’t help. He’s Marvin Carrington, the all-powerful in Lincoln. He wants something, he just takes it. Just like that. He wants to build some exclusive club on our property, so we have to go. My house gone! My family homeless! He doesn’t give a damn!”
With that, Jake jumps up, his nostrils flaring as he glares at me. “I’m outta here,” he finally says before stomping off.
Krystal goes after him, leaving me to sit dumbfounded at the table.
I know about my dad’s plan for the club. I think the premise of it is stupid, but I reluctantly agreed to help him. I had no idea he was planning to build the club on the property where Jake’s house is. I would have tried to stop him. Wouldn’t I?
The afternoon ticks by slowly, my thoughts completely on getting home so I can talk to my dad. Why would he want to tear down Jake’s house just to build the club? Probably because Jake lives by Dent Creek, the poorest section of Lincoln. If I know my dad, he most likely thinks he’s doing a good thing by knocking down those houses. He wouldn’t think about the people who live there, the families.
But I’m thinking about them. I’m thinking about Jake and his grandfather, who told us about our power, and his father, who I rarely ever see but I know he’s there. Where will they go if they have to leave their homes?
I’m thinking about this so hard my head starts to hurt. The final bell rings for the day, and I’m so relieved I just about bolt up out of my seat.
I walk through the halls in a daze, not really seeing or hearing anyone or anything around me. Grabbing my stuff out of my locker is a repetitive action. I do it and don’t even realize I’m done until I’m heading back down the hall toward the front door. Earlier I thought about trying to stop Jake after school to talk to him again, but I figure it’s pointless. He’s angry right now. Best I wait until I have all the facts and possibly a solution before I approach him again.
I have one goal right now and that’s to get home and talk to my dad. I want to know what’s going on with Jake’s house and if there’s any way he can build someplace else.
Forces beyond my control obviously have another plan.
Just before I get to the front door, I see Franklin and Alyssa. The sight of them together again has my head throbbing more. They’re up to something. I don’t know how I know, I just do.
So I turn and walk toward them. As I get closer, I hear them laughing and see that Alyssa’s holding something in her hand.
“What’s up?” I say the minute I approach them.
They both look at each other, then back at me and laugh again. Whatever they think is so funny I’m thinking has got to be bad.
“What’s up with you?” Franklin says, and his eyes are doing this weird thing.
I’ve heard the saying
eyes dancing
before, but never actually took it literally. Well, Franklin’s are. They’re moving around really fast, and the color is changing. Normally his eyes are brown, I think. I don’t really stare at his eyes a lot. But this golden color that I’m seeing is definitely not normal.
I open my mouth to say something, but before I can, they stop. Now they’re still and they’re brown.
He’s still smiling at me, wearing black jeans and a black shirt. Similar to what he wore yesterday.
“Nothing. Just wondering why you two are together again. Where’s Krystal, Franklin?” I ask him pointedly.
This just makes both of them laugh more. Alyssa speaks up this time.
“Oh, she’s stuck in gym,” she says, raising her dark eyebrows up and down and looking at Franklin.
“Yeah, stuck,” he echoes.
Yeah, looney, that’s what I’m thinking about these two. But then my gaze falls down to what Alyssa’s holding in her hand.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she answers quickly.
Franklin answers at the same time. “Clothes.”
I look back and forth between them, then take a quick step forward and grab Alyssa’s arm, lifting it toward me so I can see what’s in her hand.
Franklin is right, it’s clothes.
Black stretch pants and a light blue top. The top has tiny
rhinestones going around the neckline, and I know I’ve seen it somewhere before.
“These aren’t yours,” I say, actually testing the theory circulating in my mind.
“Oh please, you know I don’t buy off-the-rack.” She acts all indignant but I don’t care. I’m thinking about who these clothes might belong to.
“Where did you say Krystal is?”
Franklin sighs. “Stuck. Can’t you hear, Carrington?”
Then I feel sick to my stomach. “These are hers, aren’t they?”
Alyssa yanks her arm from my grasp and puts a hand on her hip. “Now would your little friend be silly enough to run around the school without her clothes on?”
“No,” I say, eyeing them slowly. “But you two would be ignorant enough to take them from her while she’s in the locker room changing.”
Without waiting for a response or verification from either of them, I turn and run down the hallway toward the gym. Pulling open the double doors, I look all around for Krystal. When I don’t see her, I run down the back stairs that lead to the locker rooms, taking them two at a time. The boys’ locker room is down the left side of the hallway and the girls down the right. I take off in that direction. Slamming to a stop at the door, I pull and it opens. As soon as I step in, I start calling Krystal’s name.
I get no response.
Walking through every aisle of lockers, I just keep calling her. Then I check the showers and still don’t see her. It’s just as I’m about to give up and leave the locker room that I hear a familiar voice.
“Be vigilant,” it says.
It’s not Krystal, but the female voice I heard when I was on that other plane.
So I stop, realizing that Krystal has to be somewhere close. On my right side, the
M
is starting to tingle and burn against my skin. I haven’t felt this since we all used our powers together to stop Mr. Lyle. Yes, Krystal is definitely close. I can feel it.
Letting the feeling of her closeness guide me, I move through the locker room again until I see the door to the towel closet. I still don’t hurry, even though I want to get her out of there immediately. Instead, almost as if following some unwritten instructions, I take my time. With each step, I’m acutely aware of the heat emanating through my
M
more persistently.
When I’m right up on the door, I reach for the handle, but it won’t turn. It’s locked.
I curse and try to turn it again.
Nothing.
Where’s the key? I’m thinking this but have no clue where to look. I’ve never seen this door locked before. It’s always open, with towels neatly stacked or thrown at the floor beside it. But not today.
I have no idea where the key can be. Maybe in the office. The physical education office or the main office? I don’t know which one, and I don’t know how long they’ve had her locked in here. Krystal hasn’t said a word, hasn’t muttered a sound in answer to my repeated calling of her name. But I know she’s in there.
And that knowledge holds me still. It keeps me from running, screaming for help. I just focus on Krystal. Wondering if she’s afraid, if she’s all right. I can visualize holding the key in my hand and opening up the door.
The key.
To open the door, I need the key.
Where is the key?
My feet hit the floor and I open my eyes. I’m standing in the middle of the physical education office. Without another thought, I go right to the top desk drawer, pull it open and retrieve the large ring of keys.
It takes me another second or so to think about Krystal in that closet, and then I’m there, too. Putting the key into the lock, I turn it, then use my other hand to turn the knob and open the door.
“Are you okay?” I ask her even though I know she’s not.
Her chest is moving up and down rapidly as if she’d been the one running to get here. Her eyes are furious as she takes a step toward me.
While I know she’s angry, I don’t step back because why would she be angry with me? I’m the one who got the key and let her out.
“How did they do this to you? Why did they do this?” I’m asking her these questions even though I don’t really think she’ll answer.
“Get away from me,” she says.
Now I didn’t expect that.
“I just helped you out,” I say in defense as she pushes past me.
“But you’re the one who started all this in the first place.”
She doesn’t turn back to look at me, just keeps on walking away, heading out of the locker room.
“Wait a minute,” I yell. “How can you say I started this?”
“You and your rich friend!” she spits as she’s pushing through the door.
I follow, being quick to hold my hands out for the swinging
door or else it would have knocked me down. “What? Wait a minute.” She doesn’t stop walking, but I do. “The least you can do is stop and give me an explanation for what you’re accusing me of.”
She does stop then, and she comes back to stand in front of me. “The least I can do? Is that what you said? The least you could do is stop fronting and be honest about how you feel. If you don’t like me, then just say so and be gone. I don’t have time for these petty games. And I certainly don’t have time for you smiling in my face one minute and planning my embarrassment the next.”