Stray (3 page)

“There are rules for a reason.”

“What?” I turn to glare at him but the expression on his face makes my insides shrink. The crushed doorknob, the creaking stair rail, the nearly up-ended hors d’oeuvres, Barb’s comment, Jamie’s fingers. Has the drink really jiggered my signal so that I don’t know my own strength? I ball my fists, feel the thump of my pulse loud in my ears. He means
actual
rules. A Shield’s code of conduct? I swallow before mouthing the words, “The Affinity Project?”

Jamie’s eyebrows are as high as I’ve seen them. “Surely Miriam said something?”

My jaw tightens and the let-down of adrenaline sends angry jolts stabbing up my spine. Anger always makes the pins and needles bad. Fury makes them painful. The Affinity Project. I want to break something – ram my elbow through the tinted glass window or stick my head out and bellow obscenities at the blank sky. I close my eyes. “Shit.”

One worry-free night. That’s all I wanted. Just one. To be a normal girl, with normal friends, going out to do goddamn normal things. A night with Jamie and nothing between us. Ruined. Thanks again to the Affinity Project, a stain on my blank white page. It’s hard to remember hating anything as much as I hate Affinity; a bone-deep loathing for the faceless unknown and the concrete walls of my own DNA.

Why hadn’t Miriam said something?

Remember, no alcohol
.

I dig my nails into my knees at the nudge of guilt. I had taken her warning as generic “parental” advice, not a specific warning about the effect it could have on my genetic modification. Had she assumed I already knew about the risks?

Jamie sighs. “I can take you home.”

“Damn it.”

Abe’s handsome brown face pokes in the door. “Damn, what?” He lifts his half-mask up on to his head and helps Imogen inside.

“Damn, what?” Imogen asks, flushing pink with the excess of chivalry as she shuffles into the seat opposite me. She’s been nervous and embarrassed about the “arranged” date. Abe is making an effort. It’s a good night for her, for him, for everyone but me … me and probably Jamie.

Jamie gives her an easy smile.

I say, “It’s nothing.”

“Come on.” Jamie rises in his seat, taking my hand. I tug him back down. Pete and Kitty are making their way from the porch.

“I’m-not-getting-out,” I say in his ear. “Don’t-make-me.”

He glowers at the limo carpet, worrying the edge of the fedora between his thumb and forefinger.

Kitty climbs in, a petulant curve to her lips. “
Dad
. Honestly. Such a double standard.” Pete looks pale beneath his Batman mask and I feel a surge of sympathy – he’s just had his page stained too.

“Don’t worry, Pete,” Lila says, following them in. “He wouldn’t really hurt you.”

Gil’s chalked face looms over Lila’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“Neither would I,” Jamie says.

Pete glances at him and then away.

I jab my elbow into Jamie’s ribs.

He grunts and grabs his side.“
That’s
what I’m talking about.”

I thought I’d barely touched him. Pressure builds in my chest. My eyes sting. No, I can’t start crying! I bite the inside of my cheek.

Kitty takes Pete’s hand onto her lap and glares at her brother. “I didn’t see you get a speech.”

“I’m responsible,” Jamie says.

“
Now
, maybe,” Gil calls. Abe laughs. Pete seems to know better.

The music cranks up as the limo starts, drowning out Kitty’s retort. Kaylee and Eric climb in. I wait for Jamie to say something, to stall the driver, come up with an excuse for staying behind. He doesn’t say anything. Lila cheers and Gil sings loudly and off-key. We travel slowly down the long driveway and pull out into the road, forest on the left, the leafy expanse of the Gallaghers’ estate stretching into shadows on the right. Getting my own way doesn’t feel like a win. My body’s too heavy for my bones.

Jamie slips his hand through mine and leans close. “I’m not trying to be a killjoy, Everton. You almost broke my rib just now.”

I chew the inside of my lip.

He kisses my forehead. “Just another thing, isn’t it? The price we pay for all the stuff we shouldn’t be able to do. If you weren’t – if I wasn’t–” Jamie’s head snaps left. “I don’t think so, Kit.”

Kitty freezes with a hipflask halfway to her lips, her mouth hardening. Before she can tell Jamie to get lost, Pete pulls the flask from her hands and passes it to Gil who screws the cap back on and hides it in his cape.

“Bloody hell,
Dad
.” Kitty scowls at her twin. “Mind your own business.”

“Newsflash,” Jamie says. “
This
is exactly what that looks like.”

Gil whistles long and low.

Kitty swells in her seat and I’m glad when she starts her rant. I don’t want to hear Jamie theorising about a life where we aren’t what we are because the only way that can happen is if we’re apart. It’s bad enough knowing it’s inevitable. I can’t bear to hear him wishing for it.

The Hannibal Lecters wear straitjackets and face masks, Goodfellas’ gangsters tote machine guns, William Wallaces threaten to show what hides beneath their kilts and there’s even a Terminator with leather pants, razor crop and shotgun. The boys’ swim team swagger in their Baywatch lifeguard shorts. Some have added ghoulish wounds or zombie features in a Nineties Halloween mash-up. The male staff are decked out as era-specific Michael Jacksons and the female staff as Madonna in her Blond Ambition phase. The line-up of pointy-breasted corsets and platinum wigs is frightening on its own.

We pause in the crush of the huge stone foyer to Gainsborough Collegiate’s Great Hall, waiting for a pantomime horse to pass by. We check our jackets and bags. Despite a moment of grumbling from Jamie, I unbutton my coat to whistles from passing lifeguards. Jamie raises his whip. They laugh and pat him on the shoulder, winking at me and lumbering through the crowd, expressing loud appreciation for the spectacle that Kaylee and Kitty provide. Eric and Pete move closer to their dates.

In the Great Hall, Kitty’s committee has created a pavilion of orange organza, sweeping in folds from the distant regions of the ceiling. Looking up makes me dizzy and I lean on Jamie’s arm. The place is already humming and the noise, the mass of bodies, the endless twinkling lights swirl in my head, disorientating and marvellous. I reach to squeeze Kitty’s shoulder.

“Gently,” Jamie says, his mouth at my ear.

I temper my touch. Kitty smiles back at me, fizzing with satisfaction.

The committee signed several bands for the evening and a DJ to fill between sets. Pete’s band, Middlesex, is scheduled for later in the night. The current band rips up a conclusion to a song with grinding guitar and throbbing bass. I’m already bouncing on my toes, pins and needles zapping with the stimulus.

Impatient with the slow progress to the dance floor, Gil lifts Lila onto his shoulder and, squealing, she points the way with her red patent leather boot, the ponytails of her blonde wig swinging down to her waist. Jamie moves me before him with his hands on my hips so that we trail single file. “Just try not to touch anyone,” he shouts over the music. “Stay with–”

“Anthem!” Two of the senior boys’ rowing team hem us in as the band introduces the next song. “You’re up, Skipper!” I see only Jamie’s worried face looking back at me then he’s beyond reach. A shot of panic thrills through me and I freeze, afraid to brush against anyone’s shoulder – I might leave them bruised. I keep my arms at my side and try not to pitch headfirst into a refreshment table. Out on the dance floor, the rest of the team converge. They lift Jamie off the ground and thrust him into the middle. Gil leads them through a routine that, among other things, involves pogo-ing and waving invisible lassos. I manage to shuffle my way forwards as gaps appear, joining the line-up of crew widows. Lila wraps her arm around my waist, grinning up at me then out at the boys. She was the first of Kitty’s friends to make me welcome, as though Kitty’s approval was all the recommendation she needed; a rush of affection fills me.

In the minutes from the limo to the dance floor, with Jamie consenting to let me come to the dance, my mood has elevated. It’s probably the chemical cocktail in my bloodstream that makes me loose in my joints, warm in my bones, light in my chest. Still, it feels good and I laugh as loudly as the others as the rowing team’s routine becomes more flamboyant. Jamie dances with effortless rhythm. His eyes meet mine in question. I smile and nod.
I can totally do this. Everything’s going to be fine
.

When Lila tugs me towards the dance floor, I hold my breath, lifting my arms over my head to keep them out of the way. Lila copies me like it’s a dance move. Kitty, Imogen and Kaylee follow, arms aloft, flailing like reeds in a storm. I laugh, shaking my head, turning as I rise and fall with the beat, carefully judging my distance from each of them. Nervous and elated at the same time, I can feel my strength, the power in my body, torrents of electric energy. Despite my liquid state, there comes a linear focus as I dance. The slowness, the clumsiness of being drunk gives way, as though all my receptors have amplified.

Every detail becomes distinct – the erratic white stitching of Kitty’s skin-tight suit, the glinting divots in Kaylee’s breastplate, the pins holding Imogen’s auburn hair in loose curls, the lacquer of Lila’s nails as she waves her hands. I see it all without really trying to see. I sense the frenetic toss of heads, the pivot of feet, the swing of hips back and forth, eyes glinting in the lick of light and shadow.

Like a deranged conga line, the boys’ routine takes them on a circuitous path around the room, cheered on by adoring fans. Mostly female. I keep my sights on Jamie as the music grows deafening and the dance floor fills. When the boys finally give up on their crew theatrics, manly backslapping included, they’re on the other side of the room, past the refreshment tables. Jamie begins to make his way back, exchanging what look to be good-natured jibes with his teammates. He spots me over the heads of the swirling crowd.

When a knot of cheerleaders gestures for Jamie to stop, a prickling sensation in my spine brings me to a standstill. I can’t hear what they call out as he passes, but I watch their glossy mouths part and their hungry eyes moving over him. One touches his arm, another his shoulder, one even puts her hand on his chest as she pushes up on her toes to yell something in his ear, back arched, pert breasts thrust forwards.

The hostile flicker I usually ignore when territorial jealousy rears in me is nothing on the fire that ignites now. I don’t think. I burn. Pushing between Abe and Imogen, my vision grows razor-edged as my pupils expand. I don’t hear the cries or loud complaints of others as I barge through the crowd, stalking my way towards the small redhead with her hand on my boyfriend, high-pitched ringing in my ears. I know exactly what Jamie’s chest feels like under my hand, through a jacket, a cotton shirt or touching his bare skin. His heartbeat. His heat. Her hand doesn’t belong there, feeling those things. I will move it.

The refreshment table looms, punchbowl, pyramid of glasses, the only remaining obstacle. It doesn’t seem unreasonable to me to jump it. In fact it seems efficient, given the crowd. Desirable. To get me quickly to my goal. The thought leads to instant action. Two steps, I spring up, a modest leap. A brief glimpse of always friendly Angelo from gym class, who smiles when I approach, about to greet me as I leave the floor. Halloween axe buried in his back. Green eyes goggling through his blond hair. A flash of his blue
Not without a mint
commemorative T-shirt. Everything is crystal, everything is clear.

Jamie’s mouth opens as I reach peak trajectory. Beneath me the glasses clink and dance in their pyramid at the pulse of my signal. He gives a curt nod and says something to the girl. She steps back, disappointed as he darts forwards, startled as he intercepts my landing. The hurtling girlfriend! Catching my waist, he grunts when I slam like concrete into his chest.

“Watch yourself!” I call over his shoulder, curling my lip at the girl.

Shouts of surprise, cries of shocked laughter, cheerleaders’ catcalls.

“Bloody hell, Everton.” He lifts me up and carries me back a few steps, sharp glances for signs of any approaching teachers. “Think, love.”

Pins and needles cut up my spine. “She needs to–”

“Live long enough to finish high school?” He puts me down, but doesn’t let go. The girl glares at me, a mixture of alarm and derision – but mostly alarm, as the crowd closes back around us.

“Did you see that?” Angelo cries, fighting his way around the table. “That jump! Un-freaking-believable! Were you going to take that girl out, Evie?”

“She’s
fine
.” Jamie turns me so my back is to the cheerleaders and moves me away from Angelo. I swivel to get another look at the girl, mentally cataloguing the details for future reference. “No one’s being
taken out
tonight.” He turns my face in his hands and holds it there. “You can’t possibly believe I’m interested in her?”

A living picture blooms in my mind, obscuring the Great Hall. I see myself in a dim room, Kitty’s room, moonlight filtering through a gap in the curtain. Underwear, tousled hair, dilated pupils. I see the vision from Jamie’s point of view. I recognise it’s the night after his mom accidentally shot me in the arm. His Kinetic Memory Transfer fills me, allowing me to feel what he felt, his hands moving over warm skin, looping through silky hair. My body floods with the sensation, overriding hostility with desire.

The picture disappears and I’m back in the Great Hall, still pinned between his hands, music blaring, bodies writhing around us. “Can I let go?” he asks.

I nod.

“I suppose we lasted fifteen minutes.” He lowers his hands slowly like he might need to grab me again. He gives a choked, humourless laugh. “You jumped a table, Everton. A bloody table. In front of everyone.”

“It’s not like I planned it.” All my linear focus and ability to stand upright evaporate. I can’t tell if I’m more intoxicated by alcohol, adrenaline or KMT. Groaning, I lean my forehead on his chest. “Take me home, Jamie. I can’t feel my face.”