Luka, page 4
“Hey, Dad?”
He flips a page, acknowledging me with a dismissive hum.
I tap my index finger against my thigh. “I’m doing this project for school about mental illness.”
His eyes snap up to mine. Green, like my own. The same shape, too.
“It’s extra credit. We were allowed to pick the topic.” It’s a bold-faced lie. I don’t need extra credit. But I keep my face blank, my gaze unwavering. The best way to interact with him, I’ve learned, is to hide any and all signs of weakness or uncertainty. “I ran across this condition called Shared Psychosis.”
His eyes narrow.
“Are you familiar with it?”
“I’m familiar with the basics.”
“What are the basics?”
He studies me, his face guarded as he props his elbow on his armrest and sets his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Shared Psychotic Disorder isn’t technically on the DSM, but it’s diagnosed—for lack of a better word—when two or more people in close relationship share delusions. Sometimes hallucinations.”
“Close relationship?”
“It occurs when individuals of concern live in close proximity.”
“Does it ever happen between strangers?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
A hard shell settles over his expression. “If you pair a conspiracy theorist with someone easily influenced, cut them off from the rest of society, they will begin to believe in the same conspiracy theories. The condition is almost always associated with physical and social isolation.”
His tone is condescending
And explanation doesn’t fit.
Tess and I are strangers who have shared nothing more than a casual conversation in the high school gymnasium. I wonder what Dad would say about her reaction at the pep rally. I wonder what he’d say if I told him his newest patient is the girl from my recurring dream, which never actually stopped occurring. I only said they did. And we are sharing the same hallucinations.
A loud ding fills the cabin.
The seatbelt sign goes dark.
The pilot’s voice sounds over the intercom. “Sorry about that, folks. The rest of the flight should be smooth sailing.”
Across the aisle, the woman releases her death grip on her handbag.
Beside me, my father’s posture has gone stiff. His mood dark.
Talking with his son about mental illness isn’t exactly his favorite pastime.
The rest of the flight might be smooth sailing, but our relationship certainly isn’t.
He flips a page sharply as the twinkling light fades to nothing.
6
Grasping for Info
On Tuesday at school, I feel like a freshman all over again, focusing every ounce of energy on acting normal.
In Current Events, I keep my eyes trained on Lotsam. In Ceramics, I spin clay on the pottery wheel. All the while stifling this intense, visceral reaction I keep having in Tess’s presence. By the end of third period, I’ve hit a boiling point. I need something—anything that might satiate this curiosity that’s reached excruciating proportions. So when I spot Scott Shroud, a painfully thin sophomore who looks more like a sixth grader, parting ways with Tess’s brother to excuse himself to the restroom between classes, I follow him inside.
He foregoes the urinals for a stall.
I loiter in front of the mirror, pretending to check my teeth, trying really hard not to feel like I’m doing something wrong. Curiosity isn’t a crime. And since I can’t ask Leela about Tess without rousing more suspicion, and there’s nothing useful at all online, Scott is my best option. He’s student ambassador for the sophomore class, a volunteer position much better suited to a personality like Leela’s. Nevertheless, Scott’s been guiding Pete around school the same as Leela has been guiding Tess, only without the camaraderie. I feel bad for Scott. Pete Eckhart of Thornsdale wears a perpetual scowl—a far cry from the carefree smile he flashed in the photo SydneynotAustralia posted online. I run my tongue over my top, left incisor as the toilet flushes and the stall door opens.
As soon as he sees me, Scott freezes mid-step like I’ve caught him doing something illicit.
I give him a friendly nod, then step up to the sink to wash my hands.
Scott joins me two sinks over, pumping soap into his palm, his ears bright red.
When I’m finished, I shut off the water and give my fingers a flick. “How’s it going?”
He gapes at me in the mirror like I’m a three-headed creature from the underworld. My attention swivels to my reflection for a brief second just to make sure I’m not. I stare back at him, waiting for an answer as his Adam’s apple bobs and his lips do a weird sort of twitch.
“Good,” he finally says, his voice cracking over the word.
“How’s the ambassador position going?”
He looks around, as though someone else might answer the question.
I stuff down a wave of irritation. Is Scott really this awkward or am I every bit as intimidating as my father? His arrogance has never been a trait I’ve tried to emulate. I want to be approachable. I want Tess in particular to approach me. “You’re showing Pete Eckhart around school, right?”
“Yes.”
I dispense a ream of paper towels, tear it off. Dry my hands. “You guys hitting it off?”
He looks at me like I have three heads again.
“I’m not trying to trick you or anything, Scott. I’m just curious about the Eckharts.”
“Oh.” He smiles a relieved smile. Quickly followed by the disappointed slump of his shoulders. “I don’t know much. Pete doesn’t like to talk. I have to carry the conversation.”
Yikes.
“They’re from Florida!” he offers enthusiastically. “They live in Forest Grove. Pete’s birthday is next month?” He dries his hands. “I don’t think he likes it here.”
“Has he mentioned anything about his sister?”
“His sister?”
“Yeah.”
Scott scratches his earlobe. “Like what?”
Like … does she have a history of fighting in battles? Has she ever seen things nobody else can see? How is she even real? “I don’t know. Does she like it here?”
Scott throws the clump of towel into the wastebin just as Benson Griswold shuffles inside. He pauses, looks curiously between us, then steps up to one of the urinals, clapping Scott’s shoulder with so much gusto along the way, the poor kid nearly falls over. “What’s up, Shroud? You still charging twenty dollars an assignment these days?”
My muscles go tight as Scott looks down at his shoes, then back up at me, his blush so deep, even his forehead is red. “I don’t know if she likes it here,” he says. “He doesn’t talk about her.”
“Talk about who?” Gris asks.
Before Scott can answer and pique Gris’s curiosity further, I’m saved by the bell.
Fourth period bell.
Scott gives a startled jump, then hesitates as if waiting for my permission to go. I extend my hand like … permission granted? He quickly exits and I watch him leave, swallowing a curse when he’s gone. My search for information has reached another dead end.
Gris zips his pants. Flushes the urinal. “Talk about who?” he says again, his attention finding mine in the mirror.
I leave without answering and spend the rest of the day in a state of deep disappointment. Until final period, when I experience another intense, visceral reaction as soon as Tess walks into class. By the time World History ends, I’ve used up all my self restraint.
I have to talk to her.
The class empties. Tess remains in her seat, trying to unstick the zipper on her backpack. I twist my hemp bracelet and watch the nervous, almost panicked way she tugs. Like a clock is ticking and if she can’t loosen the zipper in time, the floor will drop out from beneath her and swallow her whole.
“Need help?” I ask.
She looks up, hesitates. “Sure.”
I unstick it on the first try. The amount of happiness this brings me is absurd.
“Thanks,” she says.
I shift, searching for a way to prolong the inevitable moment when we go our separate ways. “So you weren’t at the game on Friday.”
She slips on her backpack, her round eyes twin pools of … confusion? Alarm? Self-consciousness? I want to wade inside them. Explore the current of thought swirling in those navy-blue waters.
We exit the room together.
It’s bizarre, being with her like this. She’s not in danger, but I feel alert. She’s not a figment of my imagination, but I feel like I’m dreaming. I rub the back of my neck. “Leela said you weren’t feeling well.”
“I had a headache.”
“That’s too bad.” My pace slows. Tess talks less than I do and I’ve never been much of a talker. This entire day has had me working entirely too hard at conversations. “Do you get headaches often?”
“Unfortunately.”
We come to a stop where the hallway crosses with another. She looks conflicted, like she’s holding something back. I lean closer, wanting to hear whatever it is she’s trying so hard not to say.
“You’re my neighbor,” she finally blurts, her face going as red as Scott’s forehead.
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. I can’t help it. There’s something irresistibly adorable about this version of Tess Eckhart. Reassuring, too. Perhaps she’s not the kind of person who would rush headlong into danger, even if my dreams say otherwise. “Yeah, I know. I saw you on Saturday morning. By that rock.”
Her mouth goes slightly ajar, the color in her cheeks deepening. Maybe she wasn’t hiding from me. Maybe she was spying on me. The thought bolsters my confidence. Fills me with hope.
“Hey Williams!”
The jarring voice belongs to Jared. He stands with a group of guys down the hall.
“You have to check this out,” he calls.
No, I don’t. I absolutely don’t. But they’re all waiting for me to respond, eying Tess with a curiosity that wasn’t there before, as though searching for something they missed the first time around. I hook my thumbs beneath the straps of my backpack. “You should come to the next game.”
Tess looks up at me—startled—as I shoot her a wink and walk away.
7
Fascinated
Everything about her fascinates me.
The hesitant way she talks when she’s called on in class, even though her answers are always right. The delighted way she lights up when she’s around her new best friend, Leela McNeil. The focused way she watches the Friday night football games, like she might be quizzed on them afterward. The mysterious way she sits on her back deck, reading or writing in a notebook as the briny wind catches tendrils of her hair. The unassuming way she passes through each school day, like she’s perfectly content to blend in with the background.
Only she doesn’t.
Not with me.
Tess Eckhart is the most intriguing combination of constrained and confident, vulnerable and strong.
Maybe I wouldn’t think this apart from my dreams. Maybe her confidence and strength would be lost on me. In real life, she’s small and soft-spoken. Easy to overlook. But I’ve witnessed her in action. I’ve seen her leading an army without reservation or fear. And I’ve seen glimpses of that strength in my waking hours, too. It’s there whenever she gives Summer or Jennalee—two of Thornsdale’s most popular and envied girls—a withering stare when they aren’t looking. Sometimes, when they are.
I smile every time I see it.
The magnetic pull I feel around her doesn’t regulate with time. It grows through September, and it grows in October. The more I discover about her, the more I want to discover, and the more I want to discover the harder it is to be discreet. I try not to be obvious about my attraction, but I’m not sure I do a great job. Summer, at least, has noticed. Bringing out an unflattering jealousy that makes tolerating her harder than usual.
“I don’t understand how they can be related,” she says one Friday at lunch. “She’s so awkward.”
“And he’s so …” Jennalee ogles Pete, who slouches over his tray, looking wholly unapproachable. If the kid’s made one thing obvious during his two-month stint in Thornsdale, it’s that he hates every second. Unfortunately for him, a sizable portion of the student body finds this trait appealing. “Yummy.”
The girls at the table giggle.
“Maybe one of them is adopted,” Summer says. “I mean, there’s no way those two come from the same gene pool.”
My grip tightens around my drink. I find myself wanting to stand up and step between my table mates and Tess, shield her from their biting words. But that would be an overreaction. They’re just words, and Tess can’t hear them. They’re not actually hurting her.
“She and Scott Shroud would make an adorable couple, don’t you think? I should set them up. They are both the perfect amount of unattractive.”
Everyone laughs.
Everyone but me.
I stand, the legs of my chair scraping against the cafeteria floor.
Summer looks up with big, innocent eyes. “Where are you going?”
I bite my tongue.
Rising to Tess’s defense would only paint a larger bullseye on her back. I don’t want to do that, so with twenty minutes of lunch still to spare, I grab my tray and provide Summer and her posse of admirers a solid view of my back as I walk away.
A chill hits my bare skin as soon as I peel the top half of my wet suit down. My abdomen flexes in response as I run my hand down my face like a squeegee and tuck my board under my arm. Mentally, I could have stayed out longer—until the setting sun disappeared completely. Surfing in the dark. Physically, my muscles are spent and in need of food. I turn to my house, damp sand beneath my toes, and spot Tess sitting on her deck, swathed in golden sunlight. Watching me.
A thrill runs up my spine as I lift my hand in a casual wave.
She hesitates, then waves back, the wind catching her hair.
She pushes up the sleeves of her oversized sweatshirt and pulls her hair back into a ponytail.
A light sort of warmth fills my chest as I jog toward my house, stash my board under my deck, and jump beneath the hot spray of our outdoor shower. As quickly as possible, I peel off my wetsuit, hang it over the wooden stall, soap up, rinse off, then wrap a dry towel around my waist and hurry up the stairs—eager for a chance to visit with her. But when I reach the top, Tess is gone and the warmth leaks away. I scrub my hand down my face, open our sliding door, and step inside to the sound of laughter and the scent of roasting meat and spices.
My mother stands at the kitchen counter holding a glass of wine.
Across from her, sits Danika Burbanks. An older version of Summer, with crow’s feet Botox can’t hide and enough lip filler to look slightly unnatural.
“Luka,” Mom exclaims, a flush in her cheeks. “We have dinner guests!"
My attention cuts to the wine bottle, well on its way to empty.
“Hi Luka,” Danika croons in a tone so reminiscent of her daughter, I have to suppress a shudder. Even more so when her attention lingers on my bare upper half. “You’re looking fit.”
Thanks?
“I think I saw you out running the other day.”
“I don’t run.”
She brings her wine glass beneath her chin and peers at me like she’s trying to decide whether or not I’m teasing. “Must have been your father. You two look so much alike.”
My mother smiles fondly. “Speaking of your father. He’s working late tonight. Again. So I thought we’d change it up a bit. Have more than two at the dinner table.”
Danika reaches for the wine bottle. “Summer and I have grown depressingly accustomed to two at the dinner table.”
“I’m gonna go get changed.” I hitch my thumb toward the stairs.
“Yes. Go get changed.” Mom shoots me an exaggerated wink I don’t understand as Danika tops off her glass.
I head up, wishing I could eat dinner in my room. But when I open my door, my room isn’t empty. Summer sits cross-legged in the center of my bed.
I jump a little.
Guests.
My mother said guests. Plural.
And I’m suddenly very sickened by her wink.
“Surprise!” Summer flashes her pearly whites and waggles her phone. “I got a call from my father.” She says the two words with a disgusted eyeroll. “Your mom said I could talk with him up here.”
Our house is gargantuan. There are plenty of private corners to take a phone call. Yet my mother sent Summer up to my room. Without my permission.
Her attention dips to my chest, then lowers slowly to my abs as I stand like a statue in the doorway. “Were you just surfing?”
“Yep.”
“When are you going to teach me?”
“I’d probably be a lousy instructor.”
“Highly doubtful.” She climbs out of my bed. Saunters past my bookshelf. Runs her hand along the spines.
I grit my teeth, trying not to feel violated.
She stops at my desk with her back to me and takes in the photographs I have pinned to my bulletin board. None of myself or my classmates. Most of the ocean. One of my parents on the coast of Maine. Summer seems to zero in on this one the longest and something inside of me softens just a hair. According to Mom, Danika filed for divorce last week. Apparently, she uncovered a significant amount of infidelity, all of which came to the surface after their separation. I’m sure it hasn’t been easy for her. Summer turns around, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she does. “Are you going to stand there in the doorway all evening or join me in here?”
And just like that, the softness calcifies.
Summer is inviting me inside my own room.
She twists her lips into a pout. “You seemed distracted at lunch today.”
“It was a distracting sort of day.”
“Fridays usually are.” She crosses the room, her movements slow and sultry. “They’re a good day for distractions. Fridays. The right kind of distractions anyway.” She stops in front of me and trails her finger down the center of my chest.
