Luka, page 6
Tess’s lips part and the smallest of gasps tumbles out.
“Guilt tormented her after she terminated her first pregnancy.” I’m using words I’m not supposed to use again. Terminated. It has a negative connotation, like fetal modification is something bad. Cure is much more palatable. “When the doctors gave her the same diagnosis, she decided to go against their advice.”
“Against their advice? You mean … ”
I stare down at her—this dream-girl who matters too much—remembering the impact of hearing the truth for the first time. A conversation not meant for me, but one I needed to hear all the same. One that made me realize the importance of getting my abnormalities under control.
I’m not supposed to exist.
“What happened to the baby?” Tess whispers.
“You’re looking at him.”
She swallows. I can see the muscles in her throat shift up, then down again. “But—”
“I’m healthy.” At least physically.
Mentally?
For the longest time, I assumed the answer was no.
But now, with Tess here, standing in front of me, real enough to touch, I’m no longer sure what to believe. I want to ask her what she saw at the pep rally on her first day of school, but I’m afraid I imagined it. I’m afraid a furrow will crease her brow and she won’t have any idea what I’m talking about. “The doctor was wrong,” I say. “He made a mistake. If she would have listened…”
Tess shakes her head—a sharp, emphatic shake. Like she doesn’t even want to consider the possibility.
“That first pregnancy haunts her.”
10
Slapped
“Luka?” The front door slams shut. Keys jangle. A few seconds later, my mother walks into the kitchen in her running gear, cheeks flushed, the corners of her mouth pinched.
“Hey.” I pull open a bag of Doritos and reach inside. She just finished her workout class and judging by her expression, Danika told her all about today’s topic in Current Events.
My parents don’t know I overheard them talking two years ago. They don’t know I know the truth. They have, however, told me on multiple occasions, whenever I’ve spoken out against fetal modification in the privacy of our home—whenever it crops up on the news or in one of B-Trix’s commercial ads—to keep my opinions to myself.
Mom swipes a tendril of hair from her forehead. “Were you talking about fetal modification today?”
“Yes.”
Her flush darkens. “Luka.”
“Our teacher was asking for class participation.”
“Just because a teacher asks doesn’t mean you have to chime in. Danika had a lot of questions for me.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my son.”
“So naturally, my beliefs are yours?”
“According to Summer, you compared fetal modification to the holocaust.” Mom arches her perfectly manicured eyebrows. “Is that true?”
“Yes.”
She mutters a curse under her breath. Pinches the bridge of her nose.
“It was a class discussion. I’m allowed to state an opinion.”
“Not about that.”
Something blisters inside of me. A rebellious, angry something. I’m tired of tiptoeing around the truth. I’m tired of pretending like I don’t know it. She doesn’t want me to chime in because I’m not supposed to exist. My mother didn’t follow the doctor’s orders. She failed her pregnancy screening, but she had me anyway. And now here I am, a seventeen-year-old kid with a broken mind. I want her to say it. I want her to look me in the face when she does. I set the bag of chips on the counter. “Why not?”
But she doesn’t say it.
Instead, she defaults to the tried-and-true excuse, severing eye contact while she does. “You know why, Luka. With your past and your father’s line of work, we don’t need to draw unwanted attention to ourselves.”
I shake my head. “What the government is doing is wrong. Women should be allowed to choose, not coerced into making decisions they’d never make otherwise.”
Her lips pull into a thin, tight line—one that makes her look years older. I’m pushing directly on the wound and it’s causing her pain. I can see how hard she’s trying to hide it. I don’t want her to hide it anymore.
“I know you think the same thing,” I say.
“So what if I do? My opinion isn’t going to change anything. We are not the morality police, Luka. My job isn’t to judge right from wrong. My job is to follow the rules and raise my son to do the same.”
“By that standard, your son wouldn’t be here.”
The words are out.
I can’t take them back.
They hover between us like a ghost.
I wait for her to say something.
But she just stands there—mouth ajar, face pale—as the rebellious, angry thing inside me pops. Now that it’s out, it can’t be tamed. Now that it’s out, it might as well be all the way out. “Do you regret not following the rules?”
My mother draws back her hand and slaps me across the face. It comes so fast, I don’t have time to react.
The sting is immediate.
The silence that follows, deafening.
Mom holds her offending hand in her other and steps back, the olive tone of her face turning a grayish-green. “I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—I don’t know what—” She shakes her head. Takes another step. “Please forgive me.”
She turns to walk away.
“Mom.” I stop her by taking her elbow.
Tears well in her eyes. One spills over and tumbles down her cheek, reminding me of all the times I heard her crying in the bathroom. With a sniff, she wipes it quickly away. “How long have you known?”
“I overheard you and Dad talking a couple years ago.”
“A couple years?”
I shrug, unsure what to say.
She sinks onto a stool, her posture wilted, and scrubs her face with her hands.
I sit beside her.
“I wish you would have said something sooner.” She slips her hand into mine, her fingers like ice. “Luka, please understand. Not one part of me regrets the decision I made when it comes to you. You are everything to me. My sole concern and care is keeping you safe.”
Safe in a world where burdens aren’t tolerated. Burdens make our society weak. It’s the reason pregnancy screenings became a thing in the first place. If the wrong people caught wind that I not only have a history of mental illness, but am the result of a failed pregnancy screening, I have no doubt they’d take it upon themselves to remove said burden from society. My father went and bought an entire mental health facility to keep our secret under wraps.
“I can’t lose you,” she whispers. “Please. Be careful with the things you say. For my sake.”
She reaches up to touch my cheek.
It still stings.
Then she goes upstairs to take a shower.
Later that night, I lie in bed thinking about the accusation I made in class. The project Lotsam assigned—a research paper on the various genocides throughout history right after I compared fetal modification to one of the worst genocides in history. Too coincidental to be a coincidence. I think about being partners with Tess. I think about the things I said to her in the hallway—things I’ve never said to anyone before—and the way she looked when I said them.
I drift off to sleep with her face filling my mind.
11
A Silent Beach
When I open my eyes, I’m standing on a rocky shore. A light purplish gray paints the sky. Off in the distance, white-capped waves crash into granite cliff, and towering green trees disappear into the clouds.
I turn around, expecting to find my house behind me. Tess’s house beside mine. But there are no houses at all. No noise either. The breeze ruffles my hair and a couple seagulls swoop near the water, but both are silent. It’s a silence that makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle.
This must be a dream.
And suddenly, she’s there. Tess. Appearing out of thin air.
My muscles pull tight. My heart thuds. My throat goes dry. I scan the beach, looking for the army. The white-eyed soldiers intent on destroying her. But for the first time ever, they’re nowhere to be seen.
It’s just us.
When her attention lands on me, this look crosses her face—the same fierce determination she wears whenever she marches into battle. Only this time, she marches toward me. She stops and breaks through the quiet, her voice every bit as unrelenting as her expression. “Are you okay?”
Her words startle me.
Am I okay?
I blink down at her. “Are you?”
She scans the beach the same way I did. With vigilance. With suspicion. But all is calm and quiet, and slowly, the tense set of her shoulders slides away. “I’m more than okay, actually.” She turns to me with a smile that is light. Almost giddy. Contagious, too.
I smile back. “Well, this is different.”
She inhales deeply. Serenely. “But nice.”
I nod, trying to acclimate to the unfamiliar situation. I’m dreaming. She’s in the dream. But her life isn’t hanging precariously in the balance. It’s not up to me to save her. We are simply here together. On a beach much like the one in our backyards.
“I was thinking about you before I went to sleep,” she says. “That must be why you’re in my dream.”
Her confession goes straight to my head, filling it with pleasure. Tess was thinking about me before she went to sleep—this girl who doesn’t seem to notice me at all when we’re awake. This girl who doesn’t want to be noticed. Then I remember. This girl standing in front of me isn’t actually Tess. It’s my brain, conjuring Tess. It’s my brain, fantasizing. “I’m pretty sure it’s my dream. Not yours.”
“I don’t think so.”
My attention dips to her heart-shaped lips and the warmth in my abdomen goes hot. Energy pulses between us like a live wire. Invisible but undeniably there.
“Remember the homecoming pep rally?” she asks.
My thoughts come into sharp focus.
She tilts her head. “Did you see something in the gym?”
“Did you?”
Tess nods.
She nods.
The affirmation undoes me. “Me too.”
I swear, my confession undoes her. Could it be possible that the questions plaguing me have consumed her, too? I remind myself that none of this is real. It’s just a projection of my desires. A Tess who doesn’t avoid me. A Tess who tells me things. A Tess who isn’t in danger.
“I see things like that sometimes,” she says. “It’s why we moved.” She shivers and rubs her arms. “I’m going to the Edward Brooks Facility because my parents think I’m crazy.”
The Edward Brooks Facility.
My father’s facility.
A strand of hair flutters in front of her face.
I can’t resist.
I take it between my fingers—it’s every bit as soft as I imagined—and the live wire crackles.
She looks up at me through her lashes, the blue of her eyes as deep as the ocean. “Sometimes I wonder if they’re right. Sometimes I think I’m going insane.”
I move toward her, so close our bodies almost touch. “You’re not.”
My attention dips to her lips again.
They are perfect.
Begging to be kissed.
But before I can capitalize on the opportunity, Tess starts to sink.
Straight into the ground.
I grab for her, but it’s too late.
The sound rushes back in a wave.
The crashing sea.
The whipping wind.
The crying seagulls.
All of it rises to meet my own panic as I spin in a circle, trying to find the girl who is no longer there. But it’s no use. Tess has vanished.
I’m all alone on the beach.
12
A Hostile Visitor
The next morning, a dull ache wraps around the base of my skull as I step inside the kitchen. Dad stands from the table with a bowl in hand. Mom takes his dish and straightens his tie, then gives him a lingering kiss—the kind I would wrinkle my nose at as a kid. My father spots me over her shoulder and nods in my direction.
I nod back, wondering if he knows about the events that transpired yesterday. Did Mom tell him about our conversation before they went to sleep last night? Did she mention the things Danika told her? Is that why he hasn’t left for work yet?
I pour coffee into a tumbler and twist on the lid, hoping some caffeine will chase the headache away.
“Your hair’s unruly today.” Mom feathers her fingers through it. “Did you sleep all right?”
“I slept fine.” The lie rolls easily off my tongue. I wonder how many I tell in a day. I wonder how many she tells back. The truth is, I didn’t sleep well at all. Not after that dream. I spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, reminding myself that dreams aren’t real. Tess didn’t actually sink into the ground.
Dad pulls his suit coat off his chair and shrugs his arm through one of the sleeves. “I should get going. The facility will be extra busy today, I’m sure.”
My attention slides to the calendar hanging on the side of our refrigerator. Today marks another year since the Newport disaster. Our annual reminder that while intellect and progress has explained away all things supernatural, evil still exists in the world. Sixteen years ago, it showed up in spades. In the form of a bomb that not only decimated the Naval Underwater Warfare Center in Rhode Island, but the entire surrounding city. Forever tearing history in two. There was life before Newport. And there is life after. I was only one when it happened. Too young to know life before, when agencies like the FBI and the CIA and the NSA operated under different directors. When the media wasn’t governed. When regular civilians could carry guns.
Mom shudders. “I can’t believe it’s been sixteen years.”
I take a long drink of my coffee, then grab an orange from a bowl of fruit on the counter and snag my backpack off the floor by the pantry.
“Do you want me to make you something more filling?” Mom asks.
“I’m good.”
“Luka,” my father says.
I stop in the kitchen entryway.
“Are you staying focused on your studies?”
My studies have never required much focus. School, like sports, has always come easily. But I nod anyway.
“Staying out of trouble?”
My attention slides to my mother, who has conveniently turned to the sink to rinse dishes. I guess this answers my question. She obviously told him about the things I said in class yesterday. “Yes.”
“Make sure to keep it that way.” His baritone voice is stern with a sharp edge to each word.
I give him a flick of a nod. A small acknowledgment, then mumble something about needing to get to school. The commute is only ten minutes—one that takes me along a winding road with the ocean on one side and towering redwoods on the other. First period doesn’t start for another half hour. I have no reason to get there this early. Unless Tess gets there early. Now that we’re partners, I have an excuse to talk to her.
Unfortunately, I’m stopped in the locker bay by my health teacher, Mr. Ridley, who also happens to coach the varsity basketball team, which is about as impressive as the varsity football team.
“Hey Williams,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder, “any way I can talk you into trying out this year?”
The guy missed his calling as a salesman. It takes seven minutes to get away. By the time I step inside Lotsam’s class, the bell’s about to ring and my headache has turned mutinous.
I spot Tess.
She sits with her head resting in the crook of her arm like she’s sleeping. I don’t care about staying away from her anymore. I snag the empty seat beside her. She sits up. There are dark circles beneath her eyes.
I open my mouth to ask her how she’s doing when she curls her hand around the back of her neck and lets her hair fall between us.
The bell rings.
I swallow a frustrated sigh. I want everyone and everything to go away. I want to return to the beach from last night’s dream—only this time with the real version of Tess, not some version I conjured in my mind—so we can have an uninterrupted conversation. I want to know what gave her those dark circles.
Lotsam writes on the board.
Newport. 16 Years.
We talk about it every year in Current Events. What led to the tragedy and how it continues to shape our society today. I’m too distracted to listen. Too revved up. Too on edge, like something is about to happen. So much that when the temperature plummets, I’m not surprised. Nor am I surprised when a white-eyed, skeletal figure takes shape in the middle of the room. I am, however, completely caught off guard when it lunges.
Straight at us.
So sudden and unexpected I jump. A reaction drowned out by the reaction next to me. A reaction from Tess, who rears back with such violence, her chair slams into the wall behind us and the white-eyed man vanishes as quickly as he materialized.
My heart thuds—an echoing boom, boom, boom that beats against my eardrums. Lotsam gapes. The whole class gapes. Not at me, but the girl beside me, who scans the room frantically, terror swimming in her eyes. When the terror recedes, she notices what I’ve already noticed.
Everyone is staring.
After a beat, she grabs her backpack and flees into the hallway.
I watch her go, shocked to my core.
She saw it.
Whatever it was, Tess saw.
There’s no denying it. No questioning it. That thing lunged at us—no, it lunged at her—and she slammed herself against the wall.
Lotsam’s attention lingers on the door as the hush in the room slowly morphs into a hum. The kind that will turn into a roar if the teacher doesn’t do something soon. Lotsam clears his throat. Loudly. “Right,” he says. “So Newport—”
