Annabeth Neverending Page 13

  I have to make this stop. I must learn to control it, or my mom will put me on lockdown again. I sit on my hands to still them. The urge dissipates for the most part, though they do twitch interminably.

  “Are you possessed or something?” asks a male classmate, though I’m not sure which one.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I reply with annoyance.

  “Seriously? She’s speaking in tongues!”

  Did I just say that in Late Egyptian? It’s bad enough that I did that in my sleep, but now I’m doing it when I’m awake!

  Mr. Anderson grumbles, probably unsure of how to handle my untimely distraction.

  “Annabeth, given your history, I think you need to see the school nurse.”

  The notion that the part-time nurse, who’s really a glorified momunteer, could help is patently absurd, but I nod, anxious for an excuse to exit. I get out of my seat; when I sit up and remove the pressure off my problem anew, my hands resemble a pair of freshly caught, flopping fish.

  Mr. Anderson scribbles away and hands me a hall pass, which swishes this way and that as I hold it. I look over to C. J. and struggle to wave good-bye before hurrying out the door.

  I lie on my bed, my digits moving so fast it feels like I’m typing but without a keyboard. My hands are still yearning to draw out more hieroglyphics, even though by now I must’ve exhausted every combination possible. I’m hoping I work through this side effect soon, because I’ve already written hieroglyphics in every notebook, every book I own.

  I stare at my bedroom ceiling. A corner of my wallpaper is curling over on itself. I get up on my vanity and pull at it. It gives way easily, and the paper tears off in several large pieces. Obviously the glue was losing its strength. That’ll be my defense.

  I look over my room, formulating, plotting. It’s going to get an ancient Egyptian makeover. It’s due for a revamp anyway. Surely my parents won’t complain when they see all the effort I put into transforming it, which is the new plan. But I know I’m just fooling myself. They’re going to be pissed. And probably worried that I’m going off the deep end. Though I think I’ve already taken the dive.

  I grab a magic marker and get to work. I plaster the space with tightly packed hieroglyphics, losing myself while Mew Mew looks on, her pointy face resting on her paws, acting as though this is the most natural thing in the world. I peel off what’s left of the wallpaper to free up more space.

  “Bet this seems like no big deal to you. You probably saw artisans around the palace applying hieroglyphics to the walls in ancient Egypt all the time.”

  I swear that Mew Mew nods her head in response. Those slanted eyes do seem to harbor wisdom, and at times, cynicism. Though it could be my imagination.

  “If only I had a larger canvas,” I think aloud. Then it occurs to me that there is a larger one at my disposal.

  I soon have a battered aluminum ladder pushed up against the side of the house, and I’m standing on the faintly unstable top rung. I use a round brush to paint outlines in black with some paint I found in the garage. The walls are now completely blanketed in symbols and two-dimensional figures. And my hands haven’t stopped moving. Maybe if I wait a few minutes, the stinging restlessness will subside.

  While I’m scared of how possessed my hands are, it’s impossible to fully fear the consequences because I’m so consumed by the act of painting. I typically enjoy pursuing my love of art, but this time, it seems to be pursuing me.

  The sides of the house shake as the garage door opens. In a second there’s going to be hell to pay. I steel myself. Mew Mew, however, knows enough to get lost.

  “Annabeth, what have you done?” asks my mother. I can tell she’s trying her damndest to refrain from screaming because her voice is raspy and uneven.

  “Yeah! What the hell?” shouts Howie, who goes ahead and shouts his loudest.

  “Surprise?” I say with a shrug.

  “You’ve ruined the outside of the house!” my father snaps.

  “In her defense, it’s not like she had to try very hard,” adds Howie.

  “I wasn’t trying to destroy anything. I was…I don’t know. Trying to make it better, I guess.”

  My parents share a look. I envision my father pulling me off the ladder if he has to—after all, I didn’t discuss this with them. I just jumped in. In retrospect, I guess they had the right to know.

  “Should we be worried, Annabeth?”

  “No. I just thought it was…time to work on my art.”

  “The neighbors’ll kill us,” moans my father wearily.

  “It’s like she took out a billboard for her weirdness,” Howie groans.

  I’m finally able to tear my attention from my work, which bodes well for its diminishing hold, and turn to look at them.

  “What now?” I ask.

  My mother and father whisper to each before finally reaching a decision: “The damage is done. You might as well finish up.”

  Mom and Dad drag a sputtering Howie into the house with them, leaving me to complete my ambitious artistic endeavor. While their semisupport of my project raises suspicion, I try not to overthink it and leap back into my work.

  Day gives way to dusk, and now that the sun is seeking refuge behind the horizon line, I’m having a hard time seeing, though my eyes aren’t what’s guiding me. I press on and am pleased when C. J. arrives, carrying Mew Mew with him. This side effect is finally waning, because I’m able to give him my undivided attention.

  “I think this belongs to you,” C. J. says while holding up Mew Mew. He strokes her ticked fur, and she closes her eyes in pleasure.

  “She really likes you,” I say with admiration.

  “I have a way with animals, I guess,” he says with shrug. This a good sign. Animals have a sixth sense about things like earthquakes and such, so they must be especially attuned to people. If Mew Mew likes C. J.…Well, it just shows he’s as good a guy now as he was then.

  He scratches his forehead while examining my efforts.

  “Still on the hieroglyphics?”

  “Sometimes the passion moves me a little too much,” I admit.

  “Like what happened in school today?” he asks.

  “Yep. And this is not going to help my social status.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t care about what other people think.”

  He’s right. I’ve spent far too long worrying about everyone else. Why should their judgment trump my own? Funny how it took the most popular boy in school to make me see that.

  What Sethe did for me in another life was many moons ago, but C. J. is helping me now. How can I not be loyal to him? How can I not feel for him because of it? The memories are slightly fragmented, but the message is clear. Sethe and I…C. J. and I are meant to be together.

  I put the final touches on the filaments of a feather. I’m painted out. I’ve fully exhausted my internal hieroglyphic storage facility, and the side effect has dissipated, gone at last.

  “All done!” I announce and descend from the ladder. I turn to C. J., and he’s at my side before I have a chance to blink.

  He’s boring into my eyes with his own. “Do you ever wonder where your interest in Egypt came from?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Annabeth, I don’t know how to say this. But, when we’re together, I experience some serious…déjà you.”

  I take a step back to really look at him, so I can fully process this, so I can truly take this in.

  “What are you saying, C. J.?”

  “I feel like I’ve loved you before. In fact, I know that I have.”

  C. J. takes me and lifts me into the air. When he sets me down, we look at each other as though for the first time. The only time that has ever mattered. That ever will matter.

  16

  I’m connected to C. J.—to Sethe—in the same way he’s connected to
me? Destiny keeps drawing us together on purpose, crossing our paths again and again, interweaving our fates. And it’s time for me to finally surrender. I want to be with him. No matter how many black sorcerers may step in and try to intervene.

  I can no longer let the remnants of my feelings for Gabriel linger, threatening to destroy all my joy. Yes, Gabriel is handsome and smart and kind, but the fact that he’s a modern permutation doesn’t erase what he did to me in the past, even if he doesn’t know he did it. I’ll always regret hurting him, but then again, he was the one who ended things.

  I step closer to C. J., wanting to be as near to him as possible. He takes my hand and holds it tightly.

  “I’ve had weird bursts of memory. Just little pieces of this and that. Sand. Palm trees. Pyramids. You. Have you seen anything?”

  I don’t want to rub in the fact that I haven’t just tapped into my memories but experienced them, relived them. Yet I want him to realize the depth of what I know.

  “Yes. You were a slave, but even though you were forced to endure an existence of subservience, you rose above it. You were a hero. A champion. And you risked your life to be with me, to love me,” I say slowly, wanting to get it out just right.

  “That’s a lot to absorb,” he says thoughtfully.

  “You’re disappointed?” I ask, surprised.

  “I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me sooner,” he stammers, his hazel eyes now obstructed by crossed brows.

  “I wasn’t sure how you’d react.”

  “Is it because you prefer the me I used to be?” C. J. asks, his voice wavering.

  “No! I like the current you. The present-day you. You have to know that,” I say firmly. Desperately.

  “Then why did you wait so long to say anything? You must have doubts about me. You must think that I don’t measure up,” he says, looking off into the distance.

  I can’t win. One brother wishes he never knew; one wishes he’d known sooner.

  “No. It’s just…Part of me thought you’d fight fate. Who’d want an entire life that was predetermined?”

  “But if it’s destiny, doesn’t that mean that it’s right?” C. J. asks fervently.

  I consider telling him that the ankh is what brought on my memories, but I hold back. I don’t want to push it, considering what I’ve laid on him already. Lies of omission are permitted in relationships, I decide, at least when dealing with things that are this unusual. “Probably.”

  C. J. looks upset. Like any answer other than yes is the wrong one. “I like to think that life is a balance of destiny and free will,” he says, a smile forcing his lips apart so his Chiclet teeth can be better displayed.

  “I sure hope so,” I reply.

  “Annabeth, I know you had—or maybe still have—feelings for my brother. But I hope you’d consider giving me a chance. Us a chance. And not just because it’s fate or destiny but because you think you could really care for me.”

  I nod, too caught up in my emotions to articulate them.

  “Good. I may never remember what you do, but I already know all I need to know.”

  Movies are usually reserved for special occasions in my family because of the high cost of a ticket, but instead of punishing me for painting on the house, the next evening I’m rewarded with a trip to the cinema. This smacks of ulterior motives, though I’m not sure what my parents’ angle could possibly be. I don’t press them when we head over to the theater, even though I’m skeptical.

  I haven’t been to the multiplex since my job hunt began only a few months before—though it seems like a decade ago now. Way back when, I tried hard to get a job here; it’s the most sought-after part-time gig you can get—free popcorn, soda, admission, polyester tuxedo (not the biggest selling point). But I was turned down on numerous occasions. Yet somehow life doesn’t seem to be nearly as cruel to C. J. as it is to me in the present day, because apparently C. J. landed a position there with minimal effort. His fortunes have certainly changed from one lifetime to another.

  I anxiously rock back and forth on my heels while I watch him through the large glass windows. C. J.’s stationed behind the cashier, next to the usher’s stand, dressed in his black tux with shiny lapels and a red satin clip-on bowtie. We enter and walk toward him. He takes our tickets and motions us inside.

  “If he really likes you, he would’ve gotten us comped,” says Howie under his breath as we enter the lobby.

  “You suck,” I say, roughly ruffling his hair.

  We all go into the screening room to grab our cushioned seats, and after about twenty minutes, I tell my parents that I’m in dire need of a soft pretzel and a white cherry slushy. I have to practically run out the double doors so Howie doesn’t follow me, though I fear that if I take too long talking to C. J., he’ll suddenly make an unwanted attempt to track me down.

  The lobby is empty save a few stray employees who are cleaning up discarded candy and popcorn residue before the nine o’clock rush begins. I approach the concession stand and wait there, hoping to catch sight of C. J. without looking like he’s the reason behind it. So I keep adding item after item to my order. If he doesn’t show up soon, this is going to cost a fortune. Luckily, it isn’t long before I feel a finger tap me on my shoulder.

  “Would you mind filling out a comment card?” C. J. asks while handing a printed piece of card stock to me.

  “Sure. You did do an excellent job tearing my ticket.”

  I take the comment card and walk over to an empty part of the concession-stand counter, sandwiched between the straw container and napkin dispenser. I pull a pen out of my purse and write down responses to the preprinted questions. I’m so lost in the act of making my answers sound nice but not overly gushing that it takes me several moments to notice that C. J. is standing next to me, filling out his own.

  “Sometimes, I like to rate the customers.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  C. J. hands me his card before I even have the chance to finish mine. I look it over and feel heat rise to my cheeks and neck. I probably look as red as a boiled Casco Bay lobster. I see that C. J. crossed out all the category titles like “courteousness” and “knowledge of job” and put new ones like “awesomeness” and…“hotness”?

  I feel myself blush again, especially when I see that he rated me a “10” in every department. At the notes section on the bottom of the card, I read in a carefully looping scrawl, “Will you go out with me?”

  “Can I think about it for a while?” I say lightheartedly.

  “Sure,” C. J. says, without a second thought.

  “I’m kidding! I’m done thinking. Yes.”

  I traipse back into the theater and grab my seat. The movie started, but I don’t watch a second of it. The images flash before me, but they mean nothing, convey nothing. There’s no way that what’s up on that screen can rival what’s going on in my real life. My real lives.

  Here we are, at the beginning. When everything is shiny and new and as close to perfection as it will ever be. And we can establish our relationship based on the modern C. J. and not color it with the past Sethe variation. It’s spine tingling having our whole relationship ahead of us.

  He’s in my town, in this lifetime. No matter how intense the memories I had were for Sethe, they were all secondhand, and that’s only a prized quality when it comes to antiques. Every experience I have with C. J., every memory we make together, will be all the more dear to me because it will be my own—Annabeth’s own.

  Maybe there were some horrible missteps, hurt feelings, and even a mugging along the way, but right now I’m with my perfect match. Surely my classmates are wondering who he is…and why he’s with me. Is he out of my league? Yes. But they don’t know what league I used to play in.

  Then the darkness encroaches. Gabriel will be so hurt.

  But I just need to remind myself that Kha betrayed me
then, and I suppose I should feel a little justified in betraying him now, but I don’t. No matter how I may try to justify it. Nonetheless, I need to move forward. I don’t just owe it to myself, but I owe it to Ana.

  Now I’ll take the path of least resistance. I’ll allow myself to fall in love with C. J. in the present day. And in time, I’ll get that kiss. My lips are hungering for it. Crying out for it. Gabriel and I never got to first base because we weren’t supposed to play the game together at all. But C. J. and I are going to participate, all right. And someday, we’ll round home.

  I knock on the door of the projection room. It’s dark because the film is playing; the only light that can be seen is rushing from the enclosed space and out into the theater. The tick tick tick of the celluloid stock grinds as it passes through the spokes of the projector. The lilting sound of the movie’s score rumbles up through the floor.

  Silently, I slip to his side, where I fit like a missing puzzle piece. His arms find their way around me, and I feel like I’m encased in the warmth and safety of a cocoon. He lowers me to the floor. It isn’t comfortable, but who cares about that at a time like this? So long as he doesn’t let go.

  We kiss. His tongue is probing, exploratory. I’m warm all over because our bodies are pressed together, and I can feel my breathing becoming shallower. Soon, I start letting out little groans of pleasure when he flicks his tongue along my jawline. I run my fingers through his dense hair with one hand and caress the back of his neck with the other.

  He deftly feels his way through the darkness to unbutton my blouse, though his fingers can’t—won’t—move quickly enough. Impatient with the time it’s taking and tired of his fumbling, I slowly rip my top open. I can hear the buttons popping off one by one as they land on the floor nearby.

  Ping. Ping. Ping.

  He nips at my collarbone, and it seems like he’s about to make his descent. I hold my breath, wondering how far down he’s going to go. I want to be close to him, closer than I’ve ever wanted to be to any boy before. My defenses fall as my emotions heighten, threatening to erupt. I’m not sure I can hold onto my “purity” much longer.