Annabeth Neverending Page 14

  “I love you, Annabeth,” he says softly.

  The words are right, but the voice is very, very wrong. I gasp and pull myself out from under him. I stand up and back away, desperate to escape. He gets to his feet, and now I can see his face in the film projector’s translucent cone of light. But how can this be?

  It’s Gabriel!

  “Your turn,” he says insistently.

  I can’t echo his sentiments. Not now.

  “It’s your turn to go, Annabeth!” cries Kerry.

  I shake my head, and I’m wrenched from my maddening daydream and restored to pompon practice, where my squad has been divided in half, so we can critique each other’s performances.

  Poms can get tedious, but of all places, why did I go…there? My darkest carnal desires must have a life of their own. Don’t my nether regions realize that C. J. is the one I’m supposed to be fantasizing about?

  I quickly try to eradicate my arousal by running through so many unsettling facts about ancient Egypt that it approximates a cold shower:

  Ancient Egyptians used a mixture of honey and alligator dung as birth control.

  Ancient Egyptians held dead mice to their teeth as a toothache cure.

  Ancient Egyptians used crushed ants and carmine beetles for lipstick.

  I’m thoroughly repulsed. The longing for Gabriel has passed.

  But I’ve still got ancient Egypt on the brain. Once it takes hold, it doesn’t let go. Would the Egyptians have laughed at our dance? It’s hard to say, but I feel like they would’ve appreciated our slavish synchronicity (when I don’t ruin it) and our intricately choreographed movements.

  And so I continue to follow the motions for the rest of practice until we’ve polished the remainder of the routine and are released. Surely I looked out of it, not altogether present during the run-through.

  The team disperses, and I grab my overstuffed duffel bag and make a beeline for Kerry and Bernadette.

  “You guys might find this amusing. Women in ancient Egypt wore pleated skirts that look a lot like our uniforms.”

  Kerry and Bernadette gaze at me blankly.

  “Fascinating,” Kerry says flatly.

  “Isn’t it though? Maybe we could do a routine to the song ‘Walk Like an Egyptian.’ I love the idea of combining my passion for Egypt with my love for pompons.”

  “I don’t,” Kerry says, her bright blue eyes darkening with irritation.

  “But it would be fun!” I insist.

  “Annabeth, we’re happy you’re back, but you have to give all the ancient Egypt stuff a rest.”

  “That might be hard, when ancient Egypt is the theme for the Turnaround Dance,” announces C. J., who sneaked up on all of us and greets us with a blinding grin that stretches across his whole face.

  “Good grief,” replies Kerry, with an eye roll.

  “How did you swing that?” I ask, disbelieving, yet imagining him capable of anything. “I didn’t even know you were on the dance committee.”

  “I am now! It was the only way they’d do ‘Journey Down the Nile,’” C. J. says with pride.

  I haven’t even invited C. J. to the dance yet, and he’s already gone and one-upped me by getting the best dance theme ever approved. And I have no doubt that he had to bend each and every voter on the dance committee to his will.

  Why was I thinking about Gabriel when this is the stuff fantasies should be made of, those showing thoughtfulness and caring? Not those displaying lustful longings that make my body sing.

  “The ancient Egypt thing seems to be working for you after all,” says Bernadette.

  I shrug in agreement.

  “Our first date is right now. There’s something I want to show you,” C. J. says, his excitement evident.

  “Give me a hint,” I demand.

  “I don’t play guessing games. What’s the fun in that?” he asks. He has a mischievous sparkle in his eye.

  “I’d try to guess, but, you know,” I say with glee.

  17

  “I hope you’re ready,” C. J. says, and I can hear how excited he is about the big reveal.

  He undoes the blindfold that he tied around my head several moments before, and I look up to find a building that’s so grandiose—with white pillars and cut stone—it could well be an ancient Egyptian monument. A nearby sign states that this is the Boston Museum of Fine Art. Apparently, no ho-hum location in Old Orchard Beach or Portland would do. When C. J. plans a first date, it’s out of state.

  “So, why’d you bring me here?” I ask, though it’s obvious that the reason has something to do with our mutual passion.

  “You’ll see.”

  We rush through the museum, because C. J. sees no point in dillydallying elsewhere, and finally arrive at the antiquities wing a little out of breath.

  I’d pinch myself if it wouldn’t hurt. This place is all anyone with an ancient Egypt obsession could hope for—and then some. Seeing this array of artwork brought together…Well, the last time I was witness to a collection this awe-inspiring, this mind-blowingly beautiful, was in ancient Egypt itself.

  We pass a jumble of tiny blue ceramic figures. Miniature people cast in a shiny glaze. C. J. points to them and tells me that they’re shabti and were buried in tombs with the rich, so they could serve the deceased in the afterlife. It wouldn’t be paradise if the dead were burdened with manual labor.

  “They were usually placed around the floor of the sarcophagus, so they could be at the ready,” explains a highly knowledgeable C. J.

  “Is this stuff you remember?”

  “Nope. It’s all research. Lots and lots of research.”

  And he can’t have much downtime, considering how many hours he must spend weightlifting to achieve that body—so perfect they could put it on display in the Greco-Roman wing. And yet he’s thrown himself in; he’s learning…growing…all for me.

  C. J. keeps talking, and his newfound mastery of the subject really gets me going. I wish I could record him spouting off some of his new expertise, so I could play it in the privacy of my own bedroom. Feeling this way in public makes me a little…heated. A bit…too excited for my own good.

  Gabriel would never speak of ancient Egypt with such reverence. Still, it isn’t as intense as it was in the projection booth…

  But we’ll get there. It’s unfair to compare my feelings for C. J. to something that was just a fantasy. Something that didn’t really happen.

  We walk through the rest of the ancient Egypt exhibition, passing sphinx statues, sarcophagi, burnished copper tools, and tiny, multicolored scarabs along the way.

  “I thought you would appreciate this place. They just renovated it. They even added some new pieces,” C. J. says, his voice smooth as honey.

  “Thank you. You can’t imagine how much this means to me.”

  My blood rushes through my veins as he walks me to a statue of Ramses. On the informational card that accompanies the piece, it’s spelled R-a-m-e-s-s-e-s—apparently there are as many spellings for his name as there are for pompons. He’s seated stiffly, upright, on his throne. His beard has started to break away, to crumble, disintegrate into nothing, returning to the earth from whence it came.

  Gabriel would’ve liked my use of the word whence…

  All we can do is piece together history with the things we happen to find. Which means that it’s a game of chance, really. And even with artifacts serving as proof, history can be subjective, though I do know for a fact that Ramses was as important a pharaoh as they say he was. There is no dispute there, even if he did some unspeakably hideous things. While some challenge the legitimacy of his individual claims to victory and greatness, there is little doubt that overall, he owned it.

  I may not feel the same affection for him that I did for my mother, but I can’t deny…Pops was a big deal.

  I look
at C. J., captivated. He drove for hours, so I could see a statue of my father. Now that’s true romance!

  “Do you like it?” he asks, in need of confirmation you’d think he’d already acquired.

  “That would be a monumental understatement,” I say.

  “Why don’t you take some time alone with…um, your dad, and I’ll go check out the rest of the exhibit.”

  I nod and watch C. J. wander off and get caught up in a display of hand-forged weaponry. Then I turn, feeling summoned, feeling called. I look into the distance and see a large display case. The brilliant reflection of the glass obscures its contents, but my gut instinct demands that I find out what’s inside.

  I step closer and closer. Finally, I see what it’s housing. Sitting atop a clear acrylic holder, just letting any old casual observer inspect its everlasting wonder…the ankh!

  My eyes bug out of my head. If I were a cartoon, I’d be yelling “Ahwooga!” I’m not sure how I got here, but now I’m standing in front of it. At this very moment. With nothing…everything but a pane (or is it a pain?) between us.

  I place my hands on the glass surrounding my most valued belonging. The amulet twinkles, and this time, it’s like it’s waving hello. We’ve only been apart for a short while, but it might as well have been an eternity.

  We need a proper reunion.

  A docent walks up to me. She tries to infuse her voice with an air of authority.

  “Please, don’t put your hands on the glass.”

  But I feel too strong a kinship to my little pendant to be so close and yet so very far. We both traveled across centuries and were both born of ancient Egypt. Simply standing near it invigorates me. Its energy permeates the air, my lifeblood. My heart is missing an ankh-shaped piece, and I need to be made whole once more.

  “How long has this ankh been here?” I ask.

  “It was just added to the collection. It’s made of orichalcum, which means it’s quite an amazing get,” adds the docent snootily.

  I start sobbing. There’s no controlling it; my eyes are flooding like the Nile after a heavy rain, overflowing at the edges, making a mess of my cheap “waterproof” mascara.

  “But it’s mine. Mine!” I say quietly, though I’m gaining volume quickly.

  C. J. walks up and sees that I’m losing control. He doesn’t seem embarrassed, but he’s definitely concerned.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I owned it…back then. And now, this glass is all that separates us,” I respond, my weeping threatening to draw the attention of every museumgoer in this place. If only I could shatter it. The paper-thin layer of glass that encases it…Well, it amounts to nothing more than melted sand. Must sand always be there to torment me?

  I consider smashing my head right into it, but C. J. pulls me back before I can fully enact my misguided plan.

  I’m whisked away to the main office, where I continue to screech insistently that the ankh belongs to me. After some hasty fact-checking, the curator of the collection, a jittery woman with oversized glasses and severely styled hair, admits that the ankh was sold to the museum. And not by a mugging stranger, a hostile doctor, or even a jealous ex-boyfriend, but by Paul and Norma Prescott.

  My parents?

  “It’s supposed to be confidential, but in this case, since your family sold it to us, it didn’t seem like such an issue,” the curator admits.

  I don’t just feel that a rug but a wall-to-wall carpet has been pulled out from under me. It’s as though somebody just punched my face, and when I was hunched over in pain, bitch-slapped me.

  I would’ve thought it was priceless, but I guess they were able to set one after all.

  My heart jumps into my throat. My chest tightens. My twitch goes a mile and minute.

  This. Can’t. Be. Happening.

  Breathe in and out, I tell myself.

  Maybe, just maybe, it’s for the best. It’s beyond my control. I can’t hold it, even if I want to, not that I should want to. After all, it puts my health at risk. Besides, I have C. J., my Sethe. The ankh is unnecessary. Superfluous. Redundant.

  But no matter how logically I think through its list of dangers, I’m self-aware enough to know that I’d still hold it if I could. After all, I’m itching to find out more. If only to see Kha. It would be a brutal but necessary reminder that I hate him. Then I’d never doubt my feelings for C. J. again.

  “I’m so sorry. We should’ve told you. We didn’t expect you’d see it on display,” my mother explains.

  “Well, never underestimate the power of destiny.”

  C. J. spirited me home after our terrible trip, our botched first date. I’m sure I was delightful company. I was so distracted I barely said a word. Upon our return, he reluctantly placed me in the care of my duplicitous parents for a sit-down.

  And I hate sit-downs. Especially this sit-down.

  My parents look ill at ease. As they should. My necklace can’t just be floating around out there. It could fall into the wrong hands—wronger ones, that is. And I already know somebody wants it. But they never stopped to ask what I thought of selling the most important object I’ve ever owned.

  “They offered us a substantial sum. We put it all away for your college education,” my father elaborates, as if that somehow excuses it.

  “Besides, it isn’t like you can wear it—you can’t even hold it,” points out my mother smoothly.

  I understand her reasoning, but I definitely don’t appreciate her methodology. “That doesn’t mean I wanted you to sell it!” I cry. The walls are closing in. I feel stress bubbles expanding in my chest. I need some Mylanta! “Wait, is that why you let me cover the house in hieroglyphics? Because you felt guilty?” I charge.

  My mother nods sullenly, and my father grows conspicuously silent. I feel like he’d side with me if he felt that he could stand up to my mother, but he just can’t bring himself to do it. It must cause too much strife in their marriage, and there’s enough discord already.

  If only this placated me. Having C. J. in this lifetime should be enough, but I guess I’m selfish. I need the ankh as well. I know better, and yet…and yet…Even if using it yields diminishing returns, I want it back for sentimental reasons. I wouldn’t care if I had to keep it in a plastic bag for eternity. It’s my partner in crime, the only substantial physical object that links me to my former self. I just can’t let it go. It managed to hunt me down and show me a world I never knew existed. It presented me with a home, of sorts. Don’t I owe it that same courtesy?

  Once I decided to follow my destiny and be with C. J., I thought things would be easier. Instead they’re growing increasingly complicated. And now, I don’t have the pendant. All I have is a feeling of apprehension…worry that everything I want is going to remain just out of my grasp, and that real fulfillment will always elude me.

  Even my feelings for C. J. seem muted somehow, limited.

  I hold tight to the hope that I’m mistaken, but given that I was presumably attacked over it, I have my doubts that I’ll ever possess my dear amulet again. The mugger can now find it handily on display. A tear runs down my cheek, and I wipe it away with my cotton sleeve. It quickly absorbs the runoff.

  I tell myself that I’ve already depleted the ankh, just to make the separation less painful, but I have a hunch that I haven’t yet tapped the pendant for all it has to offer.

  Despite the unseasonality, C. J. insists on taking me to the Nubble Light at Cape Neddick, York’s world-famous lighthouse, to make up for our disastrous excursion to Boston. This is reportedly the most photographed spot in the state, and too close by to refuse, even though I’d rather stay inside and drink hot cocoa with tiny dried marshmallows and cuddle by our fireplace, ramshackle as it may be. Instead, we jump into C. J.’s car, decked out in knee-high rubber boots and heavily lined, hooded raincoats for a mini coastal odyssey.

&nbs
p; Along the way, I admire the fancy old hotels on the bluff, places we could never afford to stay: all-inclusive wood-and-stone resorts, built during the turn of the nineteenth century. According to Mrs. Lansing, they’re remnants of another time, “The Guilded Age.” Lately I’ve been feeling equally anachronistic. At least now I know there was a place where I once belonged.

  I open the passenger-side window and breath in deeply, relishing the ocean air. Even though the sky is a mottled gray and foam-laced ocean waves are smacking the shore with a vengeance, there are a surprising number of locals milling about on the boardwalk.

  But the area surrounding Nubble is a different story. With winter winds tormenting the coast, the perimeter’s a ghost town. It feels like there’s nobody in the whole world but the two of us. Under the overcast sky, we exit C. J.’s vehicle and step off the overlook. We make our way through the jagged brown rocks that stretch across the channel like a cobblestone street.

  I note a few drops of water have infiltrated the toe of my boot, which means there’s a leak forming. But I don’t mind if I get soaked. Lately, I’ve wondered if I was reincarnated into an oceanside life because my previous incarnation was so woefully arid.

  The white-and-black structure, which is exactly what you’d think of when imagining a Maine lighthouse, is situated on a tiny island a few hundred feet offshore. Waves crash in, exploding as they hit the boulders, showering us with spray. I lick my wet lips and taste the salty residue. My mouth is puckering, just ripe for the kissing.

  “Let’s go to the island and take a closer look.”

  “Why not?” I ask, even though the answer is spelled out on all the posted signs prohibiting the activity.

  C. J. grabs my hand to help guide me along. The waves creep up higher and higher as we find ourselves jumping from rock to rock to evade their angry crashing. Today, the ocean seems to be exhibiting quite a temper. Dodging the water is kind of fun, in a wet, dangerous way.

  We scale the slippery cliffs of the miniscule island and half climb, half walk to the top of its plateau. We stand here, looking out over the picturesque York coastline. One I typically take for granted.