Annabeth Neverending Read online

  “Interesting. And have I exceeded your expectations?” he asks leadingly.

  “In that I expected an old codger.”

  “Well, I am a college man. I go to Bowdoin.”

  I can’t deny that I’m impressed. Bowdoin is a big deal around here. It’s hard to get into and even harder to graduate from. And the campus? Well, it’s like something from a period-piece coming-of-age movie. With social houses and buildings on the registry of historic places and an eccentric polar bear mascot because a world-famous arctic explorer was an alum, well, Bowdoin is for scholars, not your average student. And Gabriel seems like an early-decision kind of guy.

  “Nice. The Harvard of Brunswick.”

  “I like to think that Harvard is the Bowdoin of Cambridge,” he states matter-of-factly.

  I laugh.

  “Hey! I wasn’t joking.”

  Gabriel’s just close enough to make me feel self-conscious. He shifts in his seat, and I catch a whiff of his cologne. It gives him an air of manliness. High-school guys don’t generally wear cologne. I’m happy if they wear deodorant.

  “What’s your major?” I ask, though part of me doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I care.

  “Archaeology.”

  He takes one hand off the steering wheel and fusses with his black horn-rimmed glasses. I’m guessing they’re vintage. After all, a young Indiana Jones type wouldn’t buy his specs at Target.

  “So you aren’t old, but you love old things.”

  “Yeah, I guess I do. Most of the time,” he says, arching an eyebrow for effect.

  I can tell that my face has turned completely crimson.

  “How old are you, anyway?”

  “Fifteen,” I confess, uneasy.

  “Whoa! I didn’t think you were that young. You seem so…mature for your age.”

  “That’s because I’m practically sixteen. How old are you?” I ask, hoping he isn’t in his twenties because I’d feel even more overwhelmed than I already do.

  “I’m seventeen. I might’ve skipped a grade or two,” he says, gloating ever so slightly.

  “I live up here,” I say, motioning ahead.

  Gabriel pulls in front of my house. I’m grateful it’s getting too dark for him to see just how dilapidated it’s become, thanks to bills for exhaustive sleep studies that insurance chose not to cover.

  He turns off the ignition and looks at me intently. Even though I’m sitting down, I can tell that my knees have gone rubbery, weak.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I mumble.

  Gabriel swipes his hands through his thick hair, parting it like it’s the Black Sea. He pauses momentarily and grows serious. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks.

  I nod, trying to look certain even though I couldn’t be less so. Our eyes meet, but neither of us looks away. Finally, I give up on the little game of chicken we’re playing and unlock the door.

  “Not so fast. Just how you are you planning to pay me back for my good deed?”

  “So that’s how this works, huh? You’re quite an opportunist. Taking advantage of a pitiful girl who’s practically unconscious,” I say, before pushing my lip out in a pout.

  “I take it when I can get it.”

  “You, Gabriel—to use a college word—are a cad.”

  “If you say so.” He smirks.

  I’m not sure what irks me more: that he used my least favorite expression or that he looked so adorable while saying it.

  I walk into the foyer and find my parents taking their jackets out of the closet. I keep my distance, not wanting to draw too much attention to myself. Obviously Mrs. Lansing didn’t sell me out, or they’d have pounced on me the second I entered the room.

  If only I could confide in my parents what happened at the flea market. Yet I don’t dare. Even though it’s what I’d like to do, what I should be able to do. But it would help confirm their worst fears—that I’d inherited some horrible health problems from my birth mother. As if the sleepwalking isn’t bad enough.

  “You’re home early,” my mom says, sounding alarmed.

  I’m doing both my parents a favor, really, by omitting the truth. I’m sparing my mother the hassle of worrying about me and my father the hassle of worrying about my mom, who’s incapable of handling much in the way of stress.

  “Mrs. Lansing wants me to start off gradually. Ease into it.”

  I lie through slightly clenched teeth. I hope she can’t see the corner of my mouth twitching. It’s my tell. It usually happens when I’m nervous, but it also happens when I’m bending the truth. Which is why I never play poker.

  “How’ll you save up for college with a schedule like that?” asks my father with dismay.

  “You sure she didn’t send you home sick? Because you look a little flushed. Doesn’t she, Paul? Annabeth, are you running a temperature?”

  My mother presses her hand against my forehead.

  “She’s OK. Aren’t you, honey?” my dad asks in a way that makes it seem less like a question and more like a command.

  I nod, not having much choice in the matter.

  “Sometimes, you just need to let this stuff go, Norma,” he says softly.

  My mom drops her hand and pulls away. Apparently she’s decided to follow my father’s advice because she puts on her double-breasted trench.

  “We’re going to the grocery store. Want anything?” Dad asks as he jingles the keys in his pocket.

  “How about some beer?”

  My parents look at each other and laugh. I join in. But it’s forced. Because I’m not kidding. Ever since the flea-market vision, I’ve been insanely parched. For some reason, I feel like the only thing that will quench my thirst is beer. Even though I can’t stand the stuff, or its smell.

  “I’ll pick you up some Moxie instead,” says Dad.

  “I do love the Moxie,” I admit.

  But Moxie—my favorite, a regionally brewed soda—won’t do the trick. It tastes more like flat sarsaparilla than beer. I need something sour, bitter…full of hops.

  “I think I have a coupon for it!” my father, extreme couponer extraordinaire, brags.

  “A coupon? Then you have no choice.”

  My mom mentions that Howie will be home any minute, but I’m only half listening. My younger brother’s whereabouts are the least of my concerns. My parents are moving out the door at a snail’s pace. I’d love to prod them along gently, but that would raise some red flags, and then they’d never leave.

  Do I go on a fact-finding mission by holding the ankh again and risk another blackout? Are blackouts really that bad? They’re basically the same as sleeping, right?

  Though even the seemingly simple act of sleeping is a problem for me. I need some time to think. By myself. Uninterrupted.

  After what feels like an eternity, they’re finally gone, and I take the stairs two at a time, the box containing the ankh in one hand and a Milwaukee’s Best in the other. I enter my bedroom and shut the door behind me ever so carefully. On the off chance that Howie is home, I don’t want to awaken the beast.

  I’ve never needed to be within the lavender confines of my bedroom so much. I look around at the oversized teddy bear that’s missing an eye. The worn Amish toy chest, now reimagined as a hope chest. The four-poster bed with the sleepwalking restraints attached to the posts. Finally, I have some privacy in a familiar place. One that’s straightforward, lacking in mystery; one that allows me to contemplate something dripping with it.

  I’d latch the door if I could, but my folks won’t allow us to have locks. They seem certain that the threat of entry at any given moment will result in good behavior. Of course, in this instance they’re wrong, I think as I brazenly chug my budget beer. Would expensive beer taste any better? I wonder. I sure hope so.

  I set aside the empty bottle and
snap open the jewelry box. I size up the pendant. It sure doesn’t look like it has any special powers. After all, it’s just a hunk of metal. But can it bring back ancient Egypt? Can it bring back Sethe?

  Maybe he’s calling out to me? The ankh certainly is. I feel it rumbling. It’s insisting that I touch it, and its pull is growing harder to refuse. My fingers slowly inch in its direction. Tentatively, hesitantly. At this point, I’m not sure I can help it. Not that I’d stop, even if I could. It’s compelling me. A power beyond my control. And soon, I’ll have its silky smoothness within my fingertips…

  3

  “What are you doing?” asks Howie, incredulous.

  I think fast, maneuvering the beer bottle so I’m sitting on top of it.

  Even though he’s only twelve, my “little” brother towers over me. Bernadette can take hers in a wrestling match, but I’ll never know that pleasure. No doubt the behemoth is wondering why I’m about to poke at some strange pendant on a chain.

  “Nothing. Last time I checked, this was my room. Why are you in here anyway?”

  “Uh…no reason,” he responds abruptly.

  So he’s guilty of his own transgression. I’m convinced that Howie regularly sneaks into my room and rifles through my stuff. Everything is slightly out of place when I get home after an extended period of time. I rarely have anything damning in here. But the one time I’ve got the evidence on me to prove I committed a crime, he walks right in. Good thing the bottle escaped his notice.

  Howie tries to get a better peek at my jewelry, but I don’t want him taking the tiniest look. He knows too much already.

  My frustration gnaws at me. I desperately wanted to hold the ankh. But maybe Howie did me a service by bursting in. He probably got here at the right moment, preventing me from exercising some especially poor judgment. I would’ve made myself completely vulnerable to it had I been alone. On second thought, I should thank him. But I won’t.

  “Don’t you have something better to do?” I ask, slipping into antagonized-big-sister mode.

  “Yes, now that you mention it,” says Howie as he stomps out of my room in his heavy-footed way.

  That moment, the one where the ankh was drawing me in, is lost. And I’m not taking any chances. I got the wake-up call I needed. I pull out a brass key and lock the little box tight in my chest. Now that the ankh is out of sight, it’s out of mind.

  I can only hope.

  I arrive at practice seconds before it starts and adjust the waistband on my gold-and-blue York High boxer shorts that say “pompon” on the butt. I search for the answer to a timeless question: Why do some squads spell it pom-pom while others spell it pompon?

  Just when I think I may be close to solving the age-old puzzle, Sethe threatens to intervene. Though Gabriel is the one I should be dwelling on, seeing as he exists and all. But Sethe keeps worming his way into my mind. His olive skin, his full lips, his square jaw. His piercing hazel orbs that penetrate into my deepest core…But the more pressing task at hand, that of perfecting a piece of dance-team choreography, pushes him right out.

  I take a seat next to Bernadette and commence my warm-up.

  “Stretching feels so good,” she says, her legs splayed straight out to each side. Her arms are extended, guiding her torso down so far that she could kiss the field house’s pale wood floor. Her long, black-brown hair is fanned out around her, covering half of her body.

  I grunt as I try to mimic her. I can feel my muscle fibers tearing under the strain. Even after some serious exertion, I’m so stiff I’m practically sitting straight up.

  “That is exactly…the opposite of what I was thinking,” I reply sorrowfully.

  “Do you know the choreography yet?” she asks.

  I shake my head in shame.

  “Why not? What could be more pressing than pompons?” Bernadette asks with a grin.

  “Let’s run the routine. Get in formation!” cries Kerry, the captain.

  I watch on in fear as Kerry coldly, meticulously scrutinizes us with her aqua-blue eyes. She forcefully moves those who are slightly askew into the correct position. Then, Captain Kerry starts the music. The pumping techno reverberates loudly through the high-ceilinged gym, causing the bleachers to rattle. We run through the moves to our newest halftime show. It isn’t pretty, and I’m the reason why.

  I’m always a step behind. Or a step ahead. One way or another, I’m habitually out of sync with the other girls. At least I’m consistent in my inconsistency. I fear I may have some sort of dyslexia that only applies to choreography. I still don’t understand how I somehow squeaked by and landed on the team, but it was a rare stroke of luck I try not to question.

  “Let’s try it again,” Kerry says with dismay, looking right at me. “We’ve got some…synchronicity issues.”

  I glance at the other girls, who look irritated, though they should be used to my epic pompon disasters by now. When the time comes for the grand finale, I don’t even attempt it. I just mark the move. Kerry stops the music.

  “Annabeth, can you show me your toe touch?” demands Kerry.

  I squat down on the floor and try to gather as much momentum as I can. I force myself into the air, trying to propel my legs high enough and reach my fingers far enough to touch my toes. But I fall short. Very short. And land on my rear end. I can hear the soft giggles of the other girls on the squad.

  “You haven’t been practicing, have you?”

  This seems like a trick question. If I say no, Kerry will think that I’m not trying hard enough. But if I say yes and still can’t deliver, that makes me seem incompetent. I opt for the answer that seems the least damaging.

  “Kind of.”

  “You better get that down by the game. Or else we’ll replace you with the alternate. For good,” threatens Kerry.

  I look over to the bench, where the alternate, a husky junior with rubber-band-covered braces, is practically drooling at the thought of permanently taking my spot.

  The last thing I want to do is give Kerry an excuse to kick me off the squad. She’s a taskmaster, but I continually tell myself that it’s worth it. After all, being on the team is social capital. It gives me friends. It gives me an identity. I’m not on the fringes anymore, which was how I felt for so long.

  “Whatever. Toe touches are easy when you’re used to spreading your legs,” whispers Bernadette mischievously.

  I wonder what it would be like to have nothing to obsess over other than poms. I have plenty of other things to occupy me besides botched toe touches. Like a mysterious piece of jewelry, a vision of ancient Egypt, and two diametrically opposed hunks: one real and one imagined. Nevertheless, I don’t want to make a fool of myself in front of the whole school after I just humiliated myself in front of the whole flea market. And my whole squad. Though at the moment, that scenario seems more than likely.

  I lie on my bed, wracking my brain and doing my French homework. It’s proving even harder than usual to get into the passé composé. Isn’t the present tense enough? Can’t we just live in the now? I sit up when I hear the doorbell ring.

  “Is anybody else home?” I cry, not wanting to lose my train of thought.

  Hearing no answer, I groan and get up. I skip downstairs to open the front door. Gabriel is standing there, blinking his icy blues, his thumbs in his pockets. He’s wearing a grubby T-shirt that says “I Dig Archaeology” and some frayed cords.

  “I hope you don’t mind me stopping by, but I wanted to check up on you.”

  “You could’ve texted.”

  “But then I couldn’t have…you know…seen you,” he says softly.

  He’s too much. I need to be funny. I need to be clever. I need to be better than myself.

  “Oh…” is all I can muster, the edge of my lip gearing up for action.

  “I also wanted to collect my reward for saving your life,” he says wit
h a sideways smirk.

  I can feel butterflies making loop-the-loops in my stomach.

  “I’m not sure you actually saved my life,” I reply with a toss of my hair.

  “I thought you’d try to get out of it.”

  “Of course not. I like to make good on my obligations,” I insist.

  “Great. Then you won’t mind if I ask you out.”

  “No.” I pause, noting Gabriel’s disappointed reaction and reveling in it. “I don’t mind, I mean. So long as you don’t mind slumming it with a high schooler.”

  “Not that much,” he answers coyly.

  Gabriel flashes me his pearly whites, and I respond in kind. And then the corner of my mouth starts to twitch in earnest.

  Would kissing make it stop?

  “Wait, Mrs. Lansing doesn’t have a rule against fraternizing, does she?” I ask, knowing full well that I’d break it if she did.

  “Please. She wanted this to happen. Couldn’t you tell?” he asks.

  “A little.”

  I should’ve known. Mrs. Lansing isn’t just a good friend and neighbor; she’s a full-service employer. But does he know about my past? Would he act differently if he did?

  “Look, there’s something I should tell you. I have…issues.”

  “If you’re trying to scare me away, it won’t work. Besides, I’ve got my own stuff. Your problems, my problems: I’m guessing they cancel each other out.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  Gabriel casually leans his weight against the doorjamb. I should probably invite him in, but I’m not ready for that. Not yet.

  I cross my arms and then put them at my sides, not wanting to look like I’m on the defensive but not sure what else to do with myself. I try to seem open to his advances but not too open. The last thing I want is to come off as needy. I hope I’m sending the right cues with my body language. Though I doubt it.

  “I don’t suppose you’d want to get some ice cream?” Gabriel asks.

  Huh. Maybe I’m sending the right signals after all.