Annabeth Neverending Page 3

  Even though ice cream is the last thing I want right now, because I just drank two Moxies and downed half a box of Little Debbie snack cakes, I can’t risk turning him away, just in case he realizes later that he’s completely lowering his standards, so I say, “I’d love some.”

  And so we head out, with me in a state of joyous disbelief.

  Gabriel drives us in circles for a while because all the seasonal ice-cream shops are closed in this tourist town, and we wind up in a small Formica booth at Dairy Queen. I take the paper cover off a straw and twist it around apprehensively.

  “I know what you’re thinking. DQ? But don’t worry. I like to set the bar low. Manage expectations. That way, you’ll be thrilled when we go to Olive Garden. It’s a great strategy.”

  “Did you use it on your girlfriend?” I ask, searching.

  “If I had a girlfriend, would I be with you now?”

  “That would depend on how caddish you are,” I reply curtly.

  I spoon some soft serve into my mouth, even though I’m one step away from sugar shock.

  “There’s nobody else. At the moment. So trust me, you do not want to miss this rare window of opportunity!”

  There goes my twitch. Dammit!

  “I’ll take that into consideration,” I respond.

  “So what are your issues exactly? I want to hear all about them,” Gabriel says, stirring his Blizzard.

  “Let’s see. There are just so many to frighten you with…I was adopted, so as you can imagine, that’s pretty complicated and has resulted in some ‘emotional development problems.’ I’m also a semichronic sleepwalker. And the star of a video—that caught me in the act—which was posted on the Internet by my dear friend, Anonymous. It made me a local celebrity. Of sorts. And not in a good way.”

  “If you want me to lose interest, you’ll have to do better than that.”

  “You obviously don’t watch enough YouTube.”

  I pause, but Gabriel seems undeterred.

  “Well, what have you got?” I counter.

  “Let’s see. My mother died when I was four.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks,” he says sadly. “While she was slowly slipping away, my dad had an affair with my now stepmom. It’s been pretty…awkward ever since. My brother gets along with them fine. I guess he’s a more forgiving person than I am.”

  “Huh. I always worry that my parents love my brother more because he’s theirs, you know, biologically.”

  I’ve never felt comfortable sharing this with anyone before. Gabriel looks at me, growing thoughtful.

  “Well, according to my calculations, we’re equally damaged. I knew it. A perfect match!” Gabriel says as he eyes me closely.

  “You don’t say,” I reply, inwardly cringing at my own ineptitude.

  “Anyway, maybe things will get better with my family moving closer. My dad just retired from the military, and they’re looking to settle down in this area. Mrs. Lansing’s been helping them find a house.”

  “Too bad the place next door to ours already sold. We could’ve been neighbors…when you’re home from college, that is.”

  “Now that would’ve been crazy.”

  Gabriel takes me home and walks me to my door, where we stand for an exceedingly long and uncomfortable moment, the moment I’ve been dreading/dying for.

  I’ve never kissed a boy. If only I’d practiced on somebody, anybody, just to get it out of the way. Then I’d know what I’m doing.

  Now he’ll see just how inexperienced I am. And he won’t think I’m worth the effort. No college boy would allow for that much of a learning curve.

  The thing is…I don’t want Gabriel to be my first kiss.

  I want him to be my last!

  “I had fun,” he says.

  “So did I,” I say in response, because I can’t think of a superior one. The twitch in my mouth spreads to the rest of the body.

  “Are you shaking?”

  “A little,” I admit.

  “I see,” considers Gabriel.

  “Annabeth, you don’t have to be scared. But I understand why you’re intimidated. I’m quite a catch,” he says half jokingly. Only half.

  Then he gets solemn, genuine. He looks at me carefully, saying his words gently. “But I’m in no rush. You set the pace.”

  I nod. I should’ve figured he’d understand. I didn’t account for the fact that his extra year or so would give him extra patience, extra maturity.

  “My birthday’s on Friday, and a friend happens to be having a huge Halloween party that night.”

  Kerry’s parents are getting a divorce, which has not only made her more controlling than usual but also more spoiled than usual. And she unknowingly planned her big bash on the same night as my big birthday, so she reluctantly agreed to throw in a cake for me, even though, according to her, it “muddies the theme.”

  “Would you want to…maybe…go with me?” I ask hopefully.

  “Maybe I would,” he replies, his pale blue eyes gleaming.

  Then I grow bold. I summon up all the courage I have inside to make the leap. And I lean over and give Gabriel a peck on the cheek.

  “This is off to a good start,” he says with a sideways smirk.

  I enter my house and float back up the stairs as though I’m walking on air. I have to call Bernadette and tell her all about it. She’ll be thrilled. I’ll finally have something real to contribute when we dish about boys. I won’t be so painfully clueless, so woefully incapable of relating. I turn the corner and head into my room, about to grab my phone, and my jaw goes slack.

  The velveteen box has been popped open invitingly, revealing the ankh inside. It’s sitting on my pillow. And the way it’s catching the light, it looks like it’s winking at me.

  “What the?” I say aloud, the words sounding strange because I’m alone.

  Nobody else is home. Nobody else could’ve moved it here.

  My stomach drops to the floor and then flops right over.

  Did I unlock the hope chest and set it on my bed without realizing it? That’s the only explanation that makes sense, but it isn’t exactly a comforting one. Because it basically means I’m losing my mind. But doesn’t questioning one’s own mental health effectively rule out insanity? Or does believing that I’m sane simply because I question my mental health make me even more crazy?

  As proof of my nervous breakdown, before I can stop myself, I take hold of the necklace and feel myself falling away…

  4

  Moments fly past; time truly is fleeting. I step down from a wooden chariot painted with gold, and Sethe, his hair now beginning to grow out into more of a crew cut, helps me descend onto the sand. We’re surrounded by faceless others, people who cease to exist when he’s in my presence, yet the world closes in, and we don’t speak to one another. But the looks we share are so charged: the heat runs through me.

  We walk side by side through a crowded bazaar where merchants are peddling their wares. We stroll through the ornate palace and gaze at the battle scenes depicted on the mural-covered walls. We amble through the bright green gardens as flower petals dot the air, never speaking, always watching each other—wanting each other? His hair continues to lengthen; are our feelings growing as well? Are they quietly deepening as the moments pass?

  I know they are.

  Things are shifting. The time, the place. I’m pushed and pulled, only to find myself in a vast and elaborate set of rooms. The place is filled with the gifts that were presented to me by the pharaoh, antiquities that any museum would now fight to display.

  I hear the sound of scratching at my chamber door. The body I’m inhabiting rushes to investigate and finds an Abyssinian cat. She’s sleek, with exaggerated, triangular ears, and her brown coat is ticked with black. I take the animal into my arms. I peer into her l
ittle face and find that she’s odd-eyed. One is green, and the other is gold.

  “Her eyes are two different colors. How unusual! Thank you, Bastet, oh beloved feline goddess, for sending her to me.”

  I allow the cat to sit in my lap as a young slave girl, probably my personal maid, liberally applies and then wipes away a thick paste of deep red from my fingernails. This must be a primitive attempt at nail polish. I admire her handiwork.

  “Such a cat is an omen of good things to come,” my vessel states with confidence.

  “I would imagine so,” the girl says almost inaudibly, though it’s doubtful she’d voice her dissent. “What shall you name her?”

  “Kitty Kitty,” I reply.

  Though I understand the meaning implicitly, I realize that to unfamiliar ears the words would sound like “Mew Mew.”

  After blowing on my nails to dry them, I set the cat down and move to a cavernous closet, where I assess the vast array of clothing in my wardrobe. I pull out a long and flashy gown made of netted blue beads.

  “Just what jewelry shall I wear this evening? The ankh is my favorite, but I do not know…”

  The maid skulks off, muttering something about having to clean her ceramic basin.

  Sethe is standing against the wall, stoic, yet engaged. He scans the rooms as he keeps watch. Thick straps of mahogany leather crisscross over his ample biceps. A dagger hangs by his side, at the ready.

  I slink over and stand right in front of him, making it difficult for him to look away.

  “Tell me what to choose. Surely you have seen every piece I own.”

  Sethe pauses. This probably isn’t the kind of information a princess generally extorts from a slave guard, but he doesn’t seem embarrassed. This is clearly a sorry, immature stab at flirting. He looks at me—or whoever I am within this vision—and I feel like the wind has been knocked from my chest.

  Before Sethe can respond, a squat young woman, whose sense of entitlement is so obvious I feel it before she says a word, enters. She’s dripping with jewels, though it does little to mask the full size of her girth.

  “Ana, time to ready your marital bed. It is to be occupied soon.”

  So, the name of the girl I’m occupying is Ana? That’s markedly close to Annabeth. Does that mean anything?

  It might mean everything.

  Her face…My face clouds over with worry.

  “Why, Baketmut? What do you know, sister?”

  “Only that your greatest rival is the most likely choice!” she cries.

  A smug-faced Baketmut rushes out the door. She must’ve planned on leaving dramatically to make the news seem more disturbing. I feel a torrent of rage rise within Ana. I…we…pick up a sculpture and throw it against a wall. It shatters into too many fractured pieces to count. The servants rush to remove the broken bits that litter the floor. It’s obvious that they often clean up after Ana’s temper tantrums from the speed with which they clear away the mess.

  I rush into my bedroom, seeking my “bed,” a wooden frame that holds a mat of interwoven fibers. At the head of this unappealing contraption lies a concave wooden “headrest.” I recoil inwardly, not wanting to use it. Despite its unwelcoming appearance, I throw myself on top of it, my body wracked with sobs.

  I wish that I could console Ana. I can’t imagine being forced into marrying somebody my father had chosen.

  But I don’t have to comfort her because Sethe does that for me. I feel him gently place his hand on my shoulder, and my skin tingles at the warmth of his touch.

  “Do not fret, Princess. I cannot bear to see you cry,” he whispers.

  I smile through my tears. “Why not?”

  “Do not make me say it,” he says, his voice filled with despair.

  “But I feel the same way.”

  Sethe shakes his head, as though he doesn’t want to hear the truth.

  “As for tonight, you should not wear any jewels. You shame them all.”

  I turn my head to look at Sethe and see the kindest of smiles. I remove the ankh from around my neck, and things shift.

  There is a bright flash of light as I transition from one place to another. I’m no longer in Ana’s quarters but back inside the throne room. A beautiful woman, one who seems every inch a queen, is sitting on an elevated throne blanketed with carvings of lions in high relief. She’s wearing a golden headdress with a snake in the forefront and a collar covered with candy-colored gems. I approach, feeling uneasy.

  “Baketmut informed me that Majesty Father is arranging my marriage.”

  “It is too hard to contain gossip in these walls. No matter. It could not have come as a surprise. You are now sixteen; you are due,” she states evenly.

  “But should I not have some say in whom I marry? You did,” I say, my lower lip quivering.

  “Marrying the great Ramses was clearly advantageous; I was simply fortunate that I felt genuine emotion for him,” she replies.

  “Majesty Mother, dearest Nefertari, just tell me it will not be Amun. Anyone but Amun,” I beg quietly.

  A steady stream of tears escapes from my eyes. The regal woman steps down from her perch and heads in my direction.

  “There, there. You and Amun shall learn to love each other as husband and wife. Sometimes hatred breeds the greatest passion.”

  Ana’s mother drapes her arms around me. I feel a rush of emotion I didn’t anticipate, an unrivaled sense of joy. Maybe I’m just caught up in the onslaught of Ana’s feelings, which are so strong they’re indistinguishable from my own.

  But then I realize that we’re independently feeling the exact same thing. It takes a moment for me to properly identify it. But it’s beyond question. It’s a daughter’s love for her mother.

  It’s a memory.

  They’re all memories.

  My memories!

  This epiphany permeates my each and every cell with its sobering truth. Like a slap to the face, like a frigid shower, like a death in the family. Snapping me to my senses. Making me confront what I felt but couldn’t articulate. In the blink of an eye, the mystery has been solved. But my realization is simply too much to process. I’m alternately paralyzed with shock and charged with excitement.

  So I was reincarnated. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? Then again, everything is always much clearer in retrospect. I think now that a little part of me always knew, or at least suspected. I’ve always been called “precocious,” unusually “knowledgeable” for my age, and most tellingly, an “old soul.”

  Our personalities may be as different as our circumstances, but Ana and I share one soul. And a penchant for symbolic gold jewelry. And—the more I know him through my memories—a yearning for Sethe.

  Oh, Sethe…

  “Annabeth! Annabeth!”

  I feel fingers pressing so hard into my shoulders they’re sure to leave black-and-blue marks. It takes me a few seconds to understand that Howie is behind it.

  It’s jarring to see Howie’s ruddy face and find myself lying on the pink carpet in my embarrassingly girly bedroom. Seconds ago, ages ago, I was on my bed. I must have rolled off while I was passed out.

  I manage to pull myself to a sitting position. Howie throws himself around me, holding me tight. I can’t remember the last time he’s shown me so much affection. It’s nice to know that underneath his gruff preteen exterior remains some semblance of humanity. Howie must realize that this lengthy embrace makes him seem sensitive, because he drops his arms to his side.

  “You were having a seizure!”

  A seizure?

  A seizure?

  This is a terrible new wrinkle. Fainting is one thing, but seizing? Can’t you bite your tongue off when that happens? There’s no way a seizure can be good for you. I just hope it isn’t all that bad. Although I know it is. In fact, having a seizure makes me so upset it practically c
auses another seizure.

  I struggle to collect myself. I can’t let Howie get involved. I must control this situation to the best of my ability. And if my mother finds out, she’ll take over.

  “Of course I was. Look, I’m on some new medication for my sleepwalking, and it’s one of the side effects. I’ll discuss it with Mom. Obviously I need to switch to a different drug.”

  The thought of trying any other drug for my sleep issues, when none of them made a bit of difference, rattles me, even though this is all a lie.

  “Just do me a favor. Don’t say anything to Mom or Dad about my meds. They don’t want to stress you out.”

  Howie grows thoughtful.

  I continue. “They can’t know that you know. You’re lucky they want to keep you out of it. Otherwise, you’d be dragged to the hospital again for my treatments. You don’t want that, do you?” I ask, banking on Howie’s hatred of the place. He always complains that the vending machines never have anything good—that isn’t expired—and that he has to sit in an uncomfortable chair for hours while sickly patients cough and hack on him.

  “Fine. I’ll play dumb,” he says.

  “Thank you. It really is for the best.” I’m simultaneously impressed and ashamed by my lying skills.

  I pray that Howie doesn’t tattle on me. But I can’t let my fears about him blabbing ruin this moment. The moment when I discovered who I was, even if, thanks to Maine’s stringent laws on adoption, I’m still not entirely sure of who I am.

  During my open period, I head to the dank, underutilized York High library. This is usually a prime make-out spot. At least that’s what I hear. Bernadette sure knows her way around it. Let’s just say she’s become quite an expert on the Dewey Decimal system.

  I pull a thick wool sweater over my turtleneck, but it still isn’t enough to keep me warm. I really wish they’d turn up the heat in here. But I can’t say that in public. Ever since my rude awakening from that last vision, I’ve been uncomfortably cold. I’m a Mainer and should be able to withstand the most frigid of temperatures. And this is only October—winter hasn’t even begun to unleash its full fury. I have a terrible, biting feeling that this is another side effect of my ankh grabbing.