Soul Crossed (11 page)

We’ve been trying different faiths every weekend. Seeing if one strikes a chord with “us.” Ms. Alvarez assures me that it doesn’t really matter which one you choose, so long as it’s pure in your heart.

“I’m thinking we should try a synagogue this weekend, but that means we go on Saturday,” I say.

“Sure. Whatever you want, Grace. Listen.” He pulls me over to the side of the parking lot and glances around to make sure we are alone. “I want you to know how much it means to me that you tried with my mom like that.” I look away.

“I’m sorry. I know you didn’t want me to, and I can see why now. She’s hurting, Cam. She’s never gotten over Sarah’s death.” He cringes at the mention of her name. I wonder if he’s been told he’s a monster so often he’s becoming one for real.

“She has another kid who needed her,” he says. “But it’s not your fault, Grace. I don’t blame you for trying.” His hand is on my shoulder now, gripping me tight. He needs me to understand. I pat his hand.

“You were a child, Cam. It wasn’t your fault.”

“You really believe I’m a good person, don’t you?”

“I believe you are what you choose. And I believe you are going to make all the right choices from now on.” It’s the truth, and it’s the best I can do.

“You make me want to be a good person,” he says. “Maybe we should do something besides just religion-hopping.” Didn’t see that one coming.

“Sure. We should spend more time together,” I assure him.

“Well, I don’t know where Josh is, but I better go. The thing is, I’m kind of glad he wasn’t around. It was nice having some time with just you.” I almost ask what it is they do together, but he’s leaving and the moment has passed.

I turn toward the Bug, and Josh is standing right there. I gasp from surprise, but I’m happy it’s him. My smile fades, however, when I see the look on his face.

“Making a date?” he asks me, and I realize he’s overheard my conversation with Cam.

“Not a date. Just some time to talk,” I say. I can feel the heat rush to my cheeks. I am flattered and angry at the same time. It’s not like he owns me.

“Are you sure Cam knows that?” That stops me in my tracks. I never meant to lead Cam on. How could I not have seen that? I swallow hard.

“He…he knows I only like him as a friend.” My voice cracks. There is no certainty behind my words. This could complicate things.

“I’m glad you feel that way,” he says. He softens, and I see pain behind his azure eyes. I touch his hand because I cannot stand to be apart from him a moment longer. The familiar spark is there, and it is like a drug. I cannot get enough.

He entwines his fingers in my own, and I lean my head against his shoulder. I don’t know what I’ll do when my assignment is finished. I don’t know how I can ever bear to leave.

I’ve hung out with them all week long. I’ve watched every miniscule move she makes. I’ve noticed every little thing about her. How she bites the ends of her hair when she’s nervous. How she dumps salt all over her fries. How she can’t help but move her body when a good song comes on the radio. I’m not even sure she knows these things about herself. All the things that make her
Grace
.

I can see I’ve made her nervous by pointing out how she’s torturing Cam. I really believe she didn’t know what she was doing. She’s actually making my job easier. It’s a tale as old as time. The dorky kid spurned by the hot girl who leads him on for her own twisted amusement. It would be easy to make him believe it after she breaks his heart. And all I’d have to do is bide my time. Let her fall for me and then when she lets him go, he goes insane with heartbreak and kills some prostitute. End of story. I win.

The only problem is
I’m falling for her
. The thought of stabbing her in the back like that makes the bottom drop out of my stomach. If it were anyone else, I could do it. I could swallow my conscience and get the job done. But it isn’t anyone else. It’s Grace. My Grace.

In all the time I was alive, I never once felt like someone really cared about me unconditionally. There was always a selfishness on their part. An ulterior motive. I tried so hard to please. And then when that wasn’t enough, I tried to push everyone away by taking what I wanted and shutting them out. I lost everyone who might have loved me. But now, Grace…She sees me as someone worthy of love. Worthy of her. And she doesn’t see any of the bad stuff.

So I watch and wait. Biding my time. Letting her do the work for me, so I don’t have to make a choice.

Meanwhile, Cam is obsessed with the bombing. He’s fascinated by the logistics. What type of materials the terrorist used. How he could have insured more casualties by upping the amount of C4 or using better wiring.

“Did you see how confused and frightened the survivors were when they interviewed them on the news?” he asks me, freezing the DVR on the terror-stricken face of the woman I’d helped Grace save. “It doesn’t take much to flip everything upside down. Anarchy, man. Complete and utter chaos.”

“You sure it wasn’t you?” I ask, though I know the truth.

“If I’d done it, there wouldn’t have been survivors.” I don’t doubt it.

Now it’s Saturday morning, and it’s freakin’ early. It’s a good thing I don’t sleep anymore or I would have never been able to follow Grace and Cam to the orange brick building with thin stained-glass windows and a gold Star of David on the slanted roof.

The weathered sign reads
Beth Shalom
. I wonder who Beth is while I wait for them to enter the building along with a few other people in dresses and suits.

Once they’re inside, I make my way up the steps to the double doors. I notice the little lopsided rectangle on the doorframe and shake my head, wondering what it means.

Laughter and chatter pour from inside, and I make out the unmistakable sound of Grace’s voice. Still I hesitate. Should I follow them in? What if they see me?

An elderly man holds the door open as a man with a small silk cap on his head clutches his son’s hand, leading him inside. The boy and dad exchange a look full of love, and I momentarily forget why I’m here. The chatter inside the temple quiets, and the low voice of a man begins to sing. The words are foreign, but the melody is haunting.

Then I notice the old man still holding the door for me, and I smile at him as I step forward. But I cannot make it over the threshold. It’s like there’s an invisible brick wall blocking my path. The man frowns at me like I’m playing some kind of joke on him.

“Forgot something,” I mutter and run back toward the car.

Inside I am shaking. I think back to Shelby’s cross and how it burned. I understand the power of belief, and I will not doubt it again.

Fine. Let Cam and Grace have their little moment. But the thought of that sick bastard being allowed in a house of worship while I am denied entry sends a rage pulsing through my body, and I crush the steering wheel in my fists.

Luckily, the car is still drivable. I can handle a misshapen wheel. What I can’t handle is not knowing what they’re doing. What they’re saying.

I’m obsessed. I recognize this. But it doesn’t change my feelings. There’s still that small part of me that wonders if she isn’t playing me for a fool…

“I really enjoyed that.” I am laughing, giddy with the energy from today’s service.

“It was definitely…interesting,” says Cam. He’s shaking his head at me in wonder.

“What was your favorite part?” I ask, climbing into the Bug. I drive because Cam’s mom does not trust him with a car. Nor could she afford it.

“I don’t know. Most of it was in Hebrew.”

“Well, the Rabbi’s sermon wasn’t, and I liked that. How he talked about choices. That we all have—what did he call it? A
Yetzer Horah
—a little Devil on our shoulder that whispers bad thoughts—but that what really matters is our actions, how we respond to that tiny voice.”

“Some of our Devils are bigger than others,” Cam says, looking out the window. He’s watching a stray dog that has crossed the street. His finger twitches uncomfortably against his pants.

“Well that just makes us better people for ignoring them,” I say. He smiles.

“I guess my favorite part was the food afterwards. I liked those little cakes.” He pats his stomach, and I laugh.

He glances at the stray again. It’s come closer to the parking lot now. It’s a scrawny looking thing, and it limps like it’s been in a fight. One floppy ear is missing a chunk at the tip. It stops, as though drawn to my presence, and turns to look me in the face. His big brown eyes are filled with sadness, and I want to cry.

“He likes you,” Cam says. I cannot decipher the mood behind his words. Is it jealousy?

“We should rescue him,” I say on impulse. “He needs us. You could keep him at your place.”

“No. I mean, I don’t think I could take care of him. He p-p-probably has fleas. My mom would get angry.” I almost forgot about Cam’s stutter. I smile reassuringly and climb out of the car.

“Come here, little guy,” I say, squatting down and wiggling my finger at the dog. He obeys at once, trotting over as fast as he can on his three good legs. I let him sniff my hand and begin stroking his tummy and scratching behind his ears. He basks in the glory of a kind hand.

“That could be dangerous, you know.” Cam is out of the car now, and the dog trembles under my hand. “You should stand back, let me get him. He might have rabies or something.” He takes a step forward, and the dog begins to growl. It’s a low sound, but I feel it vibrate beneath my palm.

“He’s fine. I used to have a dog like him. Tommy. We can call him Tommy Two.”

“He looks pretty sick,” Cam says.

“I can fix him up. It’s not that serious,” I add, then I give Cam my own puppy dog eyes. I know it isn’t fair because of my Angelic nature. But I really think caring for a living thing will go a long way toward helping him.

“Why can’t you take him?” he tries, but I can hear his resistance cracking.

“My aunt is allergic to dogs.”

He sighs and looks away, toward the gray-clouded sky.

“Winter is almost here. The first snow is supposed to hit this weekend.” He nods. I continue. “I’ll take him, get him cleaned up and presentable, then I’ll bring him by your place. It’ll be something else for us to do together.” I feel guilty adding the last line after what Josh said last week. But it does the trick, because he’s smiling at me now. He even comes over and places a hand on my shoulder.

“Like I said before, I’ll try anything for you,” he says.

I beam back at him.

The play is this weekend, and this is our last dress rehearsal. Miss Adams is in quite a state, bustling around the stage, triple-checking everything and everyone. She nearly bites Shelby’s head off for screwing up her lines. The girl dissolves into tears and runs from the room when Miss Adams tells her to toughen up if she wants a life in show business. I find this exchange exceedingly humorous.

“Something funny, Mr. Gaynes?” she snaps. Oops.

“Sorry, Miss Adams. Opening night jitters, I guess.” I blink my big blue eyes and lower my head. She calms down and smiles back.

“Quite understandable. Better now than tomorrow night. But you have nothing to fear, Mr. Gaynes. Your Romeo is coming along beautifully. Now. Let’s move on, shall we, people?” She claps her hands to get everyone’s attention. “Let’s do the final scene until Shelby is able to collect herself.”

I’m ready this time, unafraid to kiss Grace. I’ve done it before. And this time, I’m intending it for a particular audience. I can see him sulking around in the control booth, all in black. He walks with a maddening confidence now. I gave it to him. Now I’m going to take away some of the swagger.

Part of it is for my own sense of pride. I’ve decided to trust that Grace’s affections are real. I want him to feel the hopelessness. Feel the pain. He deserves a little pain, I think. And if I’m right, Grace’s performance will clinch the deal.

I gulp the poison and stroke back her golden hair, brushing her cheek with my thumb, letting the tingle travel through us both until her mouth parts longingly. I lift her head gently in my hands and make sure the kiss can be seen from the back of the house. I can hear her heart speed up, see the scarlet tint to her cheeks as I set her head back down. I stroke her lips with tenderness when what I really want to do is have my way with her right there on the stage. I stagger to my feet and collapse. Romeo has died.

She wakes. She recites her lines and leans over my prone body, her hair tickling my face. I feel a tear, warm and wet, splash down onto my cheek.

She pulls her hair back as Miss Adams instructed to allow the audience to see and lowers her lips to mine. I part my mouth and kiss her back the best I can while still appearing dead. I can feel her tense and then relax with longing as she pulls, slow and reluctant, away from my mouth.

Her death comes moments after. A dagger to the chest. And she falls across me, where we lay together. Nice.

When the curtain swishes closed, we hear applause ring from all around. And as we rise, we can see there isn’t a dry eye among the cast and crew. Grace is flushed with humility and pleasure. I grin widely when I look to the back and hear the faint sound of a pencil snapping in two.

An hour later I am walking beside Cam toward the woods behind his place. He has a cat to play with tonight. The poor, unlucky creature is meowing from inside a black trash bag. Cam shakes it, but it refuses to stop. I ask how the play looked from the tech booth tonight.