Spellbound (15 page)

Of course, I was running late on Saturday. I raced through my homework on Friday night, getting it done so I wouldn't have to deal with it for the rest of the weekend—and I even spent a little extra time on Latin, my subjectus terriblus. But mostly, I was trying to distract myself from obsessing over my impending time alone with Brendan.

I vacillated between going through with the date—I mean, meeting—and chickening out, but ultimately decided that canceling would be rude. After all, I reasoned, even though he had the same medallion in his locker, that didn't mean that he was my destined true love. And all we were going to do was talk, right?

Still, once I'd finally decided to go through with it, I'd had all day to get ready. At the last minute, I changed from a pair of cords into jeans. I paired a lightweight black sweater first with a pair of boots, then with my gray Vans sneakers, then the boots again, and finally, going with the Vans. My indecision had cost me: I had to run to make it there on time, and the unseasonably balmy temperatures told me my eyeliner would pay the price.

As each foot hit the pavement, my internal monologue spoke out matching rhythmic lyrics.

Oh. My. God. This. Is. Real.

I slowed my jog at Seventy-ninth Street and pulled out my cell phone to check the time, realizing that I was already eighteen minutes late. I spied Brendan, lounging against the stone entrance to the park. Seriously, did he ever stand upright?

He was holding a plastic bag filled with what looked like takeout.

“Hey,” I said, a little breathless.

“I was starting to think you weren't going to come,” he said dryly, his smile not quite matching his tone.

“Sorry about that. I have a problem with being on time,” I said sheepishly, running my fingers through my hair—and feeling my face turn red when my hand got caught in a knot that had formed during the run over.

“You don't like to be on time?” Brendan asked, bewildered.

“No, no, it's not like that. I'd like to be on time. In fact, I'd love it,” I said, fidgeting a little as I tried to explain my rudeness. “I just can't seem to make it happen. I'm always misjudging how long it takes to get somewhere. I think everything takes five minutes and it always takes so much longer.”

He smiled, looking amused by my mini-rant, and pushed himself off the stone wall.

“Okay, let's go,” he said.

“Where are we going?”

“Into the park. There's someplace I think you'd like.”

I looked around confused, which Brendan interpreted as a sign of concern.

“Central Park is totally safe. You're with me. Didn't you see me with Anthony?” he bragged, puffing his chest out a bit as we started walking into the park. “I'm no joke.”

“That's one way of putting it,” I muttered. We walked wordlessly along the leaf-covered pathways until a tall, looming structure appeared, perched high on a bed of rocks.

“That's one of my favorite places to go. Belvedere Castle,” Brendan said, leaning into me and pointing. I looked up at the stone structure, rising out of the rocks proudly as the sun started to set behind it.

“It's where we're going for dinner,” he said, holding up the takeout bag.

We hiked up the pathway to the castle, finding ourselves in an open-air stone plaza at the summit of the rocks. Belvedere Castle sat on the second highest point in Central Park, overlooking a theater immediately below and to the left. After giving me a moment to admire the view, Brendan ushered me down a series of steps into a small, fenced-in area of smooth rock. Several yards beyond the fence, the rock jutted out into a jagged cliff, which overlooked a shimmering pond.

“That's an observatory.” Brendan gestured to a building to our right.

“And that's where they do Shakespeare in the Park,” he pointed out, following my gaze to the theater. “I thought you'd like this, based on…English class. You seemed into Shakespeare. You know, when you read the, um, poem. I mean, sonnet,” Brendan stammered, and I was surprised that, for the first time, he didn't seem so sure of himself. He composed himself, dropping the bag of takeout on the other side of the fence, only to hop over the wall in one flawless, athletic move.

“I don't think you're supposed to do that.” I looked around nervously. “I mean, that's why the fence is there.”

“There's no security here until much later. Come on, the view's better over here,” Brendan wheedled, motioning for me to join him. I tried to brace myself between where the stone
wall framing the steps ended and the fence began, swinging my leg over the wall very
un
gracefully and missing.

“May I?” Brendan chuckled, ducking his head under my arm and lifting me over with ease. He held me in his arms longer than necessary before setting me gently on the rocks—and I tried not to notice how strong his hands felt. I silently congratulated myself for opting to wear my trusty Vans, which gripped the uneven surface as I made my way to the cliff's edge. If I had worn my boots, I'd go sliding off these rocks as easily as if I were wearing Rollerblades. I peered off the rocks uneasily at the drop to the Turtle Pond below.

“So I guess the only way out of here is over the fence again?”

“Nah, you can go around the castle,” Brendan said, lounging on the cliff as he gestured to a narrow strip of rocks that jutted out around the observatory. I eyed the treacherous-looking strip of rock as I sat down cross-legged next to him. For a moment, we wordlessly overlooked the pond, shimmering with the lights of the New York skyline and the colors of the fading sun.

“This is really beautiful,” I said, breaking the silence. “I didn't know this was here. I go running in the park all the time. I guess I never looked up.” I looked around me in amazement. Brendan reached into the bag and pulled out a small wax-paper sack. “Egg roll?” he asked, holding it out to me.

“Thanks,” I said, grabbing the crispy roll and taking a bite. I chewed it slowly, waiting to see if he'd start the conversation.

“I'm glad it's not cold out tonight,” Brendan said, shrugging out of his hoodie, this time a black Bouncing Souls one, revealing a long-sleeved green T-shirt that almost exactly matched his eyes.

“I was afraid the rocks would be wet. Good thing it's so nice
out,” he continued, leaning back on his elbows as he continued to be a human thermometer. I rolled my eyes at him.

“What?” He gave me a surprised look. “It's
not
cold! Winter break is little more than a month away. You'd think it would be freezing out.”

“So, this is what you wanted to talk about, without an audience?” I asked Brendan more than a little sarcastically. “The weather?”

He laughed, and stretched his long legs in front of him.

“Okay, Emma, then how about we talk about how you're not The Rock?” he said, flashing that irresistible smile at me. “Really, what were you thinking? You've seen Anthony's temper before. I was there, remember? He had you practically running out of the park.”

I raised my hands, palms out. “I— You don't understand. I was so mad.” I dropped my hands into my lap. “I wasn't thinking.”

“No, no, you weren't, you're right about that,” Brendan agreed. “But it was pretty admirable how you stood up for your little cousin.”

He paused for a moment, then looked at me with a slight smile. “Did you really call Anthony ‘Mother Goose'?”

“I don't know. Maybe. It's all a blur, really,” I answered honestly. “But I think I may have said that.”

“You're adorable.” He chuckled, rolling onto his back and staring up at the darkening sky, crossing his arms behind his head. “Even though you went after that big goon when you're only an inch taller than your cousin.”

“I'm five-five,” I said defensively, still reeling over the fact that he'd just called me “adorable.”

“Yeah, maybe when you're standing on Ashley's shoulders,” he said, smirking.

“Ha ha, very funny,” I snorted, giving him a withering look. Tall people always have such egos about their height.

“But seriously, Emma.” Brendan rolled over onto his side again, propping himself up on his right arm. “What the hell were you thinking? If I had gotten there a minute later…” His green eyes narrowed.

I opened my mouth to say something, then I shut it. “I don't know,” I said softly. “It was my fault. I tried to stop her from even going out with him, but she didn't listen. I had to do something to make it right. I should have done something from the start.”

“Emma, are you seriously blaming yourself?” he asked, pulling himself into an upright position. “You're kidding me, right?”

I shook my head. Brendan sighed and faced me, mirroring me by crossing his legs as I had. He grabbed my hands from where they were twisting together in my lap. “The only one to blame is Anthony.”

“But I should have—”

“You should have
nothing
. You did nothing wrong,” he assured, continuing to hold my hands, squeezing them gently. “You took down one of the biggest bullies I've ever known.”

“Well, it was worth it, for her. She's the sweetest, and, well, she's young for her age. I don't mean that she's immature,” I clarified. “Because she's not. Ash's really smart and mature about so much, but she's also just so damn
innocent
. She thinks people are good.” I laughed a hollow laugh.

“And you don't?”

“I don't think people are either way. I think we have both in us, and you choose one way or another. I've known good people, and I've known—” I stopped short. “Let's just say I've known the opposite.”

Brendan seemed to contemplate that for a minute. With a final squeeze to my hands, he looked down at the smooth rock between us and began tracing a crack with his finger.

“You know, Emma, I didn't see him shove you,” he said quietly, “if I had seen him lay a hand on you, he wouldn't be breathing right now.” Brendan lifted his eyes to meet mine, and the intensity in them made my breath catch. “I heard about it later that day. He's still going to answer to me for it.”

“Don't go to any— I mean, why? I mean, thank you, but…I don't think…” I stuttered. Not sure of what to say, I looked back at the rock he seemed to find so interesting, tracing the same crack. Brendan took a deep breath and sat upright, rifling in the white plastic bag for the rest of the food. He laid it out—vegetable egg foo young, General Tso's chicken—and handed me a fork and an iced tea.

“Dig in,” Brendan said.

“Thanks, I love iced tea. Not much of a soda drinker.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said slyly.

“How?” I asked, a little confused.

“You asked me to get you one—that night we went to see Gabe's band?”

“Brendan, about that night.” I shook the iced tea bottle and smacked the bottom of the glass, distracting myself with the popping sound the lid made as I tried to work up my nerve. “The way you are now, is the way you were when we were at the Met and at the bar. But at school…”

“Yes?”

“You ignored me.” I sounded more like a pouting little girl than I'd have liked.

“I know,” Brendan admitted, his eyes downcast. “Look, I'm not proud of how I acted, honestly. I'd rather not get into it right now.”

“It's just that…” I tried to compose my thoughts. One night
of hanging out two weeks ago and I felt like I had some claim on him? So what if I thought we had some kind of magical, supernatural bond? There was no way to explain myself without sounding like I was a sure bet for the gold medal at the Stalker Olympics. “It was unexpected.”

Brendan nodded. “I get it. Look, Emma, I don't really like a lot of the girls at school—even just as friends.”

“Well, we have that in common.” I grinned a toothy grin and he smiled back before his face got serious again.

“I wasn't expecting
you
.” His words just hung there, but he kept those green eyes on me.

I don't know if “uncomfortable silence” is the phrase I'd use for the wordless thirty seconds that passed, but then Brendan broke our unspoken moment.

“I
did
wait for you outside of school,” Brendan softly reminded me. I nodded, smiling a little bit at the memory of how my stomach fluttered the two times I saw him lounging against the mailbox, clearly looking for me. The U.S. Postal Service should hire him for an ad campaign. If he were at the mailbox every time you sent a letter, no one would use email ever again.

“Did you mind?” he asked, cocking his head to the side. “I mean…I didn't mind waiting for you.” I hoped I was reading the double meaning correctly.

“I didn't mind. I liked seeing you.” Brendan started smiling his rakish grin back at me—then suddenly stopped.

“Then why won't you tell me?” he demanded.

“Tell you what?” I knew I sounded exasperated, but what was it that he wanted to know so badly?

“Why won't you tell me the truth? What's your real story?” I couldn't believe it, but Brendan actually sounded hurt. “You're not from Philadelphia. You're lying about
everything
. Whatever it is, you can tell me.” So the real story of my shattered home
life is what he wanted me to tell him, on that first day when he met me outside of school. I felt myself getting defensive.

“This is the most you've talked to me in two weeks, do you realize that? I don't even know where
you're
from. Where
you
live. Who
your
parents are,” I spit out, my ripped-open wounds evident in my tone, much to my dismay. “At least
I'm
consistent with you. You treat me differently from one day to the next. You talk to me when no one's looking, like you're embarrassed to be associated with me or something. Maybe on Monday you'll go back to treating me like the social leper the rest of the snobs at that school seem to think I am.” He cringed at that.