Kiss (3 page)

A few seconds later she could hear him behind her, struggling to catch her. “Gaia — wait — please —” All the laughing had left him panting for air. Good. She purposely picked up her pace. “Please — Gaia — wait up — I'm sorry — I'm sorry, but — it's just that — if you could
see
what you — ”

She turned around. “Spit it out, Ed.” Ed placed a hand on his chest, taking a moment to catch his breath. “You have got to do the most terrible impression of being scared I have ever seen in my life.”

He cracked up again.

Gaia hoped the sudden flush in her cheeks appeared to be a reaction to the cold.

Ed, my color-blind friend, you have no idea. . . .

I
used to think you could pretty much divide people into two categories: those who believe in love at first sight and those who don't.

I was a proud member of the second category. I used to think you fell in love with your brain. . . . Um, that came out wrong. Let me rephrase. I used to think your brain was in use when you fell in love. You sort of decided it over time, like I did with Heather. I saw her, I thought, man, that girl is beautiful. I talked to her, I thought, yeah, and she's smart and funny, too. I spent some time with her and thought, hey, we actually like a lot of the same stuff. I kissed her and thought, yo, this is fun. After that, as far as my brain and I were concerned, we were in love.

Then I met Gaia Moore. Every time I've ever had anything to do with Gaia, my brain has said, shit, this girl is nothing but pain, misery, and trouble. And in this case my brain was totally right. But in spite of my brain's lack of cooperation, I've fallen in love with her. It happened the first time I ever saw her. It was like a clap of thunder, a bolt of lightning, a monsoon, all those cheesy metaphors I never believed before (although there actually was a monsoon going on at the time). There is no good reason for me to love Gaia. There are only good reasons against it. Every day I struggle to release myself from it. Every day I try to convince myself that it will go away.

So anyway, I guess you could say my brain is sticking with the second category, claiming that no, there is no such thing as love at first sight. My heart has betrayed it in favor of the first category, arguing, yes, absolutely, it's the only kind of love there is. And now my brain and my heart aren't even on speaking terms anymore. When I said “divide people,” that wasn't exactly what I had in mind.

I told my friend Danny about this theory, and he told me he also had a theory for how to divide people: those who divide people into two and those who don't.

Her arms were around him, her heartbreaking scar pressed against his chest, her lips against his ear . . .

“ . . . AND MEDEA, SO CONSUMED was she by her bitter jealousy, so desperate was she to take vengeance on her unfaithful husband, Jason, that she murdered her rival with a gift of a poisoned cloak and then went on to kill her own children. . . .”

Heather Gannis glanced up at the animated face of her literature teacher, Mr. MacGregor, who was talking much louder than necessary and brandishing a paperback edition of Euripides. Jesus, why were parents so up in arms about violence on television? The seriously grisly stuff was happening in these Greek plays.

She heard a snort of laughter from the back of the room. She turned quickly, recognizing the laugh before seeing its owner. Ed Fargo, her former true love, was laughing at something Gaia Moore had written on the corner of his notebook. The sound of it was corrosive in her ears.

Gaia could make Ed laugh. It was a rare ability and another affront to add to the long list.

Heather wasn't superstitious. Unlike the ancient Greeks, she didn't believe in fate. She wasn't religious and had little tolerance for the wu-wu astrology and Ouija board crap many of her friends were into.

But for Gaia, she made an exception. Gaia, with her fairy-tale yellow hair and her long, graceful limbs, was too terrible to accept at face value. How could one girl captivate Heather's boyfriend, enslave her ex-boyfriend, humiliate her, nearly get her killed, and completely destroy her self-confidence in less than three months? Gaia was a clear message from Somebody Up There that Heather deserved punishment.

Since Gaia had arrived in September, her evil had radiated. First there were the slashings, culminating in Heather's own near death. Then there was the stuff that happened to Sam. Then Cassie Greenman. Heather, like the rest of the school, was haunted by her murder.

All these tragedies weren't a coincidence. They just weren't.

“ . . . So for Monday, I'd like you all to read
Oedipus Rex
.” Mr. MacGregor wrapped up his lecture just as the bell rang, signaling the end of a very long day at Central Village High. “Have a great Thanksgiving holiday, folks.”

The classroom burst into cusp-of-vacation activity. Heather sighed as she jotted the assignment in her notebook. She had a feeling that play was going to be another doozy.

“Hey, chick.”

Heather glanced up as two of her friends, Carrie Longman and Melanie Young, materialized at her desk. “Hey,” she said, digging around to find a smile. “Whatsup?”

“You feel like Ozzie's?” Melanie asked.

Heather carefully piled her books and zipped them into her backpack. Her eyes landed momentarily on her empty wallet. A large mochaccino at Ozzie's cost over three bucks. Her friends thought nothing of buying two of them a day. Heather couldn't keep up, and she refused to let anybody else buy one for her. The old Gannis pride kicked in triple strength when it came to shallow displays of fortune. Or lack thereof.

Besides, she had something important to do this afternoon. Something she'd put off for too long.

Heather stood and smoothed her long, slim, blood-colored skirt. She strode out of the classroom, and her friends followed close behind. “Can't make it. Sorry,” she said breezily.

“Oh.” Carrie hovered at Heather's locker, taking a moment to regroup. “How about Dean & Deluca? They have those excellent caramel brownies. We can go to Tower Records after and get started on Christmas shopping.”

“You all go. Maybe I'll catch up later,” Heather said noncommittally. “I've got something I need to take care of this afternoon.”

Melanie and Carrie stared at her in silence, obviously hoping she would elaborate. She didn't feel like it. She slammed her locker shut. She pulled on her black nylon jacket and slung her backpack over her shoulder. “See ya. Leave your cell on, Carrie.”

Once Heather was rid of them, she slipped into the bathroom. She got weirdly obsessive about her appearance every time she was about to see Sam, although she knew her boyfriend was even more oblivious to her subtle efforts than most guys.

She studied her face and her hair. She applied a coat of lip gloss and ran a brush through her long, smooth hair. No perceivable difference. Staring at the high neck of her white T-shirt under her soft, black V-necked sweater, she suddenly had an idea. Ever since “the incident” — the slashing that had put her in the hospital late in September — she'd worn a scarf or a shirt or sweater with a high neck every time she left her apartment. Now she discarded her jacket, dropped her backpack on the floor, and pulled both the sweater and the T-shirt over her head at the same time. She pulled the two garments apart, folded the T-shirt neatly into her backpack, and put the sweater back on.

She spent another minute gazing at her reflection. Yes, that was a good idea.

SAM TIPPED BACK HIS HEAD AND rested it on the top of the park bench. He closed his eyes and soaked up the low, late autumn sun. For the end of November, the air was sweet and warm. Probably almost sixty degrees.

Wednesdays were his favorite days. His classes ended early, so he allowed himself to hang out at the chess tables. That was one of the great things about college — those one or two class days that left you lots of time to waste. He'd already hustled twenty bucks off an unwitting stranger, then given it right back to Zolov in a rout. It was a weird form of charity, but whatever. Hustle from the stupid and lose to the smart. 'Twas the season.

“Hey, handsome.”

He lifted his head and blinked open his eyes. Heather was bearing down at twenty feet, beautiful as ever in her red skirt and whispery black jacket. He heard the dry acorns cracking under the heels of her boots.

“Hi,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “How's your day?”

“Okay,” she said. “The usual high school plundering of spirits. How 'bout you?”

He laughed. Heather was so cool, so together. Never awkward or at a loss for words. “Oh, you know. Wasting some more of my youth at the chess tables.” He paused. “Looking forward to tomorrow.”

Instantly he felt annoyed at himself for having gilded the truth like that. He was looking forward to the gauntlet of the Gannis family Thanksgiving in the very plain sense of the phrase — observing that it would take place in the near future. He wasn't looking forward as in eagerly anticipating it.

“Oh, yeah?” She angled her head coyly, causing a curtain of shiny chestnut hair to fall forward over her shoulder. It reminded him of sex, which started that tingly feeling spreading through his body, which in turn made him feel guilty about what had happened the last time they had sex. And the first time they had sex.

“Looking forward to my dad's dry, stringy turkey? My mom's sickly turnip-brown sugar thing?” she challenged. “Looking forward to Phoebe eating nothing and complaining about Binghamton? Lauren talking on her cell phone straight through dinner? Hmmm.” She appraised him with one lifted eyebrow. “Are you telling me the truth?”

Sam laughed again, wishing his heart would listen to reason once in a while. “Well.
You'll
be there.”

Heather awarded him a little smile. She pointed to the spot on the bench next to him. “Is this seat taken? Do you mind if I sit?” Her tone was light, but he regis-tered that her eyes were serious.

He scooted over fast, feeling ungentlemanly. “Of course. Definitely. Sit.”

She sat and dropped her backpack on the other side of her. She wasn't so close that any part of her was touching him, but neither was she so far that he couldn't feel her warmth. “Listen. There's something I need to talk to you about.” She turned to face him, nailing him with her odd-colored eyes.They weren't blue, but they weren't not blue, either.

“Sure, of course.” He was getting nervous now. He was saying “of course” too much. “Talk away.”

“It's kind of serious. Just to give you fair warning. It's something we've been needing to talk about for a while now.”

“Of c —” He clamped his mouth shut. He felt like strangling himself. “Okay. I'm warned.”

Heather took a deep breath. “I know that you have some kind of . . .
relationship
with Gaia Moore.”

Sam could tell it was painful to her to say the name, and he felt awful.

“I know that you know her somehow, and I need you to tell me what's going on between you.”

Sam swallowed. Jesus, Heather had a knack for getting right to the point. He hoped his face didn't betray his dire discomfort. He needed to choose his words carefully. He cleared his throat. “There's nothing going on.”

Liar. You think about her every hour of every day.

“I barely know her. I've hardly ever spoken with her. There's never been anything . . . romantic between us.”

But you wish there were. You dream about her at night.

Sam glanced up, reminding himself that he was having a conversation with Heather and not with himself.

“So what
is
there between you?” Heather pressed. “Why was she there the night we . . .” She trailed off and then started again. “How did she know you'd been kidnapped? Why did you need to leave in such a hurry the last time we were together in your room?”

All the saliva in Sam's mouth had dried up, and from what he could tell, it was never coming back. He tried swallowing again. “Honestly, Heather, I don't know. The last couple of months have been so strange. I really don't know anything about her.” That last bit, finally, was a sincere answer.

“Have you ever . . .
been
with her?” Heather stopped and tried again. Here was a girl who accepted no cowardice, particularly not in herself. “Have you kissed her? Hooked up with her? Had sex with her?”

“No,” Sam answered firmly.
But God, how I've wanted to.

Heather looked relieved but no less serious. “Okay, here's the really important thing I need to say to you.” She pulled one sleeve of her sweater up over the palm of her hand. “I don't like Gaia Moore. I hate her. I think she's dangerous, and I wish she'd stay away from you.” Heather caught her breath for a second before she rushed on. She was nervous, but admirably determined. “I need you to tell me now that whatever there is between you is over. That you won't have anything to do with her anymore.” She fixed him with her eyes again. “Because if you can't, it's got to be over between you and me. You have to choose.”

Whoa. Sam looked down at his jeans, pressing his hands into his thighs, raising his shoulders up around his ears. This was hard-core. This was much more than he'd ever expected. He had to think.

Heather was not only offering him a choice; she was offering him a way out. He could be free of the guilt and the craziness. He could be free to figure out what the hell
was
going on between him and Gaia.

“So is it over?” Heather asked, her voice quiet and wobbly.

Sam turned to her. The answer he'd been contemplating withered in his throat. Her eyes were round and glazed with tears. Her jacket had fallen open, and the low V neck of her sweater revealed a long, jagged rent in the delicate white skin along her collarbone. The cut through which she'd lost so much blood and nearly her life. It was still angry red in color. Still unhealed.

His mind flashed back to that night. Finding Heather in the park, lying in a puddle of her own blood. The strange, dissonant whirlpool of hospital sounds and smells and colors, then the unsettling piece of information that a girl from Heather's class, a girl named Gaia Moore, had seen the gang member with the knife in the park and she'd passed up an easy opportunity to warn Heather.

Sam's gaze was riveted on the wound. He couldn't seem to look away. All the while Heather kept her head up, seemingly unaware of what he was seeing and feeling.

“Sam?”

He dragged his eyes back up to her face. He was miserable. He was filled with shame. He was torn in two. “Heather, it's not only over. It never began.”

Her arms were around him, her heartbreaking scar pressed against his chest, her lips against his ear by the time he realized that he hadn't said which girl he was talking about.