Damselfly (14 page)

“I don’t think I know anyone who does that, to be honest.”

“Dad would say a prayer before dinner. Your dad never did that?”

“Nope. The Lakota don’t really do that.”

“Do you think God answers prayer?”

“Sometimes. Do you?” He rolled toward me and propped himself up on his elbow.

“I’m not sure.” I frowned at the ceiling. “This might sound really stupid, but…” I had to take a moment to re-gather my courage.

“I won’t think it’s stupid,” Jack said.

“Okay. Well, sometimes when I try to pray, I think I sense something. But I’m not sure. Maybe it’s my imagination.”

“Do you really think it’s your imagination?”

I thought about it. “No.”

“Then I believe you.” His smile warmed me all the way down to the tips of my toes, and that was real enough. “I was really worried about you after our last date. I was so sure it was my fault that you had an asthma attack. In fact, I still think it’s my fault. I was positive you were about to cry.”

“I did cry.” The words left my mouth before I had a chance to think about what I was saying. “I can’t believe I just admitted that.”

“Why wouldn’t you want to tell me?”

“Because. It’s a silly thing to cry over. I get asthma attacks all the time.” I fiddled with the hem of my shirt.

“Was something else bothering you?” There was that look again. The compassionate, whole-person-seeing look.

I wanted to tell him everything, but I struggled through the words and thoughts in my head. “I’m just… I’m not used to anyone caring how I feel about what happens to me. I’m used to taking whatever gets thrown at me and making the best of it. And I’m good at that. Really good at it. I don’t know what to say when you ask me if I’m okay. I know I’ll be okay because that’s who I am. But it’s like, with you, I don’t have to make the best of something bad because you really care about keeping the bad from ever happening in the first place. And I like it that you do that. I wish the rest of my life was like that, too.” The corners of my mouth began to pucker inward as I tried not to cry again. What was with all the crying?

“I’m sorry,” he said. “No one cares how I feel about things either. My mom drinks herself to sleep every day. She never asked me if I wanted to parent my sister and brother and take care of them. So I sort of get how you feel.”

I nodded. “I wish I could pray myself into this world.” The words taste like relief on my tongue.

He leaned in closer until I could distinctly see the very edges of his lips, the curve of his cheekbones and jaw, and every single one of his eyelashes.

“Do you know what I would do if this was real?” His voice was low, almost a whisper.

I lick my lips. “What?”

“I would kiss you.”

My entire face immediately went hot, not to mention every other part of my body. I parted my lips and tried to breathe normally as every inch of me craved his touch.

“I’d start with the tip of your nose, then your cheeks, then your lips.”

I was sure I would never breathe again.

“I think my cheeks are on fire,” I squeaked when I couldn’t look into his eyes any longer without exploding.

He laughed and laid back down with a satisfied expression. “Too bad I can’t see them. Your avatar doesn’t show when you blush.”

“Well, that’s one answer to prayer.”

Chapter 18

Today, standing inside a miniature replica of the Sistine Chapel with Row waiting for me, I whisper another prayer. This time, I ask for the ability to smile for the cameras. I pray Jack is not watching. I pray he realizes this was not my idea.

I’m wearing a white miniskirt with a light blue tank top. I tried to convince the stylist that a miniskirt is impractical for flying, but she handed me a pair of short bloomers to wear underneath. I tug at the elastic that’s digging into my skin and then give my thigh a discreet scratch. A half-dozen camera shutters click, and I turn and scowl at them.

“Can’t a girl get a modicum of privacy around here?” I snap at the show runner.

“Sorry, Lina. Everything on set is fair game.”

“Seriously?”

He shrugs and resumes barking orders at some hapless assistants standing by the lights.

I kick a pew hard enough to let off some steam without hurting myself.

“Watch it there. You’re going to shake down the whole place.” Row’s voice trails over from the front section. I search for his blond head, but see nothing. Then he sits up and waves.

I fly up over the pews and sit down next to him. One of the grips flips on a light behind us, and hard sunlight bleaches out the nape of Row’s neck and his hair, accentuating the shape of his jaw and cheekbones. He gives me his winning smile, and it occurs to me that every unattached teenage girl in the world who watches the show is going to wish she was six inches tall.

“So,” he says. “What do you think of our Sistine Chapel?”

“I think ‘Styrofoam Chapel’ is a better name for it. I bet I could poke a hole in that wall with my little toe.”

“Do it!”

I grin. “Nah.”

“No, seriously. Do it! I want to see. I’ll even make a matching toe hole.”

I swivel around to see if anyone is watching us too closely. Most of the crew are wrestling with the lights.

“Okay,” I say. “Shoes off.”

We wiggle the footwear from our feet and then walk to the wall, pretending to have a deep conversation about art.

“So do you have any idea what sort of paint this is?” Row asks with a very serious expression.

“Dear sir, I do believe this is Melted Crayon Paint. Of the highest quality. Circa 2081.”

“Oh, really? I was under the impression it was ochre made from the wings of dead ladybugs.”

“That’s really gross, Row.”

“Sorry.” He looks down. “Any success yet?”

I take one final glance backward at the crew, then hold my leg up, pinky toe extended, and ram it into the wall as hard as I can.

“Mother—!” I clamp my mouth shut and sink down onto the pew, holding my foot with both hands. In the wall is a perfect impression of my foot as deep as the wooden frame I didn’t know was there.

Row drops down onto the pew next to me. “Are you okay?”

I grit my teeth together. I can’t answer him yet because I’m too busy suppressing a scream of pain.

“Well, I can’t let you out-do me,” Row says. He stands and gets into position to karate kick the wall.

“What the heck are you doing?!”

“Giving myself a matching broken toe.” He makes his own mark in the wall right next to mine, hops up and down for a few seconds, and then collapses next to me.

“That was so stupid,” I say before giving in to laughter. My pinky toe resembles a swollen grape. Row holds up his own foot to compare.

“Mine is juicier,” he says.

“It is not. Besides, I was first. You’re only a copycat.”

“I can’t allow my date to get hurt without sharing in her pain.”

I press my lips together as my smile drains away at his words. For a few beautiful minutes, I totally forgot why we are here.

“Hey,” he says, concern in his eyes. “This can be fun, Lina. I know it’s awkward, but we can enjoy ourselves. You can just be you.”

“Yeah, well, ‘just me’ is crabby at the thought of being on this show,” I say.

“That’s fine. I totally get it. If you want to take out your frustration on the rest of your toes, I promise to write an individual message on each little toe cast.”

“Touché.”

“I’m serious. We’ve got lots of Styrofoam to kick in here.”

I extend my leg and study my throbbing toe. It’s a victory, albeit a small one. It’s enough for today.

“Too bad we didn’t kick Adam’s finger or something,” I mutter.

“There’s still time.”

But there isn’t. The motion behind us has slowed, and the lights are now staying in one place.

“Almost ready!” the show runner shouts. The principal photographer presses to the front of the crew and drops down so his eyes are level with ours.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s start with some photos! Hey, how did those holes get there?”

We both play dumb.

“Hey, Richie, can you hand me one of those extra pews?” The photographer gingerly places the pew in front of the holes. “There, all fixed! Can’t see a thing now. Okay, if the two of you could walk or fly up to the altar area, I want to take a couple of quick photos.”

Small victory indeed.

We pose for several pictures, including a particularly distasteful “proposal” photo. I doubt they’ll use that one, though, because I was glaring the entire time. Pretty sure they can’t spin my frown into something “romantic.”

When we’re finally done, the photographer gives us our next instructions. “All right, Lina, you come over here by the entrance. Row, stay up there. We’re now going to film the ‘beginning’ of the date. Look excited to see each other, maybe fly a little bit. Just don’t knock over any of the pews. The set designer forgot to glue them down.”

I roll my eyes toward Row, and he grins down at me.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s give them a show. When’s the last time you watched
Casablanca
or something else that’s old and classic?”

“Can’t remember. I’ve tried to block out the memory.”

He makes a face. “Well, how about we channel our inner Hollywood?”

That’s the last thing I feel like doing, but it means I’ll get the chance to make fun of this stupid show while doing exactly as I’ve been asked.

“All right. I’ll run through fields of golden flowers for you. But only for today.”

“Inner ham activate!”

“Just steer clear of the toe please.”

I fly back to the door and settle onto my throbbing foot with a wince. Row does some shadow boxing up front, shakes out his arms and stretches.

“Places please! Quiet on the set!”

I take my mark, sprinter-style. I’m pretty sure I’m giving the entire crew a full view of my bloomers.

“Action!”

Row looks at me with dramatic surprise. “Lina?” he gasps.

“Oh! Row!” I fling my arms out to the sides, almost dislocating my shoulder. I toss my hair for good measure. “Row!”

I take two exaggerated leaps through the air, keeping myself aloft with my wings for a second too long each time, then flutter toward the altar with my hands over my heart.

Row throws his arms open wide before wrapping them around my waist and spinning me in circles until I’m dizzy and begging him to stop.

He sets me down with tremendous care and holds me until the world stops whirling. He’s a little too warm and far too close. I stay there as long as I must, then wriggle free, overwhelmed with guilt I’m not quite comfortable owning. I didn’t do anything wrong, did I?

“Excellent!” The photographer’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “Now, arms around her waist. Look happy to see each other. Talk a little bit.”

“Are you all right?” Row studies my face as he slides his hands around my middle. I resist the urge to slap them away.

“I’m fine.” It comes out more snippish than I intend. I frown and back away as far as I can without being too obvious. I don’t understand why there is so much electricity there between us. I don’t have feelings for Row…do I?

“Did I step on your toe?”

“No.” It takes all the gumption I have to force a smile onto my face. “Everything’s fine.”

I can tell he doesn’t believe me, but he lets it go.

“So I guess we’re supposed to talk now,” he says. “How’s your toe?”

“Hurts like the dickens,” I reply with an unnatural smile. Time to fool them into thinking we’re having a blast. “Yours?”

“I need someone to pour a little salt and lemon juice on it to complete the pain cocktail I’ve got going on.”

I raise my eyebrow. “Very witty of you, sir.”

“That’s me. So what do they have you doing when you’re not shooting the show with us?”

“I get locked up in a little room. You?”

“Something like that. We’re actually sleeping in the dining hall where they had your birthday party.”

“Do they lock you guys in there, too?”

He nods. If I hadn’t tried to escape, security would be a bit looser for all of us. I try to feel sorry, but I’m not. The whole thing only fuels my anger toward Dr. Christiansen.

“Enabling microphones now!” the director shouts. Row takes a deep breath. Now the real acting begins. We’re supposed to pretend we’re having our first real conversation. I’m mentally exhausted already.

“So,” Row says. “It’s a pleasure to meet you! You can call me Row!” He’s speaking in exclamation points again, but I can hear the strain in his voice. He lifts my hand to kiss it, and I stiffen.

I clear my throat. “Likewise. I’m Lina.” And now I have no idea what to say. I lick my lips, willing my brain to get into gear and start churning out inspired witticisms.

“It’s a beautiful day! How are you doing? Are you ready to check out the chapel?”

I pray a silent thanks Row couched his questions in such a way that I don’t have to lie about how I’m doing. “Sure, let’s investigate.”

“I hear you’re a fan of Michelangelo and his paintings,” Row prompts me. “You must really love art.”

I nod. This is something I can talk about. “Yes, I do. I’m not much of a painter though.” I think about the elaborate line drawings Jack would show me from his portfolio, and my heart aches.

“Me either,” Row continues on. “I can’t draw for the life of me, but I still love beautiful things.” He looks at me a bit too pointedly, but I can’t find anything in his eyes other than perfect sincerity. It puts me into a fluster, and I wonder if he’s still hamming it up for the camera on purpose. If so, I really wish he would stop.

“Well then,” I say, “you’re in the perfect place. This chapel is full of beautiful
paintings
.” I drop a little too much emphasis on that last word, and Row visibly straightens but then smiles.