Farsighted (Farsighted Series) (15 page)

***

The next morning, I wake up to the smell of sausages frying in the griddle. I pull an oversized Grandon High sweatshirt over my head and pad down the hallway.

“Morning,” Mom says. Her flowery disposition is gone, replaced by an icy coldness I’ve never felt from her before. A domestic zombie is making my breakfast.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, forcing a smile. “How did you sleep?”

“Oh, just great,” Mom says, scraping the browned pork links from the frying pan with a spatula and placing them on a plate lined with paper towels. “Perfect. Best sleep I ever had, as a matter of fact.”

“Well, that’s good,” I say. I’m not used to being on the receiving end of my mother’s sarcasm. I didn’t even know she could be sarcastic until now. “Anything I can help with?”

“Pour the orange juice in the cups and take them to the table,” she says dismissively.

Without saying anything more, I move toward the fridge to take out the orange juice, which is always to the left, on the second shelf. I set the carton on the nearest bit of counter space and—
sploosh
—sticky, sweet juice gushes out all over the linoleum floor. A crinkly plastic container falls down after it—something that wasn’t there when we went to bed last night. Unable to react, I stand still from the shock.

“What the hell, Alex? I’m already late for work as it is. Now I’m going to waste time cleaning up this mess! I really wish you’d be more careful sometimes.” Mom swoops over to where I’m standing and squats down to pick up the toppled carton.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up.”

She continues to hover over the mess as I stand immobilized.

“Mom,” I shout, “I’ll get it. Stop!”

“Well, then get it already.” She throws the soiled dish rag at my knees and returns to the stove. A moment later she is back by my side, clutching my head to her shoulder and cooing, “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…it’s not your fault that…I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Mom. I understand.” And I do.

I convince her to take work off today. It won’t do much harm to keep the shop closed. It’s a Wednesday in October, not exactly the rush season. She drives me to school, making a pit stop at Sweet Blossoms to put up a note. She says each word aloud as she writes in magic marker: 
Shop closed. Will be open tomorrow morning at seven o’clock. Sorry for any inconvenience.
Susan K.

“Since your father’s not around, I guess I’ll be the one driving you to school now. You’ll need to wake up a bit earlier, so I can drop you off before opening,” Mom explains as we pull out of the strip mall parking lot and make our way toward school.

I don’t say anything. I don’t want to be half an hour early to school every day, but I guess the only other option would be to take the bus. No, thank you. I wish I could drive myself; things would be so much easier for everyone. Today, however, my normal teenage grievances are the least of my problems.

School is awful. I’m too upset to focus, but I can’t attempt to fade into the background either, because doing so would remind me of Miss Teak, which would remind me of Dad, which would make me mad all over again. In English class, the teacher calls on me to read aloud from
The Odyssey
. I take a deep breath, and after a gentle reminder from the teacher as to which page the last reader left off on, I begin.

“‘A sweet smooth journey home, renowned Odysseus, this is what you seek, but a god will make it hard for you—I know—you will never escape the one who shakes the earth, quaking with anger at you still, still enraged because you blinded—’” I stop reading abruptly.

 “Mr. Kosmitoras,” the teacher urges—this time almost pronouncing my name correctly; reading Homer must’ve encouraged her to brush up on the ol’ Greek diction. “Please continue with the next line.”

“I…I can’t,” I say without offering an explanation. Dangerous journeys seem to be a Greek thing. Is it too late to get a do-over in the “proud heritage” department?

“You can’t?” the teacher asks with a high-pitched voice. She seems to be taken aback at having a student refuse her orders.

I gulp and shake my head.

“Then perhaps you’d like to provide a summary of what we’ve experienced in the underworld with Odysseus thus far.”

I stall, “Um…he went to talk to a guy who was supposed to—”

“What
guy
did Odysseus go to speak to?”

“Uh, Ty…uh…Tyrus?”

“Tiresias,” she corrects. “And why did Odysseus want to speak to Tiresias so badly that he was willing to travel to the underworld?”

“Um, because.” I run my fingers over the pages of my book, desperately seeking an answer. “Because he wanted to find out if his mother was okay,” I venture.

“Not quite right. But even so, if Odysseus wanted to inquire about his mother, then why did he speak to Tiresias?”

“Because Tiresias was really smart?”

The other kids snigger at my feeble explanation.

“No, Mr. Kosmitoras. Because he was a prophet.”

“Because he was a prophet,” I parrot.

“Yes, and what was particularly notable about this prophet?”

My heart sinks. I know the answer to this one. “Because he was blind,” I say resignedly.

The other kids in the class laugh. At last the teacher seems to realize she’s gone too far in embarrassing me and calls on another student to continue the reading.

You will never escape the one who shakes the earth
—these words continue to echo through my head. My stomach overflows with a dread I can’t quite place. Between classes I rush to the bathroom and throw up, but only the partially digested remnants of my breakfast make their way out. The dread remains.
You will never escape
.

I will never escape.

***

I waste half of lunch period standing in the hot food line. Mom forgot to pack a lunch for me today, so I haven’t got a choice. Finally, I get my steaming serving of chicken and cheese and make my way through the cafeteria, focusing as much attention as I can on keeping my tray balanced while navigating the obstacles of the cafeteria with my cane. At least one thing goes right today; I make it to our table without any mishaps.

Simmi greets me. I nod and stick a forkful of mashed potatoes into my mouth.

“I heard about what happened with your dad. That really sucks,” Shapri says.

I push my potatoes around in my mouth and swallow as Shapri continues to chatter on about how difficult it is when your parents are fighting.

“What is
she
doing here?” I ask Simmi.

“Alex—” Simmi starts.

“Excuse me?” Shapri interjects. “If you’ve got something to say to me, you better say it directly. I told you already, I won’t be disrespected.”

“And you won’t tell me how you deserve to be treated,” I bark back.

“Oh, no, oh, no, you—” Shapri’s voice is zooming fast. Add in the constant change in direction as she moves her head from side-to-side, taking her voice along with it, and I can barely understand what she’s saying—not that I mind. I don’t care if she’s upset. I’m not playing nice with her today. I’m going to say exactly what’s on my mind.

“Oh, yes, I did. You and your mom come into this town, pretending to be nice, pretending to want to help me. But all along your whore of a mom is working on breaking apart my parents’ marriage.”

Simmi gasps.

Shapri shoots to her feet, towering above as I remain seated. “Nobody talks about my mother like that. If my father were here, he’d—”

“He’d what, Shapri? You psycho! Your father is dead. Everybody knows it but you. God, get with reality already.”

Silence. I’m not sticking around to find out what’s on the other end. I grab my cane and get up. “C’mon, Simmi. Let’s go.”

The silence continues. I nudge Simmi with my arm. “C’mon.”

Simmi scoots to the other side of the bench without saying a word. Why isn’t she coming? She was my friend first. This is too much to take.

Whatever, I don’t need her anyway. I was alone before she arrived—nothing new.

“Fine, don’t come,” I yell, and swipe my arm across the table. My lunch tray flies over the edge, hitting Shapri in the waist. “Enjoy the chicken and cheese.” I storm off and spend the remainder of lunch in the bathroom stall. My whole world has fallen apart within less than twenty-four hours.

***

Chemistry is not easy today. Shapri and Simmi refuse to so much as look at me, and we only talk when absolutely necessary for performing a lab task. I contemplate asking Dr. Brown to add me to a new group, but realize he’d probably never do anything to make a student’s life any easier—at least not voluntarily.

I turn the dial of the Bunsen burner all the way to the left. It clicks to life, emitting the odor of charred sulfur. Simmi places the beaker on the open flame, subduing the chemical smell. I think about the fire, imagine the flames lapping at the glass. I’ve always imagined fire and water look almost the same. Since I know fire is orange in color, my brain adds a hint of citrus to the aroma. How many other sensory experiences are faked?

Simmi? She abandoned me when I needed her today. Maybe she isn’t the person I thought she was. If I was her “brother,” she definitely should’ve taken my side. Now I have no idea what I am to her. Not that it matters anymore. The smell of her coconut hair stands out against the aromatic orange-chemical fire, but today it sickens rather than comforts me. Luckily, my stomach is empty except for a single bite of mashed potatoes.

Shapri whispers something to Simmi that I’m unable to discern. Simmi though responds at full volume, “Of course I love you.”

What? Is she communicating with me telepathically? Telepathy seems a perfectly reasonable occurrence given our other gifts. I focus on forming the words in my own mind to send them back to Simmi’s.
I love you, too
.

“Good. I always knew you did,” a male voice intrudes. What’s going on?

“Yes, I always did, and I always will, until the end of time,” Simmi purrs, and leans in for a kiss. Her soft breath and enticing fragrance come at me full force. Her lips make contact with a wet chirruping sound, but it’s not the present or the future me she’s kissing. Darn, I’m having a vision again. Someone’s going to steal Simmi from me, but who?

Simmi and the imposter continue to kiss. Their breathing grows heavier until at last she pulls away for air and giggles. “Oh, Dax. I’m so happy.”

Dax? No, Simmi can’t love Dax! He’s evil. He’s going to kill her. Doesn’t she see what he is? I slam both my palms on the work table, startling the girls and evoking judgmental whispers from a few of our classmates. Shocker of shockers, Dr. Brown actually lets it go. Maybe I should’ve put in for a request for a new group while I had the chance.

The bell rings, and I fume out of class without waiting for Simmi to walk to next period together. If she’s going to give her love to such an undeserving creep, then there’s nothing I can do to save her.

Chapter 11

The traveler has reached an insurmountable roadblock. If he chooses not to seek help, his journey will end abruptly, and he may become trapped within the ice. This period of apparent inertia will be the catalyst for future events.

Two weeks go by like this. I refuse to speak to Simmi and Shapri any more than necessary to get through labs, avoid Miss Teak’s shop, and try my best to deal with the wreck my mother has become. Mom tries her best to put on a cheery face, but the pain is apparent in everything she does. She’s not even calling me sapling or oak tree anymore—never thought I’d miss those stupid nicknames. With Dad gone, Mom’s begun to help me with my homework, but she’s distracted and makes mistakes. Between that and my newfound lack of enthusiasm for chem, my grades are beginning to slip from an
A
average to something more in the high
B
range.

Dad was more important to my life than I realized. As much as I hate him for destroying everything, I can’t help but miss him. What is he doing? Where did he go? He must be somewhere nearby so he can continue his affair with Miss Teak, but he never stops by to say “hi” to us.

Christmas break arrives, and I take to moping around the house. Mom fills our garage with seasonal wreaths and potted poinsettias and directs her customers to stop by the house for their purchases. This is a small town, so no one minds.

Right now, Mom and I are sitting together at the kitchen table decorating wreaths. My job is to stick pinecones and plastic berries into the bare places in the foliage; Mom makes any necessary touchups to my work and ties on a red satin bow. While we’re doing this, she decides to talk about Dad.

“I wonder what your father is doing,” she says as she snips through a line of ribbon with plastic safety scissors.

I want to respond in anger but that would hurt her too much. “I dunno,” I say instead. “What do you think?”

“He always loved Christmas. Decorating the shop, eating gingerbread men, wearing those ridiculous sweaters Grandma makes us each year, singing carols. It isn’t the same without him here.”

I stop fussing with the pine and turn toward my mother. I place a hand on her shoulder. “We can still do all those things. We’re decorating now, you’re the one who bakes the cookies, and I can go put on my sweater from last year.” I get up and head toward my room to change my shirt.