Fast-Tracked (6 page)

But the night was far from spooky: it was magical. For weeks I had been questioning my feelings for Byron. After weeks of contemplation, I had finally figured out that I wanted to be so much more than just friends with him. But I still had no idea how he felt. So I had spent the week walking on eggshells around him, looking for any sign that he could actually share my feelings. If I expressed my feelings and he didn’t return them, our friendship would be forever ruined. And he meant so much to me. The thought of risking it all terrified me.

But that night when Camille canceled on us, I noticed that he seemed nervous around me. Could I be that fortunate? Could he actually have feelings for me too? I was a ball of nerves. My thoughts kept wrestling with themselves. Should I ask him how he feels? Should I show him how I feel? Is it just my hopeful imagination that is making me see something that really isn’t there? I couldn’t decide.

The beginning of the night had been a strained silence between us. We quietly ate the picnic dinner Camille had packed. More accurately, I tried to eat. I was so nervous that my mouth was too dry to even swallow my food. I barely glanced at him, fearing what I would or wouldn’t see in his eyes.

After dinner we walked through the gardens, occasionally commenting on the different plants we saw just to break the silence. Thanks to the greenhouses, even the plants that usually didn’t bloom until mid-summer were already a fantastic display of colors. I hadn’t been to the gardens since I was little, and I had forgotten just how incredible it was. The true purpose of the garden was scientific study, but the money it raised pandering to the public’s enjoyment made more than enough credits to support its research.

The rose garden was hands down the most spectacular display of all. The perfume alone was overpowering in a delightful, intoxicating way. The plants ranged in size from tiny delicate miniature roses displayed in pots to huge bushes several feel round in diameter. Plus the climbing roses towered over us on trellises. Some of the roses were simple but elegant, only having a single layer of petals – most people wouldn’t have even known they were roses without having been told first. Other roses had large showy heads that looked heavy enough to fall off. But what I loved the best about all of the roses was the wide variety of color displayed, from the purest white to the deepest red and every color in between.

As we exited the display, we spotted a vendor selling roses. Most of the girls squealed and begged for their boyfriends to buy them a red rose – a symbol of love.

I never asked, but I didn’t have to. Byron spent what was probably the last of his remaining credits to buy me one of the roses – a beautiful yellow rose with just a blush of pink on the outermost petals, called Amber Flush. His choice showed just how well he knew me. The common red petals of the other girls’ roses just couldn’t compare. As he handed it to me, I smiled my thanks; I was still having difficulty forming words around him.

By the time we finished our garden tour it was almost dusk, so we made our way to the lake in the center of the gardens. I had never been on a gondola ride, so I didn’t know what to expect. We handed over our ticket and stepped onto the flat bottom of our awaiting boat. Our attendant handed us both a glass of apple cider (we were too young for the champagne) and stood at the end of the boat holding a long pole that I soon realized was just for show. The traditional gondolas once used in Venice used the poles to push themselves along, but we were being gently pulled along an underwater track. At least the course of the track gave the appearance that we were haphazardly drifting through the beautiful flames that danced on the water.

The flames themselves came from shallow black dishes that were anchored down in the water. In the center of the dish were several purple and blue ‘coal’ pieces. According to the brochure I read during our tram ride here, they were made from a specially prepared compound one of the garden’s scientists had invented. They burned at a cool temperature and would last throughout the night without dimming and without emitting any toxins into the environment. I thought that was pretty cool.

But as we drifted through the flames, I didn’t think about how they were made or the environmental feat that they were. All I could focus on was how beautiful the flames were and how nice Byron’s thigh felt pressed against mine.

I don’t know if it was accidental or intentional, but the fingers of Byron’s dangling hand kept brushing against mine. Each time our fingers met a wave of excitement shot through me in a blissful torment. Just when I knew I couldn’t endure another moment of the wonderful torture, he grabbed my hand in his and gave it a hopeful squeeze. The moment I squeezed back our relationship changed. That’s when we knew how we felt.

We continued holding each other’s hand throughout the remainder of the ride. Occasionally one of us would run a finger up the other’s palm and send chills up our spines. At least it had that effect on me; I only hoped that it was the same for him. By the time we stepped back on land, we both had the kinds of dreamy, drunken, doe-eyed expressions that can only be caused by love. Yeah, on others I found that look nauseating and stupid, but – well, now I really didn’t care what anyone else thought. I laughed at the look the salesperson gave us as I bought souvenir fire coals for us both.

Slowly we made our way back through the park, towards its exit and towards the tram. We were almost to the exit when Byron suddenly wrapped his arm around me and quickly spun me behind a statue of President
Touffe
. I was still giggling over his unexpected impulsiveness when he leaned down towards me. My eyes locked with his. I could feel his soul speaking to mine and telling me what he wanted. I rose up on my toes and pressed my lips against his. He responded by tightening his grip around my waist and pulling me to him until our bodies merged into one. Then his lips reacted to mine. His kisses were soft, gentle. They tasted of the apple cider and him. I wanted the moment to last forever – but unexpectedly he broke the kiss.

“
Ow
!” he said as he pulled my hands away from him. He stepped back, leaving me confused and questioning what I did wrong. I had never kissed anyone before. I knew I hadn’t bitten him. I couldn’t have been bad enough to cause him pain, could I?

Byron reached up to his neck and pulled his hand back with blood on it. Inadvertently, when I wrapped my hands around his neck, I had stabbed him with one of the rose’s thorns.

“Oh no!”
I gasped. “I’m so sorry,” I apologized as I tried to stifle a relieved laugh.

“Don’t be.” He smiled as he took the rose from my hand and placed it on the base of the statue. “I’m just sorry I didn’t do this sooner.” He chuckled and then pulled me back into his sweet embrace and kissed me again.

I slept late the next morning, and stayed in bed even longer. I was unwilling to face the reality that I knew was waiting. I preferred to hide under my covers and desperately try to hold onto the memory of my dream.

Eventually, I dragged myself to my feet and down the stairs without bothering to change or shower. The holiday was over, so my dad had returned to work, but with school being out for the week, my mom was home at least. I didn’t feel like talking, but I didn’t want to be in the house by myself either.

My mom seemed to understand and didn’t try to ask any questions. I sat at the kitchen table drinking juice and eating cereal – but I didn’t taste any of it.

It didn’t take long for the silence to be too much for my mom. She started pacing the room, cleaning things that were already clean. As I stood up and cleared my bowl she said, “I made a casserole for the
Levenson’s
. I was going to bring it over this morning. You’re welcome to join me.”

I looked down at the rumpled clothes I still had on from yesterday. “Just let me shower,” I mumbled and headed upstairs. Currently I wasn’t capable of expressing it, but I was thankful for the company. I wanted to visit Byron and see if he had calmed down yet. But honestly the thought of seeing him the way he was last night frightened me. At least I knew Byron’s parents wouldn’t be home: they both had to work. I couldn’t face them knowing that somehow they’d find a way to blame our relationship for what happened. But even without them home, I needed my mom’s support.

The short distance from our front door to his took an eternity to cross. With each step I felt my heart rise higher and higher in my throat until I could hardly breathe. My pulse was racing and my head was spinning. Everything in my body told me to just turn around and flee from this confrontation waiting for me. I was foolish to think he would be calmed down already. How do you calm down when every one of your hopes and dreams is suddenly crushed?

My mom could tell I was wavering, so she reached across me and rang the doorbell. I started to turn, but she placed a steadying hand on my shoulder to keep me there.

We stood silently for a long time – then, eventually, the door opened and
reaveled
a very exhausted looking Camille.

“What do you want?” she snapped and gave us both a cold glare.

“Hi, Camille.
Is your mom or dad home?” my mom whispered in the voice she usually reserved for funerals.

“No, they both had to work,” Camille grumbled and rolled her eyes at us. I wanted to reach out and comfort her, but I knew in her current state she would only lash out more.

“Oh, okay. Are you alright here by yourself, you and Byron? Or would you like some company?” my mom asked sweetly.

“No, Byron’s not here. He had to report to his new assignment today – or didn’t
Lexi
tell you?” she snarled incredulously.

I found my voice. “What? Byron’s gone already? Where did he go? He’s going to be
back
though, right?” I was in a panic. I opened my mouth to ask more questions, but my mother squeezed my shoulder and told me to take a deep breath. So instead I pleaded to Camille with my eyes – but hers never met mine. Instead she looked straight ahead, straight through my mother.

“No, he’s gone for good. He’s not coming back. He didn’t know exactly where he would be assigned, but he also said he wouldn’t tell us. He wants us all to forget about him and pretend he never existed so we can get on with our lives.
As if that was even possible.
How can we get on with life when we know everything is just so wrong?” Camille broke down into sobs, but the tears never followed. She must have cried them all out and didn’t have any more to give. My mom wrapped a comforting arm around her, but she recoiled from it and spat, “Don’t you touch me! It’s entirely his fault and you know it. If your husband just had a little bit of a spine we wouldn’t be in this situation.” The heat of her anger was rolling off her in waves.

My mom was at complete loss for words. I couldn’t tell if it was because she knew what Camille was talking about or if she was confused as I was. Eventually she composed herself and said, “I’m sorry you feel that way. I made your mom a casserole. I’m sure right now she doesn’t feel like cooking. Could you please give this to her and pass along my condolences?” My mom pressed the casserole dish into Camille’s hands. Camille didn’t say anything more, but she took the dish before closing the door on us.

I just stood there staring at the dark blue paint of the door, until my mom gently turned me around and led me back to the house. How could I have forgotten that orange level workers report immediately to be processed and assigned their work assignments? I thought I was giving him time to cool down, but all I was doing was allowing him to slip away and disappear from my life forever. I would never even get to say my goodbye.

My mom guided me back to our house. An unbearable ache had taken hold in my chest. It took all my energy just to breathe. I felt so defeated and tired. If I couldn’t wake up from this nightmare, then all I wanted to do was close my eyes and sleep for the rest of my life.

I dragged myself back to my bedroom. I closed my blinds, turned the light off, and closed the door, leaving me in complete darkness. I hid myself under my blanket and buried my head in my pillows in a futile attempt to drown out the world.

But as tired as I felt, my mind wouldn’t let me sleep.

I kept replaying events in my head. What did my dad have to do with any of this? Both Byron and Camille had mentioned him, but what impact could he possibly have had on the assessment process? It just didn’t make sense. But then, nothing made sense anymore.

Eventually the torment of my thoughts slipped into tormented dreams. I saw Byron in obvious distress. I kept trying to get to him, but no matter what I did, he remained just out of my grasp.

It was dark outside by the time I woke up. I quietly padded downstairs towards the sound of my parents in the kitchen.

“So what are you going to tell her?”
came
my mom’s voice from around the corner. Then I stepped into view. She looked up at me.
“Oh, good.
You’re awake in time for dinner.” Her tone was guilty. Like a little kid whose hand was caught in the cookie jar. “Let me get a plate for you.” She quickly stood and gave my dad a nervous look before heading over to the cupboard.

“So, Dad, why do Byron and Camille think it’s your fault he got an orange letter?” I tried to sound nonchalant, but he flinched in surprise: it just came out blunt.

He let out a long, slow, agonized breath as he attempted to regain his composure. “Byron’s father is having a hard time accepting what has happened and is looking for someone to blame. A few weeks ago an incident happened at work that made me look good but made him look bad in front of the plant’s owner. Somehow he blames everything that happened to Byron on me not agreeing with him and supporting him that day.”