Flicker (21 page)

"No, but what are we supposed to say? It's
not like you've ever explained it."

I know the next question before he opens his
mouth and wish I could leap from the moving car to not have to hear
it.

"So why do you jerk like that?"

Why didn't I ever come up with an
explanation? All my hours of hiding in bed and feeling sorry for
myself for being a freak and I never anticipated this conversation.
I shake my head at myself, but Cameron thinks I'm telling him
no.

"So that's it? I'm honest with you and you
can't answer one simple question?" His jaw clenches and even though
I'm freaking out and still haven't come up with an answer, I can't
help but notice how even when he's pissed off, he's gorgeous.

I touch his arm, his warmth spreading
through my fingertips. "I want to be honest with you, Cam. I just—"
I take a deep breath.

He laughs, confusing me at the sudden change
in emotion, then he faces me and I realize he's still pissed. "I
guess this isn't one of your better days."

Now I'm completely lost. "My better
days?"

The car slows and he takes a moment to
answer. We're at the boat ramp. He parks near the water and turns
off the car before adjusting in his seat so he's facing me. The
water shimmers in the afternoon light, highlighting his dark eyes
and the dusting of stubble on his jaw.

"Some days it seems like you already know
what's going to happen, like you have some magic ball that no one
else can see."

My mouth drops. Now I'm really in
trouble.

"I swear it's like you even know what I'm
going to say sometimes." He leans his head back on the seat,
resigned that he may have to wait awhile for an answer.

Words. I need words. Now.

"But I guess today isn't one of those
days."

I can't believe Cameron pieced it all
together. He may not know how or why, but he's noticed things I
thought I'd kept hidden from everyone—even my family. Part of me is
elated that this boy sitting next to me cares enough to pay that
close of attention, but the rest is in a complete state of panic
that someone has figured out my secret.

My voice is barely a whisper. "You've
noticed that?"

His gaze narrows on me. "I'm not an
idiot."

"No, I know you're not." A sudden,
terrifying thought grips me: who else has figured this out? "Have
you… has anyone else noticed those things?" I still haven't
answered him and he's not going to put up with this deflection for
long.

"Maybe, I don't know. I haven't said
anything to anyone, but that doesn't mean other kids don't talk
when I'm not around." He pauses, watching me closely for my
reaction. "Or the teachers."

My heart stops. The teachers can't know.
I've been so careful not to—Bishop's class flits through my mind.
Well, maybe not as careful as I thought.

Cameron must know he's hit a nerve
because he leans forward and slides an arm around my shoulders.
"I'm not trying to make you feel like a freak."
Too late.
"I'm just worried about you and I'm
sick of not knowing what it is that makes you
different."

My eyes close. I try to lose myself in the
feel of his hand on the back of my neck, but when I open them again
he's watching me with a look so concerned, so trusting, that I spit
out words before I can change my mind. "I have this… déjà vu thing.
And sometimes the situation that I'm repeating seems so vivid, it's
like I've actually lived it before. Conversations, stuff like that.
I can recall all of it."

"Déjà vu?"

"That's all I know what to call it."

"And that's why you jerk in class?"

This might actually
work.
"Yeah."

"But today is a normal day so you don't know
what's going to happen?"

I shake my head.

"Is this why you get headaches?"

I nod.

"Can't they do something for you? I mean, it
seems like the doctors should be able to help you somehow."

"I have pills for when I get a headache." I
don't like the direction this is going.

"No, I mean for the other part."

My chest tightens. It's like the weight that
never came earlier is now suffocating me. I know I can trust
Cameron, but it feels wrong to be telling anyone about this, even
if I'm only telling him part of it.

"They don't know."

He straightens. "What do you mean they don't
know."

"I've never told anyone."

"But don't you think they could help?"

I shake my head and damn if tears don't
start running down my face.

Cameron's never seen me cry—not many people
have—but he does exactly what I need: he pulls me into his arms and
holds me against his chest until there are no tears left.

Chapter 29

By the next day, I've pushed aside the fear
that Cameron is going to tell someone my secret. Even though he
only knows a small part of the truth, being able to confide that
little bit has lifted a weight that I never realized held me down.
I float through school, my feet barely touching the ground.

My good mood doesn't go unnoticed.

Amelia elbows me on our way to Trig.
"Someone got some last night."

I laugh. "No, we just talked."

"Uh-huh. I've heard that before."

I hold up my hands and contort my fingers
into a parody of the Scout salute. "Swear to Google."

She rolls her eyes as we enter Bishop's
class.

I do my best to pay attention but I'm
excited for Turner's class. The fact that he said our next
assignment will appeal to the artsy types means I'm definitely
going to like it.

The bell rings and I'm halfway to the door
when Bishop stops me.

Now what?

"Good work, Biz." He hands me my test.
Eighty-seven.

"Thanks." I feel semi-proud of myself.
Technically I didn't cheat since I was delirious when I saw the
test so this means I actually passed on my own.

The extra good news carries me to Turner's
class, where Cameron is waiting in the hall, a soft smile warming
his face. I slide an arm around him and stand on tip-toe to give
him a kiss. "Any idea what our next assignment is?"

"Not a clue, but I can tell you're
excited."

I am, and I have to say, it feels good. So
much of my life is spent dreading what’s waiting for me around the
next corner that I rarely stop to enjoy myself.

Cameron leads me into class and we
take our seats as Turner writes a solitary word on the
chalkboard:
Light
.

Phantom needles prick my fingers. I
flex them against the edge of the desk, hoping no one is paying
attention to me. Despite my good mood, all day I've been acutely
aware of every glance, every look, every whisper that seems
directed my way.
How closely are they
watching?

I shake my head and force myself to
focus.

Turner's pacing at the front of the
classroom, waiting until he has our full attention. "We have a
broad range of personalities in this class and I try to tailor
assignments so everyone has at least one project they can get
excited about. We've covered sports, real life," he nods at me,
"which, to mix metaphors, Biz hit out of the park, and now we're
focusing on contrasting light and dark. The subject matter is
completely up to you. Your assignment is to capture the contrast,
preferably in a way that highlights your subject in a manner you
wouldn't notice if the lighting were consistent."

My mind is already racing through possible
settings for bright light and deep shadows. If I were a masochist
I'd head to the Strand and shoot the trees, but I don't want to
risk another migraine this week.

Turner readies his chalk. "What places have
drastic contrasts between light and shadow?"

Answers pepper from throughout the room.

"The river."

"Downtown."

"My backyard."

Everyone laughs.

"The park," I say, the scene already playing
out in my mind.

Turner nods. "There's opportunity for light
and shadow just about any place you go, provided there’s something
tall enough to cast a shadow."

Tell me about it.

*****

Dad's waiting for me on the couch when I get
home.

I sit next to him but don't say
anything.

He stretches his arms in front of him,
bending his wrists back until the tendons strain against his pale
flesh. "How are you feeling?"

I shrug. "My headache's gone."

"And that's all that was bothering you? The
headache?"

I give him a sidelong glance, trying to play
it cool. He's just being a concerned father, nothing more. "Yeah,
pretty much. Why?"

He folds his hands behind his neck, a
gesture I've rarely seen him do. It somehow makes him look younger,
stronger than I'm used to seeing him. "I've noticed you flex your
fingers a lot."

As a reflex my fingers start to ache, the
muscles suddenly tense, the skin feeling too tight. I long to
stretch them but he's watching me closely.

"Go ahead." He smiles, but not in a
ha-ha-I-gotcha kind of way. No, this smile is wistful, almost
sad.

I relieve the pressure in my knuckles first,
popping first the left hand, then the right, then I fold them
backwards in front of me, much the same way he just did. I jerk to
face him, but his gaze has shifted to my feet.

"Do your toes do the same thing?"

I nod once, hoping the lack of enthusiasm
speaks for how much this is not a big deal. I'm trying not to
panic, but it's like he's one step ahead of me. Snippets of my
conversation with Cameron run through my head, him saying that
sometimes I seem to already know what he's going to say. But this
is different. This is Dad.

"Always with the headaches?"

"Pretty much." I swallow hard. "How… how do
you know this?" I know for a fact I've never mentioned the tingling
to anyone. Maybe he really did notice like he said, but I've always
been so careful.

He leans his head to one side until his neck
pops. Mine longs to do the same. "Just something I've noticed."

Later in my room, I replay our conversation.
He can't know the truth, there's no way, but I guess it's possible
I wasn't as careful as I thought. He does spend a lot of time with
me. Maybe I mess with my fingers when I'm sleeping. That's the only
way this makes any sense. The only comfort I have is in his final
words: that he hasn't said anything to Mom.

Chapter 30

Midway through my English class a scrawny
ninth grader knocks on the door and hands the teacher a note. She
looks up from her lesson plan, scans the slip of paper, and narrows
her gaze at me.

Crap.

"Biz, Mr. Walker would like to see you in
his office."

The class
oohs
and
ahhs
and a deep flush colors my face. I start walking towards the
door when she stops me.

"I'd bring your things."

Laughter follows me out the door. I take
solace in the quiet hall, but it's quickly erased by the ninth
grader's sneakers squeaking ahead of me.

"What the hell did I do?" I mutter.

The kid looks over his shoulder. "They don't
tell me. I'm just told what class—"

I roll my eyes. "I wasn't asking you."

He quickens his pace, hustling around the
corner several yards ahead of me.

I'm tempted to keep going straight and walk
out the side entrance, but considering Stride Right summoned me to
his chambers, skipping now wouldn't be my smartest move. I pause in
front of the classroom at the corner.

Cameron's in there.

He's concentrating on whatever he's writing,
his dark head bent over the desk. I send him a silent good luck and
continue towards the principal's office.

The secretary is standing at attention. "Go
on in, he's waiting for you."

I falter in the doorway.

Stride Right looks up. "Please close the
door and take a seat."

Oh, this can't be good.

A manila folder lies open on his
desk.
My permanent record?
I
stifle a laugh. We've always joked about whether those really
exist.

He studies the papers a moment longer, then
places his glasses on top of them and rubs the bridge of his nose.
"I'm afraid this isn't a courtesy call." I tense, hands gripping
the edge of the chair. "It's been brought to my attention that your
recent tests have been… questionable."

My breath catches.

"Specifically, in Mr. Bishop's class." He
shuffles the papers. "If you were just failing I'd suggest you get
a tutor and send you on your way, but your scores are all over the
place. That, combined with a note I received this morning that
states you've been cheating, leads me to believe we've got a bigger
problem on our hands."

Shit, shit, double
shit.
I don't move. I don't breathe. Fidgeting is a
sign of lying, right? Maybe if I stay completely still he'll take
it all back and I can get back to class in time to hear the rest of
the lecture on dangling participles.

Stride Right's still staring at me. I don't
think he's gonna take it back. "Do you have anything to say?" His
watery eyes bore into mine.

I don't know where to look. I'm assuming the
papers on his desk are my trig tests. How bad could it really be?
"Would you believe me if I said I'm just really bad at trig?"

He flattens his palms on the sides of his
desk. "I would if that's what these scores demonstrated. You were
consistent the first month of the semester, but then your scores
jumped from barely passing to almost an A. I'd love to give credit
to Bishop for being an exceptional teacher, but I think you've had
more help than that. Now," he cracks his knuckles and I have to
resist the urge to follow suit. "If you tell me the truth you won't
get suspended—"