Gypsy (The Cavy Files Book 1) (16 page)

Jude doesn’t say anything about tutoring during lunch or when I run into him after microbiology, my final class of the day. Maya doesn’t find me on my way out the front door, either, then I remember that she has some kind of rehearsal or practice after school.

The afternoon is warm, and invisible whispers from the Unitarian graveyard brush past my ears. They beckon me with crooked fingers until my feet pull me across the street, anxious for peace and quiet and time to breathe instead of trying to act okay all the time.

Windows topped by gothic arches frame decorated panes of glass and tower over of Archdale Street. A plaque near the building’s front entrance declares it the oldest Unitarian Church in the South, and an ornate wrought-iron fence rests against a brick and plaster wall. There are headstones on either side of the grounds, but the gate admitting the public sits a few steps to my right, wrapped in late-afternoon shadows.

“It’s pretty inside. Peaceful.” A quiet voice interrupts my tortured thoughts of stolen babies, years of lies, syringes, and my own uselessness.

I turn to find Dane Kim, a small smile on his face, like an offering he’s not sure will be accepted. Seeing him should raise my hackles, given that he’s one of the reasons for my angst over my mutation, but I’m kind of relieved it’s not Jude or Maya or someone else who would want me to be smiley and chatty and entertain them with the personality quirks I’d gained being raised in a bubble.

“Yeah?”

His strong shoulders relax, and he breathes into the smile now. “I sit there sometimes. I mean, I don’t advertise it or anything because people would think I’m all morbid and weird in addition to being shy and nerdy, but I enjoy the silence.”

“I’ve been meaning to check it out.” I smile back, glad to see him, now. “It’s kind of got a… presence. Compared to the others I’ve visited in town.”

“Does it?” He purses his lips. “Maybe. There’s something about it, for sure. Want to stroll through?”

I hesitate a brief second before nodding, then walk beside him toward the entrance. The graveyard is manicured at the front, the part that’s visible from Archdale Street. I know from my ambles down King that it’s not as maintained all the way through, and before long a thick canopy of trees and moss and vines blots out the weak warmth offered by the winter sun.

The headstones get harder to see among the bushes and ferns, and the path grows uneven and sometimes invisible, the stones sunk into the earth or carried off by time. Benches crouch here and there, under trees and next to little crops of graves, and it surprises me how badly I want to stop and sit, to soak it in, letting the breeze wipe my worries away and the people under the ground remind me that I’m still alive.

It’s as though Dane reads my mind, leading me over to a little stone bench and settling in without saying a word. He’s a mostly silent companion but it makes me feel better to be next to someone, words or not.

“So, how is your first week going?” he ventures after a while.

I eye him. “Is this one of those stupid student-ambassador-required-coddling things?”

He smiles. “No. I was hoping you’d ask me the same thing, is all.”

“Oh. Well. It’s hard starting at a school where everyone has been friends since they ran around naked together in their backyards. But not terrible.”

“That’s a terrible image.” Dane gives an overdramatic shudder, displaying a gentle sense of humor that puts me at ease. “You don’t seem like you’re having trouble adjusting. You already know Eve, and out of the three of us newbies, you’re fitting in the best with the popular kids.”

“I’m not sure there are popular kids in a class of forty-seven,” I reply, uncomfortable talking about Maya and the others, and definitely wanting to avoid the topic of Reaper. “How are you finding your first week at Charleston Academy, Mr. Kim?”

“Typical. I’m a military brat, so moving is kind of a forced hobby.”

“Ah.” It disappoints me, for some reason, to know that he’s used to this. My face feels rubbery, refusing to obey my command to hide my reaction. Maybe it’s too tired.

Dane reaches out, using a finger to tilt up my chin. There’s still nothing. No number. No death scene. It’s a relief and cause for concern at the same time.

There is warmth, comfort, and what might even be the rumblings of a budding friendship. I like sitting with him. I like that we’re not talking about Darley, like Maya likes to, or about a series of disasters, like the Cavies are. This afternoon, with Dane, it’s almost as though the real Norah, the Norah-that-could-be, pokes a toe into the sunshine.

“It’s not
easy
for me,” he promises. “Change is never simple, Norah, no matter where you came from. Come from. But every place is just a place. They’re not all that different.”

“I think the place I come from might be the exception to that rule.”

“I doubt it. You seem healthy. You have people who love you, who you care about, right?” He smiles at my nod. “See? What else do you need? You’ll figure this new school thing out in no time.”

“If you’re so good at changing schools, how come you’re so… quiet?” I finish lamely. The description I keep swallowing back is
aloof,
and it rolls on the back of my tongue. It’s the right word.

“That’s a nice way of saying that I’m a loner.” He shrugs, but doesn’t look away. His dark eyes swim with thoughts, with unspoken secrets, and they make me want to know him.

Of course, the fact that he’s not going to die—or that I can’t see it—already pushed me that direction. Every day I’m surrounded by the dead, people with expiration dates hanging over their heads. I like spending time with Dane for the same reason I like sitting in graveyards—the people here are dead already, not walking around trying to make me care about them.

I don’t have to keep Dane at arm’s length unless I want to. And I don’t.

“I’ve always been a little shy,” he finally shares. “I don’t know… The more friends I make, the more people I have to say good-bye to when we move again. I’m more of a one or two close friends kind of guy, anyway.”

“That makes sense.”

It does, and the personal tidbit brings us closer together. We understand each other, I think. He knows about my self-consciousness about coming from a weird situation, and his reasons for keeping his distance lie bare. They take up the few inches of cold stone in between us, new pieces of an entity that’s no longer him or me but a combination.

The new closeness does nothing to help me uncover why he has no number. My initial guess is that he has some kind of gene mutation of his own that’s incompatible with mine. Maybe I want it to be his issue, not mine, so I’m not the loser with a crappy ability that’s getting even crappier.

Dane bumps my shoulder with his a moment later, then shoots me a smile that shows off his dimples. It transforms his hesitant face into one that reminds me he’s
really
handsome. “I’m going to go. I promised my mom I’d come by her office and help with some clerical stuff.”

“Okay. I’m going to sit a minute. Thanks for bringing me in here. And, you know, for helping me out and everything.”

“All I did was listen. You’re fine.”

Dane wanders toward King Street, disappearing into the foliage before my ears lose track of the crunch and sweep of his footsteps on the path. The chat was nice. It allowed me to pretend that fitting in is my biggest worry, and has left me with a smile.

It disappears as my actual problems crowd my mind, and they roll around, not gathering any answers, until the afternoon turns chilly. I stand up and stretch, then follow Dane’s steps toward the other end of the graveyard, pausing to run my fingers over a chipped headstone that stretches almost to my waist.

The name and dates on the front are rubbed away, with only the year of birth, 1768, still visible. The number
23
burns into my mind, flickering a little like a cheap neon sign, and I stumble backward in surprise.

I squat, rubbing the front of the decrepit stone in an attempt to verify what I saw, but to no avail. I have never before seen death ages for those who’ve already died, and Darley was crowded with graves—marked and unmarked—which means this is new.

The puzzle of our pasts bleeds into the mysteries of the present, tangled and hopelessly snarled, concealing truths that could mean real freedom. If we don’t find a way to uncover them all, the Cavies are going to live forever in a strange kind of purgatory.

We’ll never truly be able to leave Darley behind while the
different
aspect of our existence chases us down alleys with syringes and changes us without asking permission.

The rest of the Cavies may not want the normal life that appeals to me, but none of us can live trapped between worlds. Not forever. Not before it pulls us apart.

Chapter Twelve

We’re encouraged to make use of the tables and chairs in the library, the commons, or the courtyards during independent study period. Lots of kids choose those spots, but some wander off to hidden pockets of the school that I’m discovering little by little.

There’s the theatre—popular with the drama kids, obviously, but also other artsy types. The yearbook and newspaper participants prefer to lounge in their advisor’s office or their workrooms. And those are only a couple of options for electives next semester. Too many choices for someone who has never really had any, and thinking about the future embeds a seed of sorrow in the lining of my stomach. All of the things that could go wrong before then drop roots deep into my tissue.

With everything that’s happening with the Cavies, who knows if I’ll even be alive.

I brush off the errant thought, swallowing bile as I push open the door to the courtyard where overcast skies cast a pall on the afternoon, trying their best to convince us that winter has arrived south of the Mason-Dixon Line at last.

I’m supposed to meet Jude in the commons for our tutoring session; I’ve got fifty minutes and a plan to corner Reaper first. She’s been avoiding the Cavies in the Clubhouse and me in real life, ever since our initial conversation in the cafeteria. She doesn’t talk to anyone at school, either, except the occasional conversation with Dane, and my friends decided she’s had plenty of time to calm down and adjust.

And lucky me drew the straw of confrontation.

I find her huddled at the edge of the courtyard, shivering a little and staring through the chain-link fence with a moody expression. It surprises me to feel a twist in my chest that says I miss her. Then again, after a week away from Darley, I’m even missing Pollyanna.

The chilly wind whips my hair into my face as I cross to her, noticing that no one else braves the weather and we have the place to ourselves. The sour look on her face suggests she’d rather be alone than have a chat with me, but it doesn’t slow me down.

“Hey,” I start, sitting down. The tables are black, some kind of plastic woven in a honeycomb pattern that’s uncomfortable and cold through my uniform skirt.

I pull my navy peacoat, a hand-me-down from my father, tight around my shoulders. It helps thwart the breeze slicing through my navy tights, and it smells like him.

“Hey.” There’s no hostility in her voice. Resignation, maybe, which burrows my sorrow deeper.

“How are things at home?” I venture. It feels like sturdier ground than asking about school.

“It’s not
home,
Gypsy. Darley is home.”

Or not.

“Not anymore.” I toss the rebuttal as softly as possible, but still flinch when it smacks a soft spot. “Darley is gone, Reaper. If we don’t start figuring out how to live in this world, without being attacked or discovered, they’re going to take it from us, too.”

Even without being able to put a name or face to
they,
I know everything’s at risk. Our chance at a future. Our ability to be together, even if it’s only once a month on the weekends.

She must sense it, too, and her body folds in on itself. “Have you gotten your blood test results?”

“No, but I’m thinking it should be today. Tomorrow at the latest. I guess we’ll know if a hazmat team shows up in full gear and tackles me in the middle of physics.”

My weak joke softens the harsh defeat bending her in half and she gives me a hesitant, weak smile. “I’d be sorry to miss that.”

“I think, because we’re going to school together and everything, you and I should work on using our given first names, at least out loud. It’s okay to use the old ones in the Clubhouse and in our heads, but it would be weird if anyone overhears us.”

“Why? They know we came from the same place. So what if we have nicknames for each other?”

“Well, for one, mine isn’t exactly politically correct.”

It came to my attention some time ago that the moniker given to me at Darley is considered derogatory. I’ve often wondered if the person who assigned it to me didn’t know, too.

“And the South is
so
concerned with political correctness,” she sneers.

The shift in her behavior, from quiet and sad to this—claws out, ready to slash—smarts at least as much as the wasps from a nest the gardener ran over a couple of summers ago. We’d all been studying on the back lawn and the little buggers dealt us more than a few stings each. This is the same—tiny but excruciating stabs every time her nails come out for no reason.