Gypsy (The Cavy Files Book 1) (21 page)

The comfort knocks tears from my eyes, and they soak silently into his shirt. His heart thuds too hard, too fast, and the shuddering of his breath tells me Dane’s definition hasn’t left him unwounded, either.

“They were making fun of us,” I whisper. “The Philosopher and everyone. Calling us guinea pigs and acting like they made it up because we’re special.”

His fingers tighten on my shoulder. We both know it’s true. Somehow, it feels truer than anything they ever told us. It’s a long time before he speaks. The sound rumbles straight into my face, vibrate my cheek, but it’s too soon to think about letting him go. It might always be too soon.

“When Dane shook my hand, it made me cold. It freaked me out, felt like a threat, and I reached for the heat just in case. But it wasn’t there.” Terror trembles through his confession.

For me, touching Dane and not seeing his age of death was almost a welcome shock. The lost look on Mole’s face suggests this is different. A nightmare.

“I meant to say something the other day about not seeing his number, but after the attacks and the increased power of our mutations, it didn’t seem important.” I hug him tighter. “I meant to talk to you about it, but we haven’t been alone. I miss you, Mole.”

“You’ve got all these new friends. They’re nice, even the superstar. I thought… I was trying to let you have this new kind of life, if it’s what you want.”

“I like them, but they’re not
you.
I can’t talk to them about everything. Even if we figure out what’s going on with us, I would never trade you guys.
Could
never.” I take a shaky breath, scared even thinking about it. “Why do you think our talents don’t work on Dane?”

“I don’t know how, but it felt like he blocked it. Like the heat hit a wall.”

“How could he do that, unless he knows what to block?”

“He knows, Gyp. I don’t know how, or why he’s trying to keep it a secret, but that stuff about a science project is bullshit, and we all know it.”

I sit up, crossing my legs so that my knees press against Mole’s thigh, and peer into his face. He’s looking back at me, into me, with that uncanny way he has of making me feel as though, even though he’s blind, he’s the only person who can really see me.

“What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know. Wait, I guess. Keep looking for the attackers, find out if they’re like us. You keep being friends with Dane, see what he’ll tell you. We’ll see everyone else in Beaufort on Sunday, and we can talk more then. I have a feeling we’re going to find out the truth sooner or later.”

Chapter Fifteen

My father and I spent Friday night and most of Saturday in front of the television watching those movies, which turn out to be called Star Wars, and I like them except for Anakin Skywalker. He’s a real piece of work, and I don’t see how Natalie Portman could have any faith in his supposed goodness after he tried to kill her and his unborn child. Children. But, whatever.

The films weren’t in the library at Darley, and while they played on the screen I wondered why. Then it occurs to me that in Star Wars, the Jedis are different. Have powers. I spent half the night online, researching movies by genre and content, and couldn’t believe all of the films out there about people like us—people who mutated, accidentally or on purpose, until they had some special power or ability.

It seems that, although we’ve been imagining that finding out about the Cavies would be a shock to society, we’re the ones who keep being surprised by the idea that we’re not a novelty. Of course, the mutations in the movies are fiction. Society might not be quite ready to take the real thing in stride, and I doubt they’d see us as heroes.

The Philosopher must have desired our ignorance. None of the movies revolving around the concept of genetic mutation were available to us at Darley.

The question is, why?

It’s just one of the questions that plays on a loop in my mind while Maya and I spend Saturday texting about whether Jude, Dane, and Mole all have crushes on me—or rather,
she
keeps harping on it while I try to change the subject.

Jude texts once on Saturday night to ask if we can get together to study on Sunday instead of Monday because he has extra basketball practice. I reply that I’m getting together with the other kids from Darley but that we can do it afterward if it’s not too late, wondering the whole time why we’re studying if he’s determined to fail.

We don’t talk about that, but we do talk about the other kids from Darley.

At first, it makes me wonder if he’s still doing research for his dad, but none of the questions are suspicious. He asks their names, what they’re like, how close we are, stories about growing up, things like that. They’re real, the things I share, and not being able to talk about the Cavies’ mutations makes me realize how much more there is to like about them. Even Pollyanna, who goes out of her way to make other people uncomfortable. I’ve always thought maybe she acts that way to be sure she’s not accidentally using her ability to make friends.

Jude and I talk for a long time, and when he finally admits he’s falling asleep, the clock beside my bed says it’s after three in the morning. I close my eyes, feeling lucky to have good friends and even happier that tomorrow we’ll all be together again for the first time since leaving Darley.

I drift away and tumble headlong into a dream, a perfect place where my new friends and the Cavies spend a Sunday together in Waterfront Park. Even Dane is there, but there are no worries, no one who wants to exploit us or stab us, we’re just… living.

Sunday dawns in the real world and anticipation propels me out of bed with more force than mornings usually inspire. I cannot
wait
to get to Beaufort. It’s a good thing the twins convinced their dad they might fall into an irreversible depression without in-person contact with the Cavies before he gets to know them and realizes that
depression
and
the twins
should never be used in the same sentence.

Even though it’s not even 7:00 a.m., the clanks and bangs
from downstairs suggest my father is awake and in the kitchen, hopefully about to cook some bacon. We’re supposed to be in Beaufort by ten, and it’s about an hour and a half drive, depending on traffic.

I fly in and out of the shower in record time, then grab the same pair of jeans I wore Friday and pair them with an orange-and-brown sweater and a pair of boots. It takes thirty minutes to wrestle my hair, and in the end, I get impatient and twist it into a braid before clomping down the stairs.

I filch a piece of bacon from the plate on the table, munching on my way to the fridge for grape juice. My father’s initial discomfort and hesitation over having me around has started to ease to gentle, encouraging, and this is the one area of my life that’s going smoothly. If the world outside, full of Dane Kim’s evasions and syringes and homeless people and new abilities, makes me want to hide, this house, my father, might be turning into a safe place to hunker down.

He flashes me a smile from the stove, where he’s flipping French toast. “Funny how most parents with kids your age would be tearing their hair out about all the noise and the banging on the stairs, but it makes me happy.”

“I’m sure it’ll wear off.”

“I doubt it. I just got you, and I’ll only have you here for a while, so it’s easier to appreciate.”

My stomach sinks, the bacon caught in my throat. “Why will you only have me for a while?”

“Because you’re seventeen years old. Next year you’ll be eighteen and then you’ll be off to college, if you want. Either way, you’re almost grown.”

I sit at the table, taking a moment to recover from his statement, which meant nothing sinister, but sounded that way at first. It makes me realize that even if we deal with what’s changing now, adjustments are just part of life.

He sits across from me, looking sad as he slides a plate of French toast my direction.

“Maybe, but I’ll still be your daughter.”

“You’re right, Norah Jane. Of course. It’s hard to explain why having you around makes me a little bit sad sometimes, is all.”

“Because of my mother?” It’s a subject we haven’t really broached, because I’ve been waiting for him to bring it up.

“Yes. She would have been so happy to meet you.” He clears his throat, and tears shine in his eyes before he looks away, intent on drowning his entire plate in syrup. “Eat up. We’ve got to leave in twenty minutes or so if we’re going to make it to Beaufort by ten.”

I copy the way he squirts syrup on his bacon as well as the pastry, then take a hesitant bite. It’s delicious. Salty and sweet together. The golden brown color of the syrup reminds me of Jude’s eyes, and also the way he’s a little bit salty and a lot sweet—he doesn’t let anyone walk all over him, but he’s always polite about it.

“What are you thinking about?” My father watches me, a slight, knowing smile tipping up one corner of his mouth.

“Nothing,” I insist, ignoring the heat in my face.

He chuckles, my palms start to sweat, and we spend the rest of breakfast snickering through sticky lips.

We pass the drive from Charleston to Beaufort trading knowledge of the lowcountry. My father, like everyone born and bred here, has a deep attachment to the land and culture and wants to pass that adoration on to me. He doesn’t have to worry—even though the Philosopher isn’t a lowcountry native, the Professor was born and raised in Charleston, and I even know a few stories my father has never heard.

The roads are two lanes and twisty, shaded by oaks and cypress and deciduous pines that glimpsed the start of the Revolutionary War. They let sunlight through in lacy patterns that shimmer on the cracked blacktop, making me squint from behind my new sunglasses.

I hold my breath as we pass the turnoff for Darley, no longer hidden but taped off with a yellow-and-black strip. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask if we can drive up, if I can see it, but there’s no way past and it’s somewhere I’m not quite ready to share. Maybe it’s easier to leave the past there, behind crime-scene tape.

Off-limits.

We drive through a gross, dirty, strip-mall atmosphere full of chain restaurants and Dollar Generals into the old city of Beaufort, which is nestled up against a muddy waterway. It’s existed forever, and spent a long time as one of the richest per capita cities in the country. It’s almost a perfect halfway point between Charleston and Savannah, affectionately termed “sister cities.”

If they’re sisters, they’re the kind that smile and hug at afternoon tea then spend the evening bitching to their husbands about all of the things they can’t stand about each other.

We turn into a neighborhood of pretty, two-story houses on the right, and a gorgeous park teeming with families on the left. Live oaks, heavy with globs of Spanish moss, frame the streets like a portrait. The GPS in my father’s car instructs us to turn right down a short street that dead-ends in a marsh before sloping into the estuary. The last house is pale yellow with white shutters, with a wraparound piazza for each story and the biggest magnolia tree I’ve ever seen—which is saying something in South Carolina.

The three cars hogging the driveway announce that we’ve found the right spot, so we park along the curb. I hop out as soon as the engine goes silent, more anxious than ever to see my friends. Aside from Mole and Reaper, this is the longest we’ve ever been apart, and even though the Clubhouse is a lifesaver, it’s not the same
.