Gypsy (The Cavy Files Book 1) (36 page)

I want more time. To figure out how to be a kid.

Everyone else is already in the library. Savannah and Izzie have squeezed into a huge off-white chair, their legs and feet pressing together on the matching footstool. Maya’s perched in a wingback chair that she dragged over from among the bookshelves; I’ve seen it nestled a bit away, in a nook. Jude and Peter claim opposite ends of the couch, which manages to look both comfortable and stylish with its black-and-white damask. The walls are deep green around the bookcases, which adorn every wall except one and reach the ceiling. The large window at the far end of the room is cracked open, admitting the crisp scent of winter and keeping the room from being overly hot.

I watch them for a moment, content to observe and not be noticed, but it doesn’t take long before Jude catches my eye and breaks into a heart-stopping smile. “Norah!”

He hops up, crossing the room to pull me into a hug. I return the gesture, keeping my head turned away so the skins of our necks don’t touch, and reveling in the pleasant, intense hum of electricity doing the tango with my every last nerve ending.

“Man, you look
gorgeous,
” he murmurs into my hair, so quiet no one could overhear.

“Get a room!” Peter hoots, making everyone else laugh, with the exception of Savannah.

My face heats up to what must be a shade of red that challenges my dress, and Jude tightens his arms, a chuckle rumbling through his chest and into mine. It sends shivers down my spine before he steps away, giving me an apologetic smile and slight shrug.

Peter’s snickers die down as the maid comes in pushing a two-tiered cart. She leaves a bowl of nonalcoholic eggnog; a chest of sodas; a plate of cheese, crackers, veggies, and hummus; and two trays of an assortment of cookies on the table, then closes the door on her way out.

I sit between the boys, the only spot left unless I want to be silly and sit on the floor just to avoid Jude, and grab a carrot stick while everyone else attacks the food. The conversation trips and flows, like fresh water over the uneven bed of a shallow brook. I join in when it feels right, soak it up when it’s more interesting without me, and can’t stop smiling. It’s okay, I decide, to forget about my troubles for one night. There’s nothing else I should be doing right now.

The eats are almost decimated, and Maya gets up to stack the empties on a smaller table near the door. She returns to the middle of the room and rubs her hands together like some kind of cartoon evil genius. “Time for presents!”

There’s nothing Maya likes more than presents—this whole tradition was her idea back in second grade, according to the group, even though doing the Secret Santa
plus
a white elephant party is kind of overkill. The thing that makes her wonderfully Maya is that her excitement about giving gifts outstrips the thrill of receiving, ten to one.

All of the presents sit on the table, shining little packages with no “to” or “from” labels, but the one that’s from my Secret Santa shines like a beacon in the same red tissue paper and crooked white bow. It’s bigger than any of the ones at home on my desk. For some reason, my heart starts to thud at the sight of it.

“Okay,” Maya starts, shaking a tiny gift bag between her hands. “Everyone pick a number.”

We do as she says. Mine is two. The game goes that we pick presents in the order of the numbers we drew, but the later participants have the option of choosing a new gift or stealing one that’s already been picked. When a gift is taken away, that person can pick a new one or ask for someone else’s, but they can’t immediately take back the one that was stolen.

I go for the gift that I know belongs to me when it’s my turn, setting it lightly on my knees and attempting to act as though I don’t care whether or not I keep it. Peter gets number four and keeps stealing from other people until Maya gets bored and institutes a rule that a particular gift can only change hands three times, and in the end, no one even tries to take my package.

It makes me a little suspicious that whoever picked it for me wants me to have it, maybe talked to the others before I got here and asked them to leave it alone. Everyone else ends up with a different present than they started with, but when it’s time to tear them open, no one seems to mind.

My fingers pick at the thin red tissue, and when the contents sit bare, my heart stills in my chest. The burbling brook from earlier turns into a crashing, churning waterfall in my ears, blotting out my ability to hear or see, to react. I feel eyes on me, know I should say something, look up, but it’s impossible.

It’s a brick from the crumbling, unoccupied tenth slave cabin at Darley. I’d recognize the deep shade of red, the scorch marks darkening the edges, even without the small stamp that bears the house signature of “DH” in the corner. The bricks were fired by slaves on the property, as they were on most eighteenth- and nineteenth-century plantations. The Cavies spent hours scouring our homes in search of little pieces of the past—fingernails, random evidence that was embedded in the bricks—left by the hands that formed our sanctuaries.

Chiseled on the front are the words “Charleston Academy, Class of 2015.” It’s so kind, such a beautiful gesture that puts on display what I hoped for with so much fervor: the chance to blend my past with a new present.

Jude’s maple eyes burn at the edges of my awareness, and the fear in them, that he’s done something wrong, brings tears to my eyes.

“Do you like it?”

I swallow, think about answering, then swallow again. It feels like a giant, sopping-wet washrag is stuck in my throat, and after a few more tries I give up, nodding instead. My legs get underneath me somehow, and I stand from the couch, clutching the brick and trying to breathe. It’s stupid to act like such a baby, and embarrassment starts to infringe on my absolute shock at the perfection of Jude’s gift.

It’s going to explode, the storm of my emotions that has been in a tussle for weeks, and the last thing I want is for that to happen here. For all of these beautiful, sweet, normal, funny kids to go back to wondering if I’m a freak show. I meet Maya’s gaze, trying to apologize silently. The fact that her eyes reflect nothing but sympathy strengthens the wind, the rain, and soaks the throbbing washcloth even more.

“Th-thank you for inviting me,” I stutter out before fleeing the room and the house and all of the unrealized dreams that grow heavier than ever.

The sound of the front-door buzzer, about thirty minutes later, makes me freeze. My father raps on my door a moment later, and I suck in a deep breath.

“Come in,” I say, leaning in front of the mirror to inspect the splotchy wetness in my face and eyes that doesn’t want to fade.

An edge sharpens my father’s calm—a tension in his shoulders and neck that reminds me of the first couple of days we lived together. The sight of it coils my muscles as they prepare to face whatever’s upset him.

“There’s a young man downstairs who would like to see you, but I wanted to talk to you before sending him up. You seemed upset when you got home. I didn’t want to push because this is all new territory, but… if he hurt you somehow at that party, or any other time for that matter, I’ll take care of him.”

It makes me smile that he’s being such a dad, worrying that Jude—I assume it’s Jude—did something inappropriate or mean. It’s the tiniest bit tempting to use his protectiveness to send Jude away, to relieve me of having to face him after my rude display following the sweetest gift ever, but I can’t do that to the boy downstairs or to my father. Neither of them deserves it.

“I’m having kind of a rough time transitioning, I guess, but Jude didn’t do anything wrong. He’s a good guy.”

My dad nods, relief pushing some color back into his cheeks. “I thought so. I mean, everyone has great things to say about his athletics and school, plus he handles his father. But I don’t care what other people think of him. It matters what
you
think of him.”

“He’s a good friend.”

“Hmm.” He reaches out and ruffles my hair, eyebrows raised. “The pained expression suggests Jude has more than friendship on his mind, Norah. I can’t say I’m thrilled about that, but if you’re having a hard time, friends are the best medicine. Old and new.”

“Thanks, Dad. You can let him come up.”

“Fine. But you leave the door open.” He nods, his expression thoughtful. “Yes. New rule. No closing the door when there’s a boy in your room.”

“Even Shiloh?” I ask, stunned at the idea that there could be rules surrounding my relationship with the Cavies. It almost makes me laugh.

“
Especially
Shiloh,” he says with a wink before heading out the door and back down the stairs. It makes me snort, because he’s got my old friend pegged. Even the staff at Darley often assumed that Mole presented no threat because he’s blind. He uses that misconception to his advantage.

Soft footsteps, slow but not hesitant, approach. My stomach leaps and twirls, sick with anticipation and the lack of any idea of how to explain my strange reaction. Then Jude’s in the doorway, a confident smile on his face and my off-white coat held out like a peace offering.

“You forgot your coat.”

I take it from him, closing my fingers tight around the collar to stop them from shaking. “Thank you.”

We stand there basking in awkwardness for a few seconds before his gaze leaves my face and peruses my room. I cleaned it over the past couple of days while I’ve been doing pretty much nothing, so there’s no worry about stray underwear or anything else embarrassing laying around, but having him here in my space makes me too warm, anyway.

His eyebrows go up when they land on my desk, and my stomach sinks. The presents.

“You didn’t open any of them,” he says, walking over and touching the first one lightly. “Why not?”

Discomfort pricks my skin, and I feel a little bit naked in the face of the questions. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do, Norah.” He faces me, his back to the little red packages and his weight braced on the chair. “I want to know you better, but I’m just a dumb jock. Help me out.”

My smile feels woozy. “You’re about the furthest thing from a dumb jock. I don’t… I think I like the idea of imagining what’s in the packages more than opening them. It might be a disappointment afterward, but now, they’re wonderful little promises.”

“That’s kind of a beautiful way to look at them, but it’s also sad. If you never rip the paper off anything, really try it out, you’ll never know whether it could make your life better.” He shrugs. “I mean, what if one of them is the best blender in the entire world, and you could be enjoying epic fruit smoothies every single morning instead of coffee in an old South Carolina travel mug?”

“That’s a very specific image.” My smile gets sturdier. “But what if it’s an ugly sweater?”

“I doubt anything would look too ugly on you,” he murmurs, eyes sliding down from my face. It’s not a leer, it’s not even an appreciative smirk, and the honest attraction he displays makes me tingle.

“You’re too nice, Jude. You don’t even know me.”

“I know I want to get to know you. I know you’re scared but not why. And I’m worried there’s more going on behind those pretty blue eyes than fitting in at a new school or picking electives for next semester. We just met, and I think you’re beautiful and mysterious and intriguing. Are you seriously going to deprive me of the chance to unwrap
my
gift?”

It’s an odd analogy, one that could even be taken the wrong way if uttered by someone other than Jude, but I know he doesn’t mean
unwrap
in any kind of inappropriate sense. It makes me hotter, liquid warmth fusing with my blood, to realize that I wouldn’t mind too much if he
did
intend the double entendre.

“What if you find something disappointing? Like socks.”

“I am never disappointed by socks. Saves me having to bleach the old ones.” His eyes tease, sparkling as they dance in amusement.

“Fine, point taken. But seriously, isn’t the mystery more exciting?”

It’s not that I want to keep him intrigued, but I do need to keep him at arm’s length. He’s too adorable, too insistent, too good at getting me to open up without realizing I want to.

Too dead within the year. Maybe because of me.

“Not always,” he murmurs.

He does mean something more than the words that time, and tosses me a wink that makes my knees turn to Jell-O. It’s too hot in this room, too small, too tight.

“How about we start with something simple and we open these presents. Then, we can talk about why you freaked out at the party.”

I bite my lip, inching toward the desk. “What if I freak out again?”

“Hey, we all need to freak out once in a while. I’ve got a few hours before curfew.”

The paper of the first package cools my fingertips. The gift nestles inside more tissue paper, and it takes a little more unwrapping to unearth a Charleston Academy keychain. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me after each one, just wait until the end.”

“Okay.”

The second gift, a wilted sprig of bright pink camellias that looks exactly like the ones that drape the gates at Darley, brings tears to my eyes. The third is a CA basketball wristband, the kind that all the students wear to the games. Next is a handful of fresh pecans—the once-product of the family who built Darley. Then a scene from a play or script, folded up into a square.