Heaven Sent (6 page)

I
tried to catch up with the black-clad grocery boy named Tim but lost him in the crowd.
Well, he may not be my dream guy, but he gets points for being fast,
I thought.

After losing him, I looked for Claire but couldn’t find her. And so I spent the extra ten minutes just chasing people to no avail. I finally had to give up and go to class. Which, by the way, was exceedingly boring, excessively boring, more boring than I ever thought possible. I doodled and thought about all the ways Tim was probably fabulous. He had to be: My sister, my keep-her-nose-in-books-all-day-long sister, was attracted to him. I daydreamed that he was supersmart and worldly and poetic. I thought about how he and Polly would look walking down the halls of Nova High together. I thought about all the attention they might get as the coolest couple in high school and how I, as her adorable little sister, might reap some popularity benefits.

At the end of class I found Claire and finally got to ask her…

“So, who is that guy who’s always wearing black, the hairy one?”

“You mean old man Fisher?”

“No, the student, the one with the scruffy face who seems to know everyone?”

“Oh, you mean Tim Rhys? Why do you want to know about him? He’s a full-on poseur.”

“What’s a full-on poseur?”

“Heh, heh, heh. A poseur is someone who pretends to be something he’s not. That Tim guy pretends to be some worldly poet and musician, but really he’s just a popular jockey, playing each group, attempting to climb the social ladder to complete studdom. But truth be told, he’s a fake. Please don’t tell me you find him attractive?”

“No, no, not me,” I said, fiddling with my notebook dejectedly. This was really not the kind of guy I wanted for my sister. But then, who was I to say who she should be dating? It was all about getting her
own
life, right? I looked up from my notebook to see Claire staring at me curiously. I decided to change the subject.

“So you didn’t tell me, what did today’s Backroom Betties note say about me?”

“Oh, that. You shouldn’t let it get to you—those girls are worse than poseurs. They’re downright mean little witches.”

“I know, but what did it say?”

“It said, ‘Thalia and her sisters are aliens. Pass it on.’ But you know no one believes a word they say, right? And the people who do are so clueless, they’re not worth your time.”

“Uh-huh, right.” I paused. “What’s an alien?” Claire tilted her head and squinted at me, then she
started giggling.

“Oh, Thalia, you are too much. Aliens? You know, little green guys from outer space? You guys don’t talk about aliens in Europe?”

“Oh, nah,” I replied, a little embarrassed. But it was impossible to feel all that embarrassed about that kind of stuff around Claire. She seemed to think all my little questions and dumb mistakes were funny and kind of cool.

“Well, thanks for being my friend, anyway. Even though I am a dirty, smelly, circus-freak alien.”

“You’re the nicest dirty, smelly, circus-freak alien I’ve ever known. See you tomorrow. And stay away from Tim Rhys.”

I didn’t bother to set Claire straight. I wished I could tell her it was Polly who liked Tim and I agreed he was a poseur, but that it was really important for Polly to find a boy of her own. But telling Claire why
that
was would mean telling her about Daddy’s challenges, and telling her about Daddy would mean…well, I just didn’t want to get into it.

Ugh. I let out a sigh. The only shot I had at fulfill
ing those challenges was to help Polly find love. And that didn’t seem so appealing now.

Both Polly and Era were already at our meeting spot on the bench outside when I got there. As I approached them, so did another. One Tim Rhys.

“Hi. Polly, right? I’m Tim. I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your poem today in lit class. It was very powerful. You have a true gift.”

Polly looked at him, wide-eyed and stunned. She didn’t say anything, just smiled.

“Hi, I’m Era. Do you play that thing or what?” Era said, nodding at the instrument Tim had strapped over his back.

“Um, you mean the guitar? Yes, I play some tunes,” he said, smiling as if he was trying to look modest but failing miserably. “So, Polly, what do you say we share our Rossetti notes? I’d really love to hear what you have to say about her feminist themes. I have a real postmodern take on her work that you might enjoy hearing. I rather pride myself on being a cultured guy. Yep, I have to admit, I’m a rootin’ tootin’, red-blooded feminist.”

My sister just stood there and nodded.

“Okay, then. How about we talk Monday after class? Have a great weekend.” And he left. Without saying so much as a good-bye to Era or myself. Maybe he
was
as smitten with my sister as she was with him. And why not—she is supersmart and
incredibly beautiful. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe Claire was wrong.

“What’s a feminish?” asked Era.

“I have no idea,” said a flushed Polly. Her cheeks were beet red, the color of the most brilliant hibiscus flowers.

“Well, he seemed to be hot for Pol, eh, Thalia?” Era said, poking Polly.

“Wha?” Polly asked, still in a daze.

“He was practically drooling over you,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

“No, he wasn’t,” said Polly, snapping back to her own practical self.

“Yes, he was!” both Era and I screamed.

“No, no,
no
! And besides, I have no interest in him.”

“How on earth do you expect us to believe that, Polly? If you’re going to lie, you’d better start trying a little harder to conceal your real emotions. You actually trembled when he was talking to you.”

“Okay, fine, I think him cute. And smart. And worldly. But that’s all.”

“That’s enough,” cooed Era.

“Anyway, he’s very popular here. I’m quite sure he has no interest in me outside of my English notes,” said Polly.

“You are being way too modest here,” I said truthfully. “But don’t worry—leave it up to me, and you
shall have your unshaven man.”

“
No!
Thalia, no! I beg you, no. I forbid you to interfere.”

“You can’t forbid me. Forbid me? Forbid me from doing you a favor. Oh, please, Polly.”

“I’m serious, Thalia—don’t do anything. Anything at all. Don’t you remember, you’re the one who’s always saying that we did not come here to meet boys? Don’t start making efforts for love on my part. I’m perfectly happy just as I am, just as things are.”

“You’re clearly not. You’ve been mooning around the house since we got here. You’ve been dazed and confused. You’ve been…”

“Lovesick,” said Era.

“Take it from someone who knows,” I said, putting my hand on Era’s elbow. “You are lovesick.”

“Stop! I mean it. You are to do nothing. Leave him be.” Polly sighed. “Let’s just get home—I’d like to watch that TV thing some more.”

“All weekend!” enthused Era.

I, too, had become totally addicted to TV during the short time we’d been on earth. The talk shows, the reruns, the WB. I loved the drama, the clothes, the way people talked. Not to mention it helped me pick up all the modern words and phrases.

“TV works for me,” I chimed in.

Just then a shiny jet-black chariot, which I now knew was called a car, slowed down alongside us.
Inside were my least-favorite girls: You guessed it, the Backroom Betties. The three evilest ones from science. They just stared us down as they drove on by. I felt that familiar tingly feeling again, like something bad could happen at any moment, and I had no idea what it was or how to stop it. The feeling went away, though, as the car pulled out of sight.

“Yep, those girls are evil,” said Era.

I couldn’t have agreed more. In fact, something about them reminded me of home.

Yes, we three Furies have a brand-new name,

The Backroom Betties, we are one and the same.

With some crafty time travel, we arrived first

To ensure that the Muses’ bubble is burst,

Which will be easy, we cannot tell a lie,

Since the eldest has fallen for that unshaven guy,

And, of course, poor Polly will not make such a match

For this is our plan, which we have just hatched:

Thalia’s efforts will all amount to a sham,

And Polly will be betrayed by her man.

She’ll be so ashamed, she’ll give up on school

And break one of Hera’s strictest earth rules,

For we know something that the Muses do not

Since Hera confided to us three her plot

That if the Muses give up on going to class

A new punishment will soon come to pass,

The streets of earth they will no longer roam,

Tartarus will become their permanent home.

Now let us get back to our craft, our own little coup,

We need to make more trouble so there is a book two!

“Y
our father, he said you wanted to see me,” Apollo practically whispered. I had been waiting for him in the Prism Gardens, and he had snuck up on me from behind. I could feel his breath on my neck. The little hairs at my nape tingled. I was most certain it was a draft, because I had never noticed that happening around him before. Surely I had been this close to Apollo in the past.

I turned around quickly and found myself just inches from his face. His face, which at that moment in time looked nothing like the Apollo I knew. His jaw was clenched tight, his gaze cast down his perfectly straight nose at me solemnly.

“Your father said you had something to tell me,” he said stiffly.

“Yes, I have something to say.”

I tried to manufacture a smile. This was far harder than I thought. And not just because I didn’t want to get married. I hated lying to Apollo. He was my best friend. And right now he looked so serious, so foreign to me.

“Thalia, now first, listen to what I have to say, please,” he said, his eyes softening into the eyes of the Apollo I knew, only warmer, deeper. You’d never have known that he was a brave, adventurous, rabble-rousing god.

“Thalia, I can’t imagine what you’re thinking. I’m sorry I didn’t express my feelings to you first, before I went to your father. I thought it was proper, and I thought, well, truth be told, I didn’t think.” He paused, taking my hands in his. Breathlessly he said, “While the fact is, I do think—I think of you all the time. Thalia, I’ve been in love with you my whole life.” His deep, dark green eyes bored into mine, but I looked away. This didn’t make any sense to me. We were friends, capital F.

“I—I—I,” I stuttered, pulling my hands out of his and stepping back, right into a potted rhododendron. I stumbled backward, and Apollo grabbed my shoulders, pulling me upright in one powerful tug. I could feel my face turning bright red as he held on to me a moment longer than he needed to. Then he started to laugh. And I started to laugh. It wasn’t really that funny, but the laughing made a lot
of the tension in the air go away. And I loved to listen to Apollo laugh.

I finally caught my breath and straightened up a bit. Apollo looked at me expectantly, and I cleared my throat. “Apollo, you are my friend, my very favorite friend. I thought, well, I thought that was all. You just never let on that you felt more than friendship for me.”

“Come on, Thalia. Surely you’ve felt it. Some part of you must have known.”

“Um, no,” I said. “How? Why? I mean, what makes you think you want to marry me?”

“Why,” Apollo replied, shaking his head in disbelief. “You are the funniest, brightest, silliest girl I know. You are beautiful and exciting, no, thrilling, and creative. These are things that you, singularly, are to me. Not one of nine Muses, but Thalia.”

Boy, he was in love. Even on my best day I’m not thrilling. Or beautiful. Cute, maybe. I looked at Apollo, really looked at him maybe for the first time ever, and realized he was the beautiful one. You’ve never seen lashes like his. And his skin—it was milky pure with just a splunket of rosiness at the apples of his perfectly formed cheekbones. He was perfect.

So perfect.

Too perfect.

And his lips. Come to think of it, his lips were
perfect, too. I couldn’t stop staring at them. But his lips weren’t the point. Not at all. “A-Apollo,” I stammered, trying to stay focused on why I’d come here in the first place, “I think…well, maybe I might…marry you.” That was all I could get out—it was hard enough deceiving my friend. I couldn’t go overboard.

“Remember that day, Thalia, the one where we hijacked Pegasus from your sister Calliope
*
and we took off on his back, racing through the clouds and down into Athens?” he said softly.

“How could I forget?” I said.

“It was my most favorite day ever.” And as he said those seven words I thought them in my head: It was my most favorite day ever.

“Pegasus never saw us coming,” I remembered.

“He was so stunned and didn’t want to go, and then you sang to him, you sang ‘Souvlaki Con Grakki’ so beautifully, it was like magic, and you convinced him and that was that, and we were off. I don’t have that kind of power over him. Only you.”

“You teased me about it that whole day—you said that my voice cracked when I sang and that I was an evil trickster….”

“Don’t be foolish, Thalia. That was my way, my way of avoiding what was really on my mind. Love. Pure, incredible, soul-deep, fantastical, crazy love.” He was standing closer now, his lips almost touching
mine. Was he actually going to try to kiss me? I jumped back, laughing nervously.

“I like the teasing,” I said, trying to gain control of my spinning brain. “It’s how you and I talk. I don’t like this serious Apollo.”

And it was true—I did like the teasing and the sarcasm. I liked it all. Apollo made me feel so good when we hung out. When we were together, I didn’t feel like just one of nine Muses; I felt special and smart, and I even sometimes felt like a beautiful only child.

So what was I doing? Marrying him? Not marrying him? Lying to him! Giving myself a disease! It was too much. I felt like I was falling down some crazy spiral cloud; I felt dizzy; I felt out of control. Apollo made me feel so special and smart, and he was fun. Fun! I felt so confused. I was lying to my best friend, and for what?

Suddenly everything went black. I must’ve fainted because the next thing I knew I was flat on the cold, hard ground, dirty and sore. Apollo was kneeling over me, stroking my hair. “Thalia, are you okay? Thalia, Thalia!”

I looked up at those deep green eyes, eyes that looked right back at me. Eyes that were filled with worry and panic and love. I nodded to let him know I was okay and thought, I cannot do this. This couldn’t be more wrong. I cannot lie to him. He’s the
most wonderful and beautiful person in the whole universe.

But as I lay there on the floor, my heart and head racing with confusion, Apollo continued to speak.

“Thalia, from now on you will never lift a finger again. I will take care of you forever and ever. You can live your life as a lady, as you deserve, with no cares in the world. You will live your life like a queen.”

And he went on and on with this ludicrous talk. What was making him say such things? Was he just worried about me? Did he think this drivel was what I wanted to hear? Or could this be the real Apollo? I felt truly, genuinely ill. I felt nauseous. I felt angry. He knew me better than this, didn’t he? Or did he? Was his love blinding him so badly that he actually thought I wanted to live like some stuffy old queen on a hill?

Perhaps, I thought, I hit my head when I fell. This has got to be some horrible, horrendous bad dream. I shook my head hard, but Apollo was still droning on, “And you will only wear the finest lace and corsets and jewels. And you will have ladies to wait on you for everything, everything—”

“Enough!” I almost yelled. “Shush. Fine, I will marry you,” I said with not so much as a smile.