His Eyes (3 page)

Chapter 3

“This is Sting, when he was in the band The Police, back in the 70s. You know,
Roxanne
,
Every Breath
You Take
? And then he went solo in the 80s....” I looked over to see if Tristan was listening, but his hands were busy inspecting my car. He stopped, probably realizing its truly sad state, at the foam-deep tear in his seat. It was a war wound from the post of a scarecrow my mom had impulsively wished to liberate.

Really.

As my Camry flew over a bump, Tristan braced against the door.

I laughed, “Come on, you’ve ridden in a car before.”

“This isn’t a car,” he grumbled. “This is how a Hotwheels feels when Chris rolls it down the stairs.”

“Oh yeah? Well, what kind of car do
you
have?”

Eh, probably not a good question, I realized after the words had left my mouth.

“
Great
therapist,” he said sarcastically. I saw how his face tightened and I wondered if I’d pushed too much. Expecting no further response, I looked back at the road and startled when he said in a low voice,

“Mercedes-Benz Cabriolet.”

I had no idea what that was, other than it sounded expensive. I fumbled, “It must be nice.” He shook his head and scoffed, “You don’t even know.”

“Hey, I didn’t mean to—” I began, but Tristan turned toward the window.

Feeling uncomfortable with the music, I hushed Sting and we rode in an awkward silence. None too soon, I saw a large sign looming over a hill. In large, curling letters it proclaimed:
Legacy Stables
. The road was lined with trees and they gave way to acres of lush green. The grass was blocked off by white wooden fences and surrounded by woodchip paths. Beyond all of this, the pale blue stables were silhouetted against the sky.

I pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine. While I removed my seatbelt, I felt Tristan’s attention on me. I pushed a strand of hair behind my ear as he asked, “Where are we?” I hesitated and then blurted, “Legacy Stables.”

He turned toward me and I swore he was glaring. He said coldly, “No.” I looked around the parking lot. There were only two other cars. I crossed my fingers and lied, “Listen, there’s no one here. We can just pretend it’s a park and sit on the grass or something.” Tristan frowned, disbelieving. “No one? On a Sunday?”

I winced, but how would he know the difference?

“Nope.”

While he climbed out of my car, I hurried around it and I stood in front of him. “Wait.” Hearing my voice, Tristan adjusted his steps so he wouldn’t walk into me. Again, I moved in front of him and now I pressed a hand against his chest. He jumped at the contact and stopped, like I hoped he would. I said, “Listen, we have to figure this out. I mean, it’s practical for you to use me; I can see and you can’t.” Catching my drift, Tristan folded his arms. “I’m not holding your hand.” I rolled my eyes. I wanted to yell “Yeah, well, I’m not attracted to you either!” Instead, I snapped, “Can you handle holding my arm?”

I thought I saw a smirk briefly on his lips. “All right.”

I made my arm into an ll-shape and caught his outstretched hand. His hand felt warm as his fingers wrapped around my left bicep, slightly above my elbow. Thankful that he couldn’t see my red face, I took a wrapped around my left bicep, slightly above my elbow. Thankful that he couldn’t see my red face, I took a step forward. There was an awkward moment when his arm jerked at my movement; then we matched each other’s pace. But, oh did I feel weird. What kind of girl has a guy holding onto
her
arm? Honestly.

We walked across the parking lot and onto the grass. I veered away from the sidewalk that led toward the stables and walked paral ell to a white fence, heading up a gentle slope. I stopped at the top of the little hill, which overlooked a broad pasture. Tristan removed his hand from my arm and I plopped onto the soft grass. He hesitated before lowering himself next to me.

I lay on my back and sighed as I looked up into the blue sky. The sun had decided to come out, after all.

“This is nice.”

Tristan propped himself up on his elbows. “It’s better than my room, I admit.” I rolled onto my side, facing him. Encouraged by his relaxed tone, I said, “You know, I heard your brother describing me. He didn’t do a very good job.”

He gave a short laugh. “So, describe yourself.”

There was nothing I hated worse than talking about myself. “Ugh, no.”

“Well, some people can’t.” Tristan nodded smugly.

I glowered. “Okay, I’ll describe myself: I’m a girl. There. Your turn.”

“Let’s see... I
was
a champion show-jumper. I had the life everyone wanted. But I lost it all, piece by piece, and now even my old ‘friends’ won’t call me because I’m a loser.” Maybe that was a bad question.

“Oh. Um, your family seems nice,” I said. “Well, I haven’t met your dad.” Tristan pushed his sunglasses up on his nose and said simply, “Maybe that’s ‘cause he died last fall.” Me: 0 for 2.

My mind blanked and I curled my fingers into the grass. “I-I’m sorry.” Silence, my arch nemesis, returned. He danced around, making mocking faces at me, until I felt completely uncomfortable. Suddenly, I heard sounds of approaching hoof beats and my heart began to pound along with them. I saw Tristan’s face go pale with realization. He turned to me, his voice taut. “You have to hide me!”

I gasped, “What?”

“Cover me!”

When I froze in confusion, his hand gripped my arm and pulled me roughly on top of him. My breath caught and I braced my palms against the ground just in time to keep my head from coll iding with his.

Because I was inches above him, my hair cascaded down around his face. I could see my panicked eyes reflecting in his dark lenses.

I heard the horse stop near the fence below. The rider, obviously looking up at us, mumbled something like, “Get a room,” and then yelled, “Hey, this is private property! You can do that someplace else!” I felt Tristan wave at the person and, after a tense moment, the hoof beats receded. Tristan’s hot breath brushed my skin. He smelled like an intoxicating mixture of cinnamon and sandalwood. A strange shiver ran down my spine and I was caught in the realization of how close my face was to his. Then I was caught without breath when he shoved me off of him and my back hit the ground.

He snarled, “That sure
seemed
like no one! That was Kristy Whitton. She’d love nothing better before the rehearsal than to tell all her little friends at Clarence how she saw me: ‘He really
is
blind! He was even being led around by some girl!’”

Wait...rehearsal? Curiosity brought me out of my embarrassment. “You’re graduating?”

“Yeah, next Friday.” Tristan gave a humorless laugh. “In other words, I was short a few credits, but good ol’ Mom bought all of the school board members new Beemers and,
voilà
, I get a diploma. This is my world,” he climbed to his feet, “and I’m going home.”

While Tristan towered over me, I expected him to charge away, but he didn’t. It took me a second to figure out why: he couldn’t find the car. He was standing there, fully indignant, but he couldn’t leave. To my figure out why: he couldn’t find the car. He was standing there, fully indignant, but he couldn’t leave. To my eyes, he suddenly appeared less imposing. I stood up and realized that he wasn’t even that much taller than me, maybe a half-foot over my 5’5”.

Feeling empowered, I took a step back when he reached out his hand and said, “In
my
world, I’d appreciate if you asked.”

“Oh, this isn’t enough?” Tristan gestured at the empty pasture and then at the space between us. “All of this isn’t enough? You think I’m going to beg you to take me home?” I said sternly, “I think you could manage treating me like a person.”

“You’re an employee!” he snapped. “My mother
pays
you, remember?” I sighed and rolled my eyes; we couldn’t seem to get away from that money thing. “Yeah, I remember.” I snatched his flailing hand and turned toward the parking lot. “Come on.”

* * *

I pulled up to the Edmunds’ house and wordlessly went to the passenger door. The ride back was uneventful—cold and silent, but uneventful. The wind had picked up, so I was able to focus my attention on keeping my little car on the road. As we walked to the house, I thought it was strange that we looked like we were walking together, when I felt like we were miles apart. I wondered how long the next few months would last; at this rate, they would take a mill ennium.

Chris was leaning over the railing into the foyer. He smirked impishly into my sour face and asked,

“What kind of seeing-eye dog are
you
?”

“Shut up,” Tristan snapped and let go of my arm to climb the stairs.

Sensing the dangerous state of his brother’s mood, Chris fled to his room. I smiled at this and turned to leave, when I found Mrs. Edmund standing in front of me. I pried my lips into a larger smile and said cheerily, “Oh, hi! He’s back, all in one piece!”

“Yes, yes he is.” Her face slid into a look of concern as she glanced upstairs. “Well, I guess we’ll need you on Thursday. I don’t suppose Tristan mentioned—”

“The rehearsal?” I piped.

Mrs. Edmund’s face brightened. “He told you?”

In so many words. “Yes, he did.”

“That’s wonderful! So, if you could be here around six thirty? Semi formal dress.” She looked briefly at my ripped jeans. “It is
Clarence
.”

My smile wavered. “Oh, right.”

Grayfield, Ill inois contained only two high schools. The foremost, Clarence, was a posh private school that boasted the richest teenagers in the area. They lacked in numbers, having only a few hundred students in all, but proudly proclaimed how this resulted in “intimate class size.” The preps took the propaganda to heart and were proud of their polished confines and high test scores and state-of-the-art technology...but that’s beside the point.

The second school, the public school,
my
school, was Grayfield High. We boasted 70s decor, somewhat up-to-date textbooks, and, if nothing else, hundreds more students! I wasn’t under some illusion that my high school was perfect, but I sometimes enjoy things a little vintage. I mean, what can I say? My mom’s a hippie. If it wasn’t for my dad, I would’ve been named Rainbow Sunchild.

Love of vintage, however, couldn’t keep me from hating my school’s nasty orange-and-mustard colored cafeteria when I walked through it the next day. I set my salad and pop onto an imitation wood table, and plopped onto a plastic chair across from Ahna Johnson. I’d known Ahna since we were both twelve and in braces. She knew that I’d never had a boyfriend for more than two weeks and I knew that she had never stepped a foot outside the state of Ill inois.

That’s bonding.

I poked at my brownish lettuce. “So, how was your weekend?” Ahna tossed her head and her red curls bounced. “Oh, okay. Lyle and I went to see that new scary movie—you know the one with the doll?” Lyle was Ahna’s boyfriend. He was a decent guy, if a little on the slow side. He had graduated last year and was working his way through tech school. “Hey, I called you on Saturday; your mom probably forgot to tell you. She said you were at an interview. How’d it go?” I shrugged. “Good. Well, I got the job, but there’s a catch.”

“Yeah?” Her burger ended its trek toward her mouth in midair. “What?” I tried to hold back my smile because I knew she would flip. “He’s our age.”

“Seriously?!
No way
! Why’d his parents hire you?” Ahna paused, considering. “Wait, is he hot?” I glared at her and she squinted back at me. “Aim....”

“What?” I snapped.

“Amy Rose Turner,” she leaned forward, looking truly concerned, “you are blushing.” I slammed my can down a little too hard and it splattered onto the table. I blurted, “He’s
blind
!”

“He’s—
really
? So you’re, like, his nurse?” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively at me. Sometimes I wonder why she’s my friend.

“
Shut up
, Ahna! It’s not like that!”

She laughed at me. “What’s it like?”

I sighed and wiped up the pop with a napkin. “He’s rich and his mom’s paying me to help him out—take him places. On Thursday I’m taking him to his rehearsal.”

Ahna’s mouth fell open. “You suck! She’s paying you to date an actor?”

“No!” I rolled my eyes. “It’s a rehearsal for his graduation from Clarence.”

“Figures the little Clarencites would get out early,” she grumbled. “Wouldn’t want to be late to the beach house in Florida.”

“They’re not
that
bad,” I said defensively.

“Tell me that after you meet them.” Her brown eyes latched onto me. “Wait. How much did you say you’re getting paid?”

I quickly forced a fork-full of food into my mouth and mumbled the offending price: “$20 an hour.”

“Ah
ha
! No wonder they’re ‘not that bad,’” she cackled victoriously before actually comprehending what I’d said. With the realization, her face nearly fell off. “$20
an hour
? Man, you better find some way to kill time with—what’s his name?”

“Tristan.”

“Tristan! Lay one on him if you have to.” Ahna dramatically clasped a hand over her heart. “I’m telling you this as your best friend who desperately wants you to room with her next year so she doesn’t end up sleeping next to a psychopath. And, Aim, you’re blushing again.” I glowered.

“Not everyone can be the next world famous oboe player,” she said, referring to her own scholarship and reason for going to Evanston. “You may have to make sacrifices...like kissing a hot boy.” I ignored her last comment. “Ahna, there aren’t
any
famous oboe players.”

“Bite your tongue. Orchestras tune to
us
.” Ahna tore into her burger and chewed thoughtfully. “But, about Thursday, isn’t this Charlie Week?”

I covered my face with my hands. She was right! It
was
Charlie Week! How could I forget? Charlie left home when I was about Chris’s age, so I’d basically been raised as an only child; much to the annoyance of Ahna, who was number three of four girls. Every year, on the anniversary week of his leaving—which Ahna and I’d dubbed “Charlie Week”—my mom set a special place at dinner for him each night.