Lost in Thought (11 page)

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but trustworthy. Now, maybe we shouldn’t keep Mr. Penrose waiting any longer? I’m sure you have a lot of questions for him too.”

Did I ever.

e was waiting on the porch steps, elbows propped on his knees. When I opened the door, he stood abruptly, already H wearing his familiar measured look along with something new, a touch of wariness I’d never seen him exhibit before. He looked almost exactly the same as the first time I’d seen him—black tshirt, comfortable jeans, handsome face—but it seemed as if I was looking at someone entirely new, and a little foreign.

“I’m your
assignment
, huh?” I said. It came out not at all like I had intended. I’d meant it to be light and teasing, but my real emotions betrayed me. Instead of a joke, my question was a bitter, angry accusation.

He blanched. “Lainey, I…I wanted to tell you, but I wasn’t allowed. I had to wait until we were sure. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I spat at him. “I don’t need your sorry. Let’s get to work. I have a lot of questions, and it’s apparently your
job
to answer them. Where to, Mr. Penrose?”

“Lainey, please.” A tiny bit of pleading had crept into his usually confident voice. Like yesterday, he reached out his hand as if he would touch me, but seemed to think better of it and let it fall before I had

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the chance to smack it away. “Please don’t be like that. I don’t…you’re not…”

“Save it, Carter.
Where to?
I really do have a lot of questions and nothing but time for the next two days to get them answered.”

He sighed and stepped down off my porch. “Do you want some coffee first?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Your treat.”

I ACTUALLY WANTED coffee, a cheese croissant, and an apple Danish.

Carter manfully paid for everything I chose, without complaint or comment about the caloric content of my lunch, and waited patiently while I painstakingly perfected my blend of cream and sugar. He bought nothing but black coffee for himself. As we walked from the coffee shop to Penrose Books in silence, I blew on my coffee and watched the steam rise slowly into the sky. I imagined my anger dissipating with it, being replaced by something heavier and slower-burning: embarrassment.

How humiliating,
I thought to myself. Of all the things I’d learned in the last twenty-four hours, the hardest to stomach was that Carter had paid so much attention to me because he was instructed to. I was an idiot of the highest rank, a status I was not used to. Lainey Young had never been a girl who chased after a guy before, or got depressed when one didn’t return her affections. But then, I’d always been the girl who’d be gone in days or weeks. Rejection, I suddenly realized, had a painful and lasting sting.

Thankfully, we reached the bookstore before my stupid brain could do any more moping, but instead of going through the front door, Carter walked right past it. I slowed my steps behind him and looked around in confusion. “Where are we going?”

“Upstairs,” he replied. “There’s a seventh grade class doing a project in the store, and I thought it would be better if we avoided them.”

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“Don’t want to be seen with me anymore, now that the secret’s been discovered?” This time I had been
planning
on bitter and angry, but what I came out with was dejected. I
really
had to get my mouth and my brain on the same page. Clearly my mouth was determined to give me away.

Carter stopped in his tracks and looked at me for a long moment.

He swept his hand through his hair roughly, blue eyes glinting in anger. If I wasn’t supposed to be so pissed at him, I’d say it was the sexiest he’d ever looked.

His voice was quiet but intense. “God, Lainey, is that what you think? That I don’t want to be
seen
with you? That I don’t obviously enjoy your company, or…or that I wouldn’t be the envy of just about every guy at Northbrook within”—he glanced down at his watch— “approximately twenty-three minutes if I was witnessed by the seventh grade class escorting you through the bookstore and up to my apartment? I know you’re hurt, and you have reason to be, but I’ve never thought you’re stupid!” Quickly, he added, “I’m sorry.
I’m
the idiot here, and I’m not angry with you, but with myself. I…”

But it was too late. I knew it was coming, and I tried desperately to keep it in, but I couldn’t help it. I was stressed beyond comprehension, angry, and confused. I burst into tears. Again.

Carter’s eyes widened for a second before he cursed sharply under his breath. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “God, I’m
such
an idiot.” Then he put his arms around me.

Supposed to be angry or not, I let him. And it felt good. He was warm and strong, and right then, I felt like neither. He said nothing more, but didn’t move to let go until I’d stopped shaking and sniffling into his shoulder. I was vaguely aware of his hand making slow circles on my back. As my tears dried up, I realized we were still standing in the middle of the sidewalk, fairly awkwardly at that. I was in serious

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danger of crumpling my buttery, delicious lunch and spilling my coffee down the fronts of both of us.

“Ugh! I’m sorry,” I said, running the back of my hand holding the pastry bag across my cheeks. “I don’t usually do that. Really. My auntie is the crier.”

Carter smiled, a perfect, genuine smile that did wonders to brighten my dark mood. “It’s all right. I think you deserve at least one good cry.

And I deserve to get sniffled on. C’mon. Let’s go upstairs.”

AS WE TRAVELED up the less elegant back stairway that led to the apartment on the top floor, I was struck with a curious thought.

“Carter, who owns the bookstore?”

He glanced over at me. “Um, well, technically my aunt owns half and I own half. Why do you ask?”

“I was just wondering…if you…well, to be totally honest, I was wondering what you’re still doing here. Most guys your age would be off living it up at college somewhere.”

He laughed as we rounded the last flight of steps and he led me through the door into their cheerful eat-in kitchen. “I guess,” he replied, “though I think I have a pretty great life here too. I mean, usually I spend all day with books, which is nice enough, and then there’s today. How many college guys can say it’s part of his job to sneak a beautiful co-ed up to his apartment?”

Har har,
I thought. But I did appreciate the compliment, if not the reminder that I was part of his job. He kicked out a chair from the table for me and sat down on the opposite side after getting me a plate and napkin for my lunch. I put down my coffee and pulled out my notebook and pencil. I had already decided to treat this whole crazy situation as academically as possible, considering that most Sententia kids grew up understanding the world they lived in. I felt behind the curve.

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Carter sipped his coffee expectantly while I organized my thoughts and polished off my croissant. Most guys would have been bored or tried to fill the silence, but not Carter. I quickly added patience to my rather lengthy mental list of his virtues, while reminding myself that I really was hurt and angry with him. His hug notwithstanding, I hadn’t forgiven him for deceiving me.

I looked around the kitchen while I licked the last crumbs from my fingers. It wasn’t large, but comfortable and well laid out, full of original woodwork and had a huge, definitely original cast iron sink with gleaming white enamel. Overall, the room had an artful balance of modern and historic that made it a pleasant place to be. Warm sunshine streamed in from the window over the sink. I tapped my pencil on my list and, feeling overwhelmed, decided to start at the top.

“Okay,” I said. “I…know what I am. And I think I understand it. I mean, it just gives a legitimate reason for the visions that I’ve always thought meant I was crazy. I…perceive deaths. That sucks, by the way.

It’s a crappy gift if I ever got one. But it is mine, right, so I guess I just have to accept it.”

“Yeah, we can’t exactly choose our gifts,” he said, half smiling.

“Yours is pretty rare, in a way. And, uh, yeah, kind of sucky. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry it’s the one you’ve been dealt, but I have a feeling if anyone can handle it, it will be you. And with luck, I’ll be able to help you learn to control it better.”

“Thanks. That would be great. Honestly. Can I learn how to stop having the visions altogether?” I asked hopefully.

“Ah, no. Probably not completely. As a Diviner…the past and future tend to be a little insistent. But with practice, most Sententia have some level of control over when they use their gifts. For you it will mean first learning how to use yours at will, not just when a vision comes to you spontaneously.”

“So…you’re basically saying it will get worse before it gets better?”

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“Pretty much, yeah. Sorry,” he tacked on at the end.

I sighed. “No, I understand. It makes sense. But it’s not something I’m looking forward to.”

“You’re right,” he agreed. “If I’m going to get to spend time with you, examining people’s deaths is not exactly how I’d like to do it.”

I looked up at him from where I was scratching notes in my notebook. He had an impish grin on his face that suited him, like any kind of smile. It was contrasted by the sunshine streaming in from behind him, lighting up his golden-brown hair like a halo. Angelic and devil-ish, all at once. That wasn’t a bad metaphor for Carter Penrose, I thought.

“Honestly Carter,” I said peevishly, “it would be a lot easier to be pissed at you—which I still am, by the way—if you weren’t so damn charming all the time.”

That only made him grin more widely, which was infuriating, but all he said was, “What’s your next question, Lainey, or do you want me to talk in general and let you stop me along the way?”

“No, I have a list.” I waved it at him. “Like I said, I get what I am, but how did I get this way? How does it even work? It doesn’t seem possible. I…never believed this kind of stuff was real before.”

“Well, the first question is fairly simple. You got this way because one of your parents—in your case, definitely your father—was Sententia too. He’s about as big a mystery as your gift—I can’t find any helpful public records on his birth parents at all—but he must have been one of us. Anyway, our gifts are genetic. How it works? That’s a little more complex.”

He paused briefly, as if trying to decide exactly how to explain it.

There was a buzzing energy about him, a strange mix of boyish excitement and intellectual interest that had me leaning forward in my seat. I was fascinated already. Whether it was more about our topic or my tutor, I couldn’t be sure.

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“It’s…well, it’s brain power,” he continued. “A function of your brain. An
extraordinary
function of your brain. Average people can’t do what we can do. Historically and, uh, pretty simply, we just call it Thought.” Something in the way he said it made me think it was Thought, with a capital T. “As for the specifics, I can’t explain to you the exact process because none of us knows exactly. We have theories, sure, but the mechanics are…scientifically vague. You’ve probably heard how ‘humans only use 10% of their brain potential’ or some similar statement, right?”

I nodded.

“Well, that’s not precisely true; no one can accurately determine what percentage of the brain we use or don’t, but it
is
true that the mind’s capabilities are extensive and many of its functions are still basically mysteries. Honestly, most scientists will tell you what you said before: it’s not possible; this stuff isn’t real. Unfortunately they’re wrong, because we’re living proof to the contrary. Just because they can’t explain it, or can’t
believe
enough to accept it, doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

“I suppose this explains why my zillion brain scans didn’t show anything,” I muttered. I took a few sips of my rapidly cooling coffee while I processed everything he’d said. “But…so how
is
it possible that I can touch something or someone and perceive its past or, especially, its
future?
You said scientists don’t
believe
it, and that, well, that means whatever explanation you’ve got requires a ‘leap of faith’ or something, right?”

He cocked his head at me, hair still shining in the sun, that contemplative gaze strong on his face. “You really are amazing, you know that? Most unidentified Sententia
do
go crazy when—if—they ever learn the truth. You’re not just not going crazy, you’re adapting fluidly.

It’s incredible.”

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Sometimes I wondered if Carter really was more than eighteen years old. Most of the time he seemed like a normal, if highly intelli-gent, teenager. But then sometimes, when I listened to him discuss neurological theory, or when he said things like “adapting fluidly” as a compliment, I couldn’t help but think that Cartwright Penrose was somehow more gifted than even your average Sententia.

“You’re right about the ‘leap of faith,’” he continued. “Nowadays, if scientists don’t believe something they might call it pseudoscience, science fiction”—he coughed—“crazy bullshit. In the past, when it wasn’t
science
that ruled as popular theology, what did they call it when normal humans could do things they
shouldn’t
be able to do? Witch-craft, magic,
heresy
…or, rarely,
miracles
…” He watched me as he trailed off expectantly, waiting for me to come to my own conclusions.