Seers (7 page)

There she goes, frowning again. Come on, Eri. No Oscar for this performance. You don’t want to talk to me. I get it. But why?

Lunch went well, I thought. Her friends seemed to like me. All except Luke. Could he have said something to her? Could he have decided that what he found out about me doesn’t work for him or the group? That’s got to be it. He doesn’t approve of me.

Just as quickly as I blame Luke for Eri’s silent treatment, I decide how to handle it. Do nothing. It’s not my style to do the whole “Are you mad at me?” thing. Too girly and childish. I also don’t force myself on anyone. I always take the hint.

“Sure. I have a lot of work to do, too.”

And I do. I get right to work. As I sit there, though, I question if this reaction, just letting her be, is the right one. Sure, it’s what comes naturally to me. I am not a chaser. I like to be chased. Hunted. Wanted. I am most comfortable when it’s others doing the asking. It’s not that I don’t like to be around people. I do. But I also don’t mind being alone. And the idea of being with someone who doesn’t want to be with me, just the idea of it, makes me squirm.

I saw a movie a few weeks ago. The movie was about a young girl and her first crush. What sticks with me is not the girl’s character or her crush’s. It was the girl’s older brother. He was the most popular boy in school, a lady’s man, and, of course, as predictable movies go, a huge jerk to the girl. One of the things he would do is make her into his secretary. He was juggling so many girls at once that he needed his sister to take messages for him and make excuses as to why he was unavailable—meaning out with another girl or simply avoiding her. The phone rang constantly. Girl after girl called and called again.

“Tell Janie I’m at work. Tell Samantha I’m playing basketball. Tell Michelle I’m busy. Tell Rachel I died… .”

Blatant lies, eyes rolling when he was told what girl was on the phone, constant complaining about the ones who just wouldn’t take a hint.

And that was all it took for me. Now I imagine a boy on the phone with his friend after a date with me telling the friend that he would rather have been out with anyone else but me and wishing I had never asked him out in the first place. It has become my greatest fear. I have no friends, no family, no real relationships, so when I meet potential candidates for the job openings, I need to be sure they want to be in my life for good. Missions allow reprieve from my fears, considering these are not meant to be genuine social interactions that star me as myself. Even so, I know that I can never truly separate my natural social instincts and my mission character. But I will take measures whenever I can to ensure that when I am around someone, he or she wants me there. I figure if I get someone else to do the asking, for my name, for my number, for my friendship, for my time, he or she must want to be around me.

Eri and I are different. This relationship cannot be optional, and I can’t take the hint or refuse to reach out to my mission subject. She’s the whole reason I’m here. If she gives me the brush-off permanently, my mission is over. And what do I tell Tobias?
Oh, I’m sorry to disappoint you and every other Seer in existence, but my mission subject doesn’t like me anymore, and, see, I have this thing about forcing myself on people… . I need her to reach out to me.
Yeah, that’ll go over well.

Okay. I’ll wait until ten minutes to the end of the period. I’ll leave my comfort zone. I’ll initiate. I can do this.

With fifteen minutes left in the period, I can’t take it any longer. The flip-flopping in my stomach has become annoying and if I don’t start this soon, I’ll be so annoyed and amped up I’ll probably start with her instead of reaching out to her.

“Did you get a lot done? How’s it coming along?” Good. A yes-no question and then one that requires elaboration. She’ll have to talk enough that I can feel out her body language and tone.

“Yeah, I guess. It’s looking okay.” She keeps her eyes down and to the left. She is wagging her crossed leg. Her shoulders are slumped forward. Her dark straight hair covers all but the outer inch of them. She’s pinching her full lips together slightly. Her voice is quiet, a little squeaky and unsure. She’s … wait a minute… . She’s not mad. She’s not avoiding me maliciously. The pose, the voice, like a chastised child. She’s guilty? She’s feeling guilty? For what?

“Are
you
okay?” Here I go, diving in the Sea of Put Yourself Out There.

“I guess … I … I just feel so bad!” She blurts out the last part as if it had been burning her tongue for quite some time.

“Bad for what? What did you do? You didn’t do anything.” I’m talking too fast, but I’m afraid she’ll shut down again.

“About your parents. About you having no parents.” Eri looks up at me now. Her eyes are pleading. She is genuinely upset! What is with this girl? I play back the scene at the lunch table in my head. She seemed shocked to find out, but she didn’t do or say anything wrong that I could remember. She didn’t do anything to feel bad about. Did she?

“Eri, thanks, but you don’t have to feel bad for me. I’m okay. I—”

Eri shakes her head and interrupts, “Leesie, do you know what I was thinking when I heard you say that? Do you know the first thing that came to my mind when I found out?” She jerks her head up and looks me straight in the eyes. She pauses. And the quiet, squeaky, unsure tone of her voice is replaced by a matter-of-fact evenly stated “I was jealous.”

Uh, okay?

She’s still looking at me. She’s waiting for me to say something. She wants my gut reaction. I decide to minimize the situation.

“Jealous? Yeah, I get it.” She doesn’t seem satisfied, so I continue, “I know how parents can be even if I don’t have any. And I know how it is to look at someone else’s situation and, problems and all, wish you had it instead of your own. I get it, Eri.”

“I just feel like an ingrate. To acknowledge in my head, and now to you, that I would rather be an orphan than have my parents. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you. I don’t know why I did.”

We lock eyes again. I notice for the first time the yellow flecks in her brown eyes. I really look at her. She has a round face with high cheekbones and a strong jaw. She has Asian features from her dad. Her eyes are almond shaped, big, but lighter brown than if she were all Japanese. Her mom must have light eyes, hazel maybe. Eri is clearly beautiful.

But she doesn’t radiate beauty; she radiates mediocrity, if that’s possible. If she were a campfire, she would be the fire you awake to in the middle of the night. Not the roaring flames you went to bed to, told stories around, roasted marshmallows in. The one that burns highest and brightest. And not the fire everyone will wake to in the morning, only glowing embers left, smoking and snuffing themselves out. The one with nothing left to offer. No, she’d be the calm, low fire that burns when no one is watching. The one that keeps everyone warm but gets no rubbing hands held over it, no admiring faces, no
oohs
and
ahhs
as it pops and crackles. She’s the fire whose only purpose is to be a fire and stay lit through the night. And my job is to find out why that is.

“I’m glad you told me” is all I say. I haven’t felt the need to overstate anything with her. I don’t feel like I have to say too much or fully explain myself.

“Me, too,” Eri says slowly, as she gathers her books. “I guess I’ll see you at Patrick’s meet.”

“Yep. See you.”

I walk the halls now like Frances, staring straight ahead and seeing no one. My head is so full. First the anxiety before the lunch meeting. Then the question-and-answer session at lunch. And then Eri’s jealousy. I can’t wait to get home to sort through all this in my head. I need to be alone to think. But that isn’t going to be possible for a while. So I better get into a social mood, or at least pretend, because it’s almost time for group meeting number two.

We meet in the parking lot after school. It turns out that Patrick Crown’s race is in Philly, so the driving arrangements we made before no longer make sense. We decide that Eri will still drive Daisy and Luke in her car, Patrick will take Frances, and I’ll be driving alone.

“This way you can head right home after the meet,” Patrick says.

“Yeah, sure. No problem. I can meet you guys there,” I answer, masking my displacement. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts, but not between gatherings. I begin to fear my ability to bounce back into conversation mode after being quiet and in my head during the drive. Plus this driving arrangement makes me feel out of the circle when I’d been so sure they were inviting me in. I’ve gone from being one of them to being someone just showing up to watch the Mighty Patrick row his way to stardom.

I wait with Frances while Patrick gathers and loads his gear into his car. He is two meets away from earning a spot on the national rowing team. Today’s meet could inch him to the next level.

The race is at Boathouse Row. I don’t know much about the area except that there is money there. A lot of money. I could tell that just from my view from I-95. Not that my area of the city is bad. There’s nothing wrong with the Northern Liberties section of Philly, but it isn’t the old money that Boathouse Row represents. These missions are funny like that. I have to get into circles of people no matter where they come from or what they have. And they have to be okay with me as I am. Regular. I’m sure I don’t appear poor, but I know my companions are aware that I am no heiress. Or am I? Funny thing is, I have no idea. Do I come from money? Were my parents scraping by, middle class, destitute? Tobias pays my expenses now. He pays for my food, clothing, my phone. I guess you could say I “work” for him and the Seers organization. I have no identity where money is concerned. I think that frees me in a way, I decide. I get to base my worth and how I am perceived by others on something other than class and status.

“So, Frances, what’s this going to be like?”

“You’ve never been to a crew meet before?” I shake my head, and she continues: “Well, we’ll see the start and the end. His crew will break away from the pack pretty early, and they’ll round a bend. Then we wait. His team will be the first one we see heading back. We cheer. He smiles. The end.”

She’s matter-of-fact, not condescending or annoyed. She seems almost pleased with being able to describe future events with so much assurance as to how they will turn out. She seems to like bragging about her friend.

“Okay. Good. I like to know I am the guest of the one who will be in the winner’s circle.”

“Ready, guys?” Patrick slams the trunk of his Mercedes. “I want to be a little early. Leesie, I won’t see too much traffic, will I? My races aren’t usually right after school like this.”

“We should be good. I haven’t been having a hard time getting home.”

“Great.”

Patrick looks away from me to address the rest of the group, “Give Leesie your phone numbers in case we get separated. Parking can be tight. I’ll text the dock’s address. Everybody follow me!”

Patrick gives a wave to Eri, Luke, and Daisy to get them in motion. They’re on the other side of the parking lot and seem to have been watching us. They wave back and pile into Eri’s car.

I’m relieved that Patrick didn’t ask me to lead. I’m sure he’s had meets at Boathouse Row before and is comfortable driving there. But I’ve noticed South Jersey people tend to make the Philly people do the piloting. Too many one-way streets and two-way stops. This way I get to blindly follow.

I settle into driving, paying attention to the types of cars on the road, to how many red lights we hit before getting on the highway, to the tractor-trailer driver who slows to let us all merge over to take the Ben Franklin Bridge exit, to the lady in the toll booth whose hair is dyed the color of a maraschino cherry, to the way Eri hugs the wall in the right lane of the bridge. Most people hug the center line, almost crossing it, afraid their car will sideswipe the wall, the only barrier between car and river. Having a wall on one side makes most people feel penned in and vulnerable. But I hug the wall, too. I like having something solid next to me the way I like to lean against the solid steel of an elevator as I move up or down at speeds I don’t care to know. I also like the inside seat at a booth or a captain’s chair over one with no arms. A more controlled environment.

When we park at Boathouse Row, I’m overwhelmed by how lovely it is. The boathouses, with their sharp-peaked roofs and colorful beams over white or tan stucco, are a perfect contrast against the Schuylkill River. Some are Tudors, some grand stone structures with turrets and columns. One house has a red top half that highlights three half-oval windows. The bottom portion of the house is a cream color. The bright-red door with white trim around the window is like sparkling teeth in a smiling ruby-lipped mouth. The effect is something out of a fairy tale. Surely this is the house Hansel and Gretel couldn’t resist entering. The bustle of the city shakes hands with the calm of the water, and I am better. I suddenly feel like I could stay here all day. I don’t want the afternoon to end.

I shake myself from my architectural daze to the issue at hand. This afternoon will end, but not before I become comfortable in this group. I have to meld into them seamlessly, an easy fit. And that is not going to happen if I keep gawking at boathouses instead of getting out of the truck and joining them.