Soul Crossed (7 page)

“You want to dance,” I tell her. She nods, and I take her hand. No sparks, I notice. Why did that happen with Grace? I’m distracted as the girl presses against me, threading her hands through my hair.

“Who’s the guy?” I ask after a few minutes of dancing.

“My fiancé,” she says, and I see the solitaire ring on her finger.

“But you don’t care if he has sex with her?” I ask. I know she’s bewitched, and it isn’t really
her
talking, but I want to hear her say it.

“Not if I can have you.” I’m disgusted and turned on at the same time as she rubs against me, our bodies moving in unison to the music.

“And if I want a foursome?” I ask. Keira looks over. She can hear what I say.

“Anything you want,” she says.

I push her away, and she falls to the ground. I hurry outside into the rain and wait. Keira is soon behind me. Together we climb into the car, crumpling the towels I threw over the seats to soak up the rain.

“What’s with all the drama?” she asks.

“None of it means anything,” I say. I can’t keep the disgust out of my voice.

“Too easy?” she asks, misunderstanding me. “You don’t need the glamour, you know. With looks like yours you could charm just about any girl and half the guys in there.”

“I don’t want any of them.” As soon as I say it, I realize it’s true. But she misunderstands me again. I guess three-hundred-and-fifty-year-old Demons are a little self-centered.

She climbs over the stick shift and straddles me. Her arms wrap around the back of my seat, and her chest is almost in my face. She starts to move like she’s on the dance floor, only we’re sitting, and all our parts are in alignment.

“Oh, Joshy,” she coos in my ear. Her breath is hot. “I didn’t realize how much I was torturing you.” She bites on my earlobe, and I squeeze my eyes shut. She moves a little faster, and my breathing speeds up. My hands trace the way up her back. Her skin is smooth and firm. Her mouth is on mine, and I’m lost, feeling my way around her body. She rips open my shirt and slides her hands down my chest, over my stomach, and into my jeans.

“Grace.” Her name slips from my lips before I can stop it.
Shit
. Keira’s off of me in an instant, staring at me like I smacked her. I wince because of the condition she’s left me in, but I know better than to try and move.

“Grace?” she whispers. Her eyes burn scarlet. “Do you have any idea how stupid it is to make a fool out of me?”

“I didn’t mean—” I’m desperate to explain.

“You will pay for this little insult, Joshy,” she promises. “And you know what? I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.”

It’s Sunday morning, and the sun is strong in the sky. The trees are almost bare. The torrential rains of the other night have driven most of the remaining leaves from their branches. Winter is on its way. But for now, I can sit on the hood of my Volkswagen Beetle and enjoy the sounds of the birds and the blue of the skies.

I got the Bug from Ms. Alvarez. She wasn’t too happy when I asked for a car. But when I explained where I was planning on going, she changed her mind. It wasn’t my first choice, but I am content to have my own wheels.

Since Heaven obviously does exist, I figure maybe I just need to guide Cam toward whatever greater power resonates with him, and it’ll steer him toward goodness. When I told Ms. A., she smiled and offered me more sugar for my tea, which I took as a sign that I’m finally on the right track. Plus, the Bug.

I glance at my watch. It’s time to go, so I climb in the driver’s seat and pull around the corner and in front of Cam’s building. I roll down the windows and wait, because he told me to. The sudden silence disturbs me. It’s as though the birds no longer come to this place. I shiver.

“Hi.”

I jump as Cam opens the passenger side door. I didn’t even hear him coming. “Hey,” I say. “Your mom still asleep?”

“Yeah, thanks for not waking her with the doorbell.”

“No prob.” I roll up the windows, and we’re on our way.

“I’m really glad you called me,” he says.

“Well, I’m really glad you agreed.” We drive in awkward silence the rest of the way. When I finally pull into the parking lot, I smile encouragingly.

“To tell the truth I’m not much on religion,” he says. I look up at the old church looming above and think of Ms. Alvarez. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea.

“To tell the truth, I never used to be either. But lately…” I let my voice trail off.

“Well, I’ll try anything for you,” Cam says, and I don’t know how to respond.

The inside is even more intimidating than the outside. Ten-foot stained-glass windows illustrate scenes of punishment doled out to sinners. One for each row of hard wooden pews lining the way to the altar. We sit toward the back, and I inspect the scene nearest us. An Angel in white with a golden halo behind his head stands in judgment of a man in rags, who holds his hands up above his head as he cowers at the feet of the being before him.

“What do you suppose he’s done?” I ask.

“Who knows. Stole bread to feed his family? Consorted with the Devil? What difference does it make? His fate is already sealed.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, surprised at the certainty with which Cam speaks.

“Once a deed is done, there’s no undoing it,” he says. “No matter how hard you pray.” The bitterness drips from his words, and I understand he’s talking about himself.

“You know, you can tell me anything,” I say. He nods with a smile. For a moment I imagine standing above him like the Angel in the window. Him cowering before me, begging for forgiveness. It makes me uncomfortable, and I look across the way to the other window in our row.

This time a horned devil stands amid the flames of Hell, accepting the sinners who seem to fall like rain from above into his outstretched hands. I can’t help feeling this is wrong as well. Maybe I should have tried this place out before I brought Cam here.

The hymns begin and I sing along. I’m surprised to find Cam doing the same, though it seems more a remnant of old habits than something from his heart. After a while the preacher stands and delivers a sermon.

“Forgiveness,” he says. “Is a greater power than any other. We hold in our hands the key to Heaven. But do we use it? Do we practice forgiveness in our daily lives? I say before you can forgive another, you must first forgive yourself.” I see Cam shift in his seat beside me.

“We all have our own personal Demons that haunt us. But nothing is beyond His mercy if we ask it.” He’s talking about The Man Himself. I suppress a giggle. What is wrong with me? Surely I’ll be struck down for sacrilege. I silently ask for my own forgiveness.

“It’s about love. Ultimately it comes down to whether we love ourselves. If the answer is no, then how can others love us?” I see Cam looking at me now. He’s pale, as though I’ve somehow frightened him.

When it’s over, we sit in the car and talk. He tells me about his favorite video games, and how he’s improved the lighting system in the auditorium. I tell him about my friend, Emily, who was always so good with computers. How she planned on becoming an engineer.

“What happened to her?” he asks.

I hesitate. “Car accident,” I say. My throat is suddenly dry, and I find it hard to breathe. I roll down the window and close my eyes. I will not cry. “It was a drunk driver.”

“I’m so sorry.” His hand is on mine before I know it. My heart nearly stops from fear, remembering what happened when I touched Josh. But I feel no shock—no electricity. I do not pull away. It must be meant to comfort me and nothing more. “Do you forgive the driver?” he asks. I am startled by this, but speak without hesitation.

“Yes. I don’t think he meant to hurt anyone.”

Our eyes meet, and he takes a deep breath as if in preparation.

“I killed her,” he says. “I killed my little sister.”

Keira’s promise hangs over my head, a shadow threatening to block out the sun. She is most certainly capable of anything, and my fear is that she will take out her anger on Grace, who is only human after all. I try to convince myself that Keira will see Grace as innocent or at least inconsequential enough to leave alone. But I don’t believe that. Not really.

I try to lose myself in rehearsal. But today we are doing the scene with our first kiss, and when I see her there, golden hair lit from above like a halo, I fear the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet may become all too real. In my imagination, the scene is far more gruesome.

I recite,

I cannot continue. I wouldn’t play it like him. I see no point in Romeo’s ultimate sacrifice. He is weak. If he really wanted to do something, if she was that important, he should have stood up to his family.

Plus, the kiss is coming.

Her eyes open wider, and she looks frightened. Is she as scared as I am of bringing down the school with fire and brimstone when our lips meet? Surely she bought the whole static-electricity-horrible-coincidence theory. I mean, she came up with it herself, right? She can’t know what I am. If she did, she wouldn’t look at me the way she does sometimes.

“The line is: ‘Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take,’ Mr. Gaynes,” Miss Adams says with impatience lacing her voice. It’s one month to show time, and it’s been an ordeal trying to get some of these students to truly understand Shakespeare. Personally, I don’t see what’s not to get. Sure, the words are fancy, almost foreign, but their meaning seems clear enough to me.

“Sorry Miss Adams,” I say and start again.
Concentrate on the play
, I tell myself. I’ve never done the whole drama thing before. I always assumed it was for losers who couldn’t fit in anywhere else. But I’ve found it to be a welcome outlet from reality. Especially since my reality got so weird.

“Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take.” I lean forward, and she presses her lips together tight. I take the hint, and instead I stumble backward and knock over a vase set on the table nearby.

With my enhanced hearing, I can make out the sniggers from within the wings. Miss Adams’ sigh is so loud I don’t need special senses to get that message. Thankfully she calls it a day before Juliet asks for another kiss.

During notes, Miss Adams calls it an “off day.” She says not to worry, but does tell me not to be afraid to touch Grace. To remember that it is a play, and I am not Josh, but Romeo. Translation:
What the Hell is wrong with you—she’s hot! Are you gay? Kiss her!

Maybe I can glamour the whole lot of them so they think we did.

Cam catches me on the way out and whispers low as we make our way back to the condo.

“I saw what you did—or didn’t do—today. I was working lights.”

“Oh yeah?”

“You’re a good friend, man. I appreciate you laying off, but I want you to know I get it. I mean, the show must go on, right? Just don’t make it too good, OK?”

“Whatever you say. So I’m guessing we’re using tree targets again?” I ask, changing the subject to one I know he can’t leave alone. After about a week of capturing squirrels, rabbits, and even a skunk, the animals have stopped coming. I guess wildlife is smart enough not to be fooled by some food in a metal cage. Or maybe it’s the carcasses of their cousins that scare them away.

“I’ve got something much better,” he says, and his eyes seem to darken. I look up—it’s only a cloud floating by overhead.

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” I ask.

“I’ve started rounding up some cats from around the neighborhood. I have about three so far. They’ll be better targets anyhow.”

“Dude, those are people’s pets.” I know I’m a Demon, but that’s just wrong.

“Yeah, but they roam around at night. I’m doing them a favor. Winter’s coming early this year, and they’ll freeze out there. This is much more humane.” Sounds like he’s worked it all out. Never mind that the cats might be smart enough to stay inside on cold winter nights.

“So cats?” I ask.

“Maybe a dog or two if I can find a stray.”

Suddenly, I wish I’d stuck to talking about the play.

I feel terrible. It’s my fault Miss Adams chastised Josh. I’m the one who refused the kiss. I’m just so afraid of what will happen this time. Developing feelings for a still-living boy must be a sin—what other explanation is there for the sparks and hail the other night? A point Ms. Alvarez has neglected to mention in my lessons. I have to find a way out of this play. It’s a recipe for disaster. Unfortunately, my understudy, Fatmeh, hasn’t bothered to learn her lines. I hate the thought of letting everyone down, so I keep going to rehearsal.

I see Cam and Josh heading off, heads huddled together in deep conversation. I wonder if Cam has shared his tragic history with Josh. The poor boy blames himself for his sister’s death. From where I sit, it was his father’s fault for leaving a loaded gun within reach of a three year old.