The Alchemy of Forever (17 page)

The bell rings, breaking me out of my reverie. My lab partner has cleaned up and the room is quickly clearing out. I am thankful to leave Cyrus’s presence, and wait outside the door for Noah. I need him to reassure me, to make me feel safe again. But I hear Cyrus asking him to stay after class.
No,
I silently protest.
Leave him alone!
But what can I do? I head to my next class, a pit growing in my stomach. A feeling of dread—cold, like deep water that has never seen the sun.

Noah is in good spirits as we wait to buy food in the cafeteria line. “Would the lady prefer the tuna sandwich on rye or the tofu dog?” he asks with a grin.

“Tuna. I don’t trust fake meat,” I answer.

“Very good choice.”

Even though it’s cold, we take our food outside, away from prying eyes and eavesdropping ears. Ever since I left him in biology class, I’ve had a tense knot in my stomach and my shoulders have been stiff.

“What did Mr. Shaw want?” I ask as soon as we’re seated under an expansive oak tree.

“To talk about my photography. He was really encouraging—he said I should apply for art school. It was nice—I never thought of myself as an artist.” He takes a bite of his sandwich.

“How can he talk about your photography when he’s never seen it?” I ask. “I mean, it’s nice of him, but he doesn’t even know you.” I know that Cyrus doesn’t care about Noah’s art. He’s just flattering him. The same way he flattered Jared and Nathaniel before making them Incarnates.

“Kailey, I know I’m not as good as you. Your paintings are amazing.” He looks deflated.

“It’s not that—I just think it’s insincere of him.”

“Well, thanks for the vote of confidence,” Noah says drily. “He also recommended some books for me to read—interesting stuff about quantum mechanics and metaphysical chemistry. I had no idea science class could be so fascinating.”

“He should just use the normal textbook. That’s what we’ll be tested on.” I feel a painful twist in my stomach and the beginnings of a headache. I hate this. I hate that Cyrus is trying to get his hooks into Noah. And I hate that it is causing us to fight. What does he want with him?

“What’s the matter with you today? Is something bothering you?” Noah puts his hand on my shoulder, and I want nothing more than to confide everything in him. The idea is so tantalizing—to have an ally, someone else who knows the truth. To tell him my real name: Seraphina.

And then what?
I ask myself.
Ask him to run away with you? What happens when he gets older and this body begins to fail you?
I’ve sworn not to kill again—this is my last body.

I swallow, pushing down the urge to tell Noah the truth. I can’t open that door. “I don’t trust Mr. Shaw,” I say carefully, willing him to see my side. “I mean, where did he come from, anyway? Where’s our teacher? When’s he coming back?” I don’t mention Cyrus’s story about Mr. Roberts’s “sabbatical.”

Noah sighs. “Honestly, I wish Mr. Shaw was our permanent teacher. He’s actually making us think.”

“He is quite . . . charismatic,” I agree. “But so are plenty of sociopaths.”

Noah laughs, a deep warm sound. In spite of myself, I smile. I know I sound paranoid. A terrible thought occurs to me. “You didn’t say anything to him about my car accident, did you?”

“Of course not.” He looks puzzled, but also hurt. “I promised you I wouldn’t say anything. And why would that even come up?”

“Sorry, I know. There’s just something I don’t like about him.”

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” Noah replies. “Oh, and Kailey?”

“Yes?”

“In the immortal words of the Kinks, ‘paranoia will destroy ya.’”

I laugh. “I don’t think that’s exactly how the song goes. But I get the point.”

We spend the rest of the lunch period talking about other things: Noah’s parents, the possibility of art school, where we should go for a proper date. But I’m only half there. There’s a shadow hanging over my mind. There’s more than one way for Cyrus to hurt me, I realize. Now that there are people here that I care about, I’ve made myself vulnerable.

I lean back against the oak tree. It’s so strong, so solid. It’s probably hundreds of years old, like me. And yet it could be cut down in a matter of minutes. I feel like everywhere I turn, Cyrus is there, anticipating my next move. It’s a game I can’t lose.

The next afternoon, I get a text from Leyla:

art murmur tonight? i can pick u up.

I’m not sure what an “art murmur” is, but Google informs me it’s an open art studios event in downtown Oakland. I text Noah, and he writes back immediately that he’d love to join us. On impulse, I pop my head into Bryan’s room.

“I’m going to the Art Murmur tonight. You want to come?”

He groans. “Ugh, art and hipsters. I don’t think so.”

“You sure? Leyla’s going to pick me up in ten minutes,” I say casually.

“Oh? Leyla’s . . . driving? Well. Um. Sure, why not.” He grabs a pair of Chuck Taylors from his pile of shoes, and I make no effort to conceal the satisfied smile on my face.

Leyla arrives, looking embarrassed about pulling up in her old Honda. “My parents gave it to me,” she explains to Bryan as he climbs into the front seat. “They said these things run forever.”

“Reliable is good,” says Bryan, adjusting the collar on his letterman jacket as he buckles his seat belt. “I’d take a boring ride with a strong engine over some weirdo car that will leave you by the side of the road.”

Noah and I burst out laughing in the backseat.

“What’s so funny?” asks Leyla.

“Nothing,” I answer. “Bryan and his strong engine are right.”

We park on Twenty-Fifth Street and wander over to the galleries. The atmosphere is festive. People fill the sidewalks and the streets, drinking out of plastic cups or bottles in paper bags. A group of boys rides by on bikes with brightly colored foil triangles woven into the spokes, like a fleet of pinwheels. There are tables set up where people are selling screenprints and jewelry, wallets made of duct tape, and knitted hats. We stop in front of a woman selling cupcakes, and Leyla asks what flavors she has.

“Pumpkin, lemon, and fried chicken,” the woman replies, with a smile.

Bryan’s eyes light up. “Did you just say fried chicken cup-cake? Is this possible?”

“Seriously,” Leyla agrees. “I’m afraid if I eat that, I’ll realize I’m dead, because putting those two together could only happen in heaven.”

Bryan buys each of them a cupcake, raising his in the air in a mock toast. Leyla plays along. “To the perfect combination of sweet and savory,” she declares. “Clink!”

We walk through the galleries, looking at portraits painted on bowling balls, dreamcatchers made of electrical wire, maps of imaginary lands, and Art Nouveau mosaics made out of bottle caps. Noah is drawn to a series of black-and-white photographs of children in makeup for the Day of the Dead, little boys and girls in suits and dresses with painted-on skeleton faces. “That’s seriously creepy,” says Bryan.

We stop in front of some paintings that remind me of Kailey’s work, lush watercolors of young girls lying in fields of patchwork or sleeping in a pool of stars. I wonder how these would look through Kailey’s eyes. To me, they tell a story. But would she concentrate on the technique? Would she want to know how they were made? The artist approaches us, a girl in her late twenties wearing a ruffled plaid skirt. “These are beautiful,” I tell her.

“Thank you,” she says, looking at me more closely. “I think we’ve met before?”

“I don’t think so,” I stammer, turning to the others. “It’s really crowded in here, let’s go outside.”

Out on the street it’s cold, but we can move freely. We pass a guitarist playing folk songs, a puppet show, and a group of young men in baggy jeans and Oakland A’s caps dancing next to a boom box. Their movements are sinuous, graceful, and there’s an incredible sadness emanating from them, despite their claps and smiles.

Leyla spots a car shaped like a giant snail and pulls us toward it. We hear a murmur from the crowd around it as its antennae shoot flames into the sky. “Oh my God, I need to see this!” says Leyla, walking faster.

It’s the color of antique copper, metal panels shaped into the spiraled shell that makes up the bulk of the car. A delicate cage of wire makes up the snail’s head, and the orange flicker from its fiery antennae dances on the satiny finish. Dragonfly wings extend out from its sides, made of thin sheets of plastic that are painted to look like stained glass. Leyla pushes to the front of the crowd, where the artist is standing, wearing overalls and a fedora. “This is amazing!” she exclaims, running her hands over the surface of the shell. “Kailey! Come over here!”

I join her, and the man asks if I’d like to control the flame, handing me the loop of leather that controls the gas. I pull it, and fire roars into the sky, to the delight of the crowd. My nose is filled with the scent of propane. “What’s it called?” asks Leyla, taking her turn at pulling the control.

“
Fibonacci’s Flight
,” answers the artist.

Leyla frowns. “You should rename it
Fantastical Fiery Fairy Chariot
!”

“No, I think the name’s perfect just as it is.” He’s not amused.

“Can I make it shoot fire again?” she asks hopefully.

“I think you’re done,” he replies with a stern expression.

She and I walk back to the boys, laughing. “I don’t know what his problem is,” she gripes.

“He’s just cranky,” I assure her, throwing my arm over her shoulder. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Bryan declares that he’s hungry again, and we decide to get Korean tacos from a food truck. We’re standing in line when I hear a familiar voice behind me. It’s Nicole, with Chantal beside her. My heart sinks.

We get our food and huddle in a circle. Nicole and Chantal join us, and I take a desultory bite of my taco, bracing myself for one of Nicole’s trademark icy glares. But she’s in good spirits, giving us all hugs.

“Why are you so smiley?” Leyla asks, wiping hoisin sauce from her chin.

“She’s got a crush on the substitute biology teacher,” Chantal informs us, smirking. “She won’t stop talking about him.”

“Shut up!” Nicole says, blushing down to the neckline of her low-cut T-shirt. “I don’t have a crush on him—I just think he’s really smart.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Chantal responds. “And you’re so famous for your love of learning.”

“He did offer to tutor me, one-on-one,” Nicole admits, twirling a lock of her shiny brown hair. I can tell she’s enjoying the attention, especially in front of Noah.

“Damn, girl. You’re lucky. He’s hot,” Leyla says.

“Wait. Who is this guy?” Bryan frowns.

“He’s a jackass substitute teacher who’s already been here far too long!” I explode, and take another angry bite of my taco. Why does Cyrus have to ruin everything? I was having fun, almost managing to forget that I was here on borrowed time, on the wings of a great big lie—I was feeling normal, like this was my real life. Which it
is
—what other life do I have? Every time I manage to find the smallest shred of happiness, every time I turn around, Cyrus is there to ruin it.

“Kailey’s not a big fan of Mr. Shaw,” Noah explains needlessly.

Leyla’s puzzled. “Really? I think he’s pretty cool. And he’s gorgeous, in that Viking sort of way. Tall and blond and cheekbones that could cut glass—”

Bryan scowls.

“If you’re into that kind of thing,” she finishes quickly.

I shiver in the gathering fog and press closer to Noah for warmth. I feel embarrassed by my outburst. I don’t know what got into me. The others keep talking and laughing, but I stare into the distance. Thinking, calculating. I’m slightly worried about Nicole and her upcoming tutoring sessions—I don’t think Cyrus will hurt her, especially once he figures out she’s not me. But I can’t be sure. He’s so unpredictable when he’s mad.

And now he’s made a favorable impression not just on Noah, but on Leyla, too. He’s getting too close to the people I’ve come to care about. What if my plan to lay low and wait it out doesn’t work? What if he doesn’t leave?

An idea occurs to me. A dangerous, stupid idea that just might get me killed. On Monday, after school, I’m going to follow Cyrus back to wherever he’s staying in the East Bay. I’ll watch him, see what I can glean. If he catches me, my cover will certainly be blown. But I need to find out exactly what he knows about that foggy night in Jack London Square, the night of escapes and sedatives and blood and gasoline. The night that I left him behind and my real life began.

Monday morning I wake with a stomachache. It’s gray and drizzly, wind shaking the trees. Still, I tell Noah I’m riding my bike to school. He’s concerned, but I tell him I like the rain. “I’m not a witch—I won’t melt.”

In biology, Cyrus lectures on natural selection and the survival of the fittest.
I’m going to beat you
, I promise silently. As terrified as I am, it feels good to take action. At least I’m not just waiting for him to discover me.

After school I unchain Kailey’s bike and wait behind a tree, a knitted hat pulled down low on my face, rain soaking my denim jacket. I don’t even feel the cold. I watch as Cyrus leaves his classroom holding an elegant leather briefcase over his head. To my surprise, he heads for the bus stop. Cyrus—who owns cars worth more than a teacher’s yearly salary, who could have a private jet waiting for him at the snap of his fingers—is taking the bus?

The streets are choked with traffic, and the bus makes slow progress down Shattuck, but I keep a few blocks behind it, just in case. I follow as it chugs through South Berkeley and crosses into Oakland, past coffee shops and cute restaurants on Telegraph. I dodge pedestrians and discover that the brakes on Kailey’s bike need some work. At the corner of MacArthur Boulevard, he exits the bus. As he’s waiting to cross the street, a shiny-rimmed car with thumping bass speeds by, splashing through a puddle that sprays Cyrus’s suit with oily water.