The Fifty-Seven Lives of Alex Wayfare (33 page)

I can see perfectly and clearly.

And my glasses are still on the nightstand.

I bolt upright and look around my room. Everything – every poster, every tool, every spare part, every spool of wire – I can see it all crisp and clear. I saw every strand of Mom's hair in perfect precision. Her tired eyes. The steam rising from her mug. It should've all been a blurred mess of colored blobs. I should've had to drag my glasses on before any of my surroundings made sense.

I grab my glasses and slide them on. Everything shifts out of focus. I take them off and my world sharpens. I scowl down at my frames like they've betrayed me somehow. Then I fumble for my cell phone and dial Porter's number.

“Alex?”

“You have to do something,” I say, panicked. “I woke up and now I'm Peter freaking Parker.”

“Peter who?”

“I can see. Like 20/20. I don't need my glasses anymore.”

“Oh. Well, that must be a residual from Shooter Delaney. She was a sharp shooter, you know.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me how to reverse it.”

There's a pause on the other end of the phone. “You want… your bad vision back?”

“Yes.”

“…Why?”

“Because my other option is explaining to my parents how I have perfect vision all of a sudden. I'm pretty sure they won't buy the whole ‘bitten by a radioactive spider' thing.”

Another pause. This one longer. Then he says, “You're right. Can you stall for a day or two while I figure out a solution?”

“How do I do that?”

“Pretend. Act like nothing's changed. I'll get back to you as soon as I can.”

There's silence on the other end, then a beep in my ear signaling the end of the call. I toss my phone aside and glare down at my glasses.

Traitors.

I'm surrounded by traitors.

 

 

I throw on a pair of faded jeans, my black sneakers, and my favorite striped sweater. I wear my shaggy hair down for once so I can hide behind it during class. I force myself to keep my glasses on all through breakfast, which results in a stubbed toe on my way down the stairs, a swear word I almost say out loud in front of Gran, and half a carton of milk poured on the table instead of in my cereal bowl.

“Wayspaz,” Claire says, disguised as a cough.

I shoot a glare in the general direction of her tiny, blurry figure while I sop up the mess. At this rate, she'll make a great replacement for Tabitha at South View High one day.

On the way out the door, I snag a finger on Claire's backpack so she can guide me down the porch steps to the Mustang. She gives me a look, like I've suddenly sprouted elf ears, but lets me tag along behind her anyway.

The moment Dad pulls up to the curb at the high school, I jump out, toss a wave behind me, and hurry inside, stuffing my glasses in my backpack once the double doors clang shut. It's instant visual relief, but the makings of a wicked migraine are already in place.

At least now I have that distraction I wanted.

As I make my way down the unnaturally bright hallways to my locker to drop off my parka, it doesn't take long to notice all the staring. Freshmen, sophomores, even seniors are craning their necks to watch me walk by. I check my shoes for toilet paper and swipe at my nose with my sleeve in case something's hanging out, but there's nothing.

They can't all be staring because I'm not wearing my glasses, can they? Kids get contacts all the time. It's not that big of a deal. I barely notice what the other kids at school wear, let alone whether or not they wear glasses. Why should they care what I'm doing?

I skip my locker and go straight to the drafting lab for first period so I can hide behind a computer for an hour. Maybe after that, everything will go back to normal and I can be invisible again.

A few kids glance up and whisper when I make my way to my computer. I drop my backpack and parka at my feet and sink into my chair. I hide behind my monitor. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead.

Thankfully, when Mr Pence, our Advanced CADD teacher, starts class, everyone snaps their attention to his glistening bald head. Mr Pence is one of the few teachers I actually like at SVH. He's huge, like a professional football player, built like a tank with biceps bigger than my head, and yet he's total Computer Geek to the core. We understand each other. We speak the same language. I try to show him some respect and pay attention while he marks the steps for this week's AutoCAD project on the whiteboard at the front of the room, but when his dry erase marker squeaks out a number four in Roman numerals, my mind wanders.

IV.

The letters on my Polygon stone. My name from my most recent past life. When I worked with Blue. When we were partners.

I pull the stone from my pocket and run my fingers over the letters again. The little boy in the wire-rimmed glasses is Blue. He must be. No one else could make me feel such strong déjà vu, the kind that pulls me into Limbo so easily. Porter said something about Blue looking very different at AIDA. Maybe that's why I remember him having blond hair and dark eyes. Not dark hair and blue-green eyes.

What did he look like now in Base Life? Like the Blue from Chicago? Or like the Blue from AIDA? Either way, that little boy who played Polygon with me at AIDA, who watched as Gesh hit me, was no longer my friend.

I had to remember that.

I trace the L, V, and I on the other side of the Polygon stone. Fifty-six in Roman numerals. The exact number of soulmarks I had hidden in my garden in Limbo. Fifty-six lives lived. Is that why that number was carved into my stone? Or did it represent a name, like
IV
did?

That train of thought leads me back to 1876. The Descender asked me a question as I lay covered in my own blood.

Who handed you that load of bull? Was it Levi? Are you still working with him?

LVI. Levi. That must've been Porter's name before he changed it and went into hiding.

I push the stone back in my pocket. I dig my cell phone from my backpack and hide it in my lap while Mr Pence explains the steps of our project one-by-one. He wants us to draw a 2D model of a bicycle wheel using the Array command we learned last week, which sounds simple enough. I pull up Porter's number and shoot him a text: Who's Levi?

A few minutes later, my phone lights up. Where did you hear that name?

So I was right. The letters did represent a name.

I wait for Mr Pence to turn back to the whiteboard before I type out my response. The Descender asked if I was working with “Levi.” He meant you, didn't he? That was your name at AIDA.

It makes sense. Porter was the one who taught me how to play Polygon. He probably taught Blue too. Maybe Blue has his own stone, a black one, with
III
carved on one side and
LVI
on the other. Fifty-six. Porter's number at AIDA.

It takes a while for Porter to respond this time, like he's hesitating. The class is almost ready to start working with the dimensions Mr Pence wrote on the board. If Porter doesn't write back soon, I won't be able to check my messages until the end of class.

Mr Pence makes his way around the room to check on our progress. I keep my phone on my lap, glancing down every two seconds while I fire up AutoCAD and start my project. My knee bounces. I chew on my thumbnail. Mr Pence nears my station.

My phone lights up.

We'll talk about this later.

My knee stops bouncing. I drop my hand in my lap. Of course we'll talk later. That's what people say when they're avoiding something. It took over six months for Mom and Dad to finally tell me what was going on with Audrey. And those were some of the worst months of my life. All that waiting. All that heavy unknown.

I fist the phone in my hand, so tired of Porter always choosing what I should and shouldn't know. He wasn't protecting me by leaving me in the dark. When would he understand that? Besides, what was so dangerous about knowing his real name? It's not like I would tell anyone.

“Cell phones away, Miss Wayfare,” Mr Pence says, patting me on the shoulder as he walks by. “Let's get to work.”

I drop my phone in my bag, my cheeks tinged red.

The first straw lands softly on the camel's back.

 

 

 

When I head to second period French, everyone still stares at me. Some swap whispers behind cupped hands. I duck into a restroom just to make sure I don't have something stuck to my forehead.

I run a hand through my hair, wondering what the heck everyone's problem is. I guess I do look a little strange without glasses – I've worn them since first grade – but I don't look hideous. I actually think I look pretty good. My hair's doing this layered thing that frames my face and makes my eyes pop. They look more blue than gray today.

I actually look normal for once. More like them.

So what's the problem?

It isn't until I grab my seat in French class that I figure it out. Two freshmen behind me whisper a little too loudly behind their textbooks.

“I heard she was with him all Friday night.”

“Stacy said Tabitha caught them together.”

All at once, everything clicks together. Friday night. When I gave Jensen a ride home from the library.

Oh.

My.

God.

Are they talking about me and Jensen, and the social atrocity he committed last Friday? It completely slipped my mind after traveling back in time, robbing a train, and, you know, getting shot.

Twice.

I glance at the door. I can make a run for it before Madame Cavanaugh comes in if I bolt now, but I'm not fast enough. Madame Cavanaugh swoops in wearing one of her usual flowered dresses, her arms outstretched, and gives the class a jubilant, “Bonjour!” Her dark hair is permed in a perfect helmet shape around her head. Her pink sneakers squeak on the floor.

I sink lower in my chair and ride out the rest of class as quietly as I can. I should've stayed home sick.

 

 

My next period is gym with Tabitha and her friends. I'm fairly sure life can't get much crueler than that.

I contemplate ditching school all together, but something inside me refuses. Call it Shooter Delaney's stubbornness. If I can hold my own against five gun-wielding outlaws like the Carters, I should be able to stand up against five of the most popular girls in school.

Theoretically speaking.

When I enter the locker room, there's already a crowd of girls gathered around Tabitha like a support group. They all turn to look at me, eyes wide. I make my way to my locker, ignoring them, hoping they'll leave me be, but they follow me like a gaggle of ducklings. They stand behind me, a united front of school colors, blue and gold gym shorts and white shirts. Arms crossed over sports bras.

“Tell them all you did was give him a ride home,” Tabitha says, standing at the front of the group. I can feel her glare on my back. Like the point of a blade right between the shoulder blades.

I don't turn around. I stuff my backpack and parka into my tiny gym locker and parrot what she says. “All I did was give him a ride home.”

“But she doesn't drive,” one of the other girls blurts out. I think her name is Sally. She's standing off to the side, trembling like she might burst from all the gossip she has stored inside.

“Yeah,” someone else says. “I thought people who had seizures weren't allowed to drive.”

“It was a rumor,” Tabitha says. “She doesn't have seizures. And she can drive. Isn't that right, Wayspaz?”

I close my locker, my gym clothes in hand. “She's right. I can drive. And I don't have seizures. Now can I get dressed in private? Or are you all going to stand there and watch?”

I get a few dirty looks, but they all eventually back off and go about their business as usual. Tabitha, however, doesn't move one perfectly toned muscle.

“He's just being nice to you because he feels bad,” she says.

My gut clenches. I turn on my heel and head for one of the bathroom stalls to change. She follows, stuck to my side, hissing in my ear.

“He told me you thought he started that rumor. He feels really bad about it. You know Jensen. He hates to have anyone thinking badly of him. That's why he's being nice to you. He wants to win you over. Like he wins everybody over. Why else would he want to hang out with you?”

I slip into the bathroom stall and slam the door, shutting her out.

“And now what?” she says through the door. “You think one car ride with Jensen Peters is going to make you popular? You think you can just get contacts and wear your hair down and people will think you're normal? You think that'll make them like you?”

I stand in the stall, frozen, waiting for her to leave. If I had been in Shooter's body, I probably would've had her hair in my fists by now.

“Get a clue, Freak,” she says. “No one likes you. Especially Jensen. And if you tell anyone you did more with him than give him a ride home, I'll make you wish you'd never been born. Got it?”

Her sneakers finally march off, and I yank my sweater over my head so hard it tears at one of the seams. I'm not pissed because Tabitha is a bitch. I'm used to shielding myself from her barbed tongue. I'm pissed because part of what she said is true. Jensen is the kind of person who needs people to like him. He needs an audience, friends, people around to smile and joke with. He's totally the type to want to “make it up to me” if he thinks I'm mad at him. Not because we're friends, but because he feels guilty.