The Guardian (6 page)

I obey, looking down to watch Gabriel’s faded jeans settle next to me. Below the din of the class, I hear the gentle scrape of the desk as Gabriel draws himself to me until our knees touch. Staring at the expertly frayed white ends of his expensive jeans as they flop haphazardly about his tan suede boots, I concentrate on counting the individual fibers that make up each twisted end. And I wait.

Off to my right, I hear a boy complain, “Hey that’s my seat, dude.”

Dismissively, Gabriel replies, “Not anymore,
dude
. Go sit somewhere else.”

The class is called to order. As it gets quiet, I raise my head to see Mr. Creepy eyeing me critically from behind his desk. His halo—while as dark and disgusting as the previous day—doesn’t have quite the same impact. When he contemplates the boy beside me, his face pinches.

“Mr. Kustosz, I presume.”

Gabriel regards him impassively. Stoically. “Yes, sir.”

“You missed my class yesterday, Mr. Kustosz. Why?”

“I got delayed.”

“Coming from where?”

“Los Angeles.”

He calculates. “Hmmm.”

Around us, the class whispers about the golden boy from the Golden State. In the distraction, Mr. Creepy’s cunning eyes slide sideways to bore down on me. “Alexia, please come sit up front.”

Gabriel’s hand seeks mine under my desk becoming my anchor.

“Now Alexia.” The teacher’s voice holds a faint whine as he indicates the far corner seat in the empty front row. “Up here, please.”

I squeeze Gabriel’s hand and he reciprocates so hard I’m afraid one of us will break. I bite my lip against the pain, but when I glance to him, his face appears untroubled.

Mr. Creepy continues to stare at me, his arms crossed disapprovingly.

Although I’m trembling with fear, I don’t move. Not that Gabriel would let me go even if I wanted to, which I don’t. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jonah leaning in, paying rapt attention to our interaction.

When Gabriel speaks for me, his voice is deceptively smooth and doesn’t betray the iron grip he has on my body. “
Alex
is fine, Mr. Abernathy. Please continue with today’s lesson.”

Gabriel’s halo has grown bigger, brighter than before. Seeming to encompass both of us, it’s nearly white and visibly bristling. All I can think of is righteous anger, but it makes no sense to me even though I’m seeing it with my own two eyes. Inexplicably, I feel safe—nearly at peace—inside the protection of Gabriel’s burning halo.

Unaccustomed to being challenged, Mr. Creepy continues to stare Gabriel down. After a few seconds, his eyes narrow into snake-like slits as he opens his mouth to speak. Then he seems to change his mind. His nonexistent lips snap shut as he changes tactics. Mr. Creepy stands and makes a big show of strolling around his desk, stopping to casually lean against it with his hip.

“Well I certainly cannot teach to an empty first row.” He throws his hands up acting baffled, as if he has reached an impasse. Slowly he searches the class for a target. When he finds his prey, his eyes glimmer with perverse excitement. “Becke Finch,” he beckons. “Come sit up here.”

I wince because I didn’t know Becke was in this class. Suddenly, I feel protective of the quiet girl with frizzy red hair and lemon chiffon halo. Turning to look behind my row, I see Becke loosely gather her things and shuffle forward to the far right seat in the first row.

“Good girl, Becke.” Mr. Creepy smirks. “Any other volunteers?” When Kendra Douglas practically runs from the back of the class to sit front and center, he beams at her. “Thank you Kendra.”

With a triumphant glare toward Gabriel and me, he begins to teach. For the next fifty minutes, we’re ignored as he divides his attentions between the two girls in the front row. But it’s Becke I watch, because Mr. Creepy has singled her out in my stead. Hovering around her, he lingers.

After English, Gabriel keeps his body between Mr. Creepy and me as we exit. I expect this. What
is
unexpected is Jonah, who goes out of his way to circle around behind us. With surprise, I realize he’s getting my back. His way of making amends, maybe?

Escaping English unscathed makes me feel buoyant. In the hallway, my face cracks in a huge, spontaneous grin. There’s a bounce in my step as I walk down the hall with Gabriel fast at my side.

On the way to PE, I wonder if Gabriel will accompany me into the girl’s locker room and how I’m going to play badminton with Gabriel’s hand pressed against my back. The thoughts make me giggle.

Gabriel inclines his head to study me. “What?”

“Nothing.” I bite down on my lip, stopping as we reach the entrance to the girls’ locker room to smile at the boy who has stuck closer to me than my own shadow.

He smiles back, trying to coax the information out of me. “Please tell me?”

Before slipping inside, I plant a big ol’ spontaneous kiss on his cheek. “See you in class, Gabriel.”

My last glimpse of him is standing in the doorway, dazed and dreamy, his hand over the spot on his cheek where my lips have recently been.

*

Since it’s our second day of school, we spend most of the period learning the rules of badminton. At one point Gabriel leans in and whispers, “How hard can it be? Drop and swat—like flies.”

His accompanying gestures look more like he’s trying to hit a one handed home run. And I reply, “I pity the flies you swat.”

At the end of class, there are about ten minutes left to volley. We’re asked to partner up, and Gabriel’s hand slides possessively across my back, before Naomi can get her clutches on him. As we swat the birdie back and forth, I’m pleased to find out he has a competitive streak.

Even more astonishing is he seems to bring out the competitiveness in me. This is something new. These thoughts flicker through my brain in the seconds it takes Gabriel to launch the birdie at my head. Maybe it’s the boy, or maybe it’s my pent up emotions desperately needing an outlet, but I attack that little sucker with everything in me.

We rally, our volleys closing the distance between one another, our strikes getting more vicious with each return. Then, somehow, Gabriel manages to turn badminton into a contact sport, and we wind up in a tangled heap on the floor with Coach Mann and her whistle looming over us.

As Gabriel helps me to my feet, I can’t help but notice how amazing he looks after a little exertion. Up to now I’ve only seen him looking fantastic in expensive looking jeans and muted, button down shirts. But he looks incredible in gym clothes, too. Longish basketball shorts and a tank top display his lean, well-defined muscles coated with a fine sheen of sweat that makes his tan skin glisten. Cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, he grins impishly at me while raking his fingers through his damp hair.

I’m not the only one who stares at him. Every girl in the room and at least a few of the boys, admire his teenage male perfection. Even Coach Mann succumbs when Gabriel apologizes for our scuffle, placing all the blame squarely on himself. “Sorry Coach,” he explains with an ‘aw shucks’ shrug. “I don’t like to lose—and she was kickin’ my butt.”

She responds to his confession with a goofy, girlish grin. “No need to apologize, Gabriel. Healthy competition is a good thing.”

Just like that, he’s forgiven—worshiped. And while a minute ago I felt the lightness of being in his glow, my heart now plummets as I understand Gabriel’s world is galaxies away from my own. His world’s bathed in golden brilliance while I survive in the shadows trying to hide from the dark. I’ve known him less than twenty four hours and already I’m changed. So I caution myself that I can’t learn to rely on him. And no matter what, I can’t let myself—not even in secret—fall in love with him.

Love.
The word takes me by surprise because I’ve never thought about having those kinds of feelings for a guy. And yet, Gabriel would be so easy to love.
Too easy.

Pushing those uncomfortable thoughts away, I focus on what matters.
Find Derry.
Avoid the darkness until I am no longer a minor. Keep control of my life.
Hastily I add,
Do
not fall in love.

Gabriel intercepts me on the way to the locker room, easily matching my stride so we’re moving in sync. Still grinning mischievously, he pulls a lock of my hair free from its ponytail then tucks it slowly behind my ear. “I’m walking you home, Alex. So don’t disappear on me.”

Forcing a chuckle, I wonder if it’s too much to wish that he’ll vanish—just leave as mysteriously as he appeared. Opening the door to one of the few places he can’t follow, I hastily retreat, grateful for a few moments to recover from being in his glow.

By the time school’s out and we face the seven blocks, I’m full of questions. I’m convinced there’s more to him than his story. A lot more.

“Do you really come from California?”

He shrugs, slightly mocking himself. “I’m from the City of Angels. Isn’t it obvious?”

I look him up and down pretending to consider this. “Well you certainly aren’t from around here.”

Laughing, he gives his head a vigorous shake of agreement before asking, “Is it my turn now?”

“Okay,” I focus on my new shoes, chocolate brown ones today, gliding over the pristine sidewalk as I nervously wonder what he’ll ask.

“Tell me about your friends, before you moved here?”

I do not make friends
, but I don’t say this. Instead I tell him about Derry.

“We were both twelve—living at The Children’s Center—a group home for kids who for one reason or another aren’t in foster care. It’s a pretty decent place. I didn’t want to be his friend, at first. But he couldn’t take a hint. Followed me everywhere, pleading with these big puppy dog eyes, talking incessantly about
Star Wars
. So scrawny and clueless that the other kids picked on him all the time.

“He and I are like family—we don’t have anyone else—and I really miss him. I miss his mocking laugh and the way he calls me ‘Lexi’—familiar—as if we’re brother and sister. From the first moment I laid eyes on him, I knew he needed a protector.”

“Where’s Derry now?”

I sigh as my frustration pours forth. “I’ve no idea. He disappeared about a month ago. It happens in the system. Kids move around—too much. But we’re not actually related, so nobody will tell me anything.”

“What about the people you live with now? Can’t they help?”

“The Fosters?”

Gabriel holds up a hand, indicating for me to pause. “Wait, they’re foster parents
and
their last name is Foster?”

“Weird coincidence, right? Derry would find it hilarious. I was all prepared to dislike them but they’re really nice. Very good people.” Their bright halos align them with descriptions like trustworthy and honorable. Reluctantly, I admit, “They’re starting to win me over.”

“If they’re as good as you claim they are, why don’t you ask them to help you?”

I shrug, unable to format a safe answer easily. “I—uh—don’t want to burden them, I guess. And it’s private.”

Nodding, he says softly, “I hope you find him.”

“Thanks. I hope so, too.” I send out a short prayer to whoever might be listening for Derry’s safe return. Somewhat astonished, I realize we’ve already crossed Orchard Avenue. I glance behind me, but the residential street’s deserted. With the perpetrators long gone from the scene of their crimes, that place no longer has any hold over me.

Turning back to Gabriel, I announce, “My turn again.”

Raising his hands in surrender, he jokes, “Shoot.”

“Tell me about your family.”

“Well,” he draws the word out with extra emphasis on the end consonants. “It’s pretty basic really. My older sister goes to UCLA. Both my parents work and we just moved here from sunny California because of my mom’s new job.”

“Your dad relocated for your mom?” My voice gets squeaky sometimes when I’m impressed. I hate it.

“Yep.”

“That’s pretty amazing of him.”

Shrugging it off, Gabriel kicks a rock out of our way. “Well, we’re a progressive, modern family.”

Envisioning it in my head, I see a tidy woman in a smart suit standing in front of an elegantly understated home. I imagine her having Sunday brunch with the husband and son who’ve sacrificed for her. As they eat, they trade sections of the paper and make leisurely small talk. Wanting to picture more, I ask, “What else?”

“I dunno—what do you want to know?”

I think for a split second. “Do you own a dog?”

“No pets.” He explains, “I’m allergic.”

“What’s your sister studying?”

“Communications.”

A black convertible overstuffed with laughing kids barrels down the street. Over-rated pop music blares as the driver swerves, narrowly missing a parked car. “Do you drive?”

“I can drive—if that’s what you’re asking—but I don’t have my own car. That was part of the appeal of this neighborhood—for my parents, at least—just a short walk from school.”

“What do you miss most about California?”

Without hesitation he declares, “The ocean—surfing.”

In my mind’s eye, I see him on a surfboard, the breeze ripping through his sandy hair as he rides turbulent cresting waves then comes home to collapse, smelling of sea and sunblock.