Fifteen years later
"Aimee! Get up, or you'll be late!"
"Mrmph…" I groaned, and pulled my pillow back over my head.
"AIMEE!"
Still groggy, I opened one sleep-encrusted eye and glance at my alarm. Crap! "Coming, Mom!"
Muttering about the stupidity of alarm clocks, I rooted through my drawers for a suitably clean shirt. Grabbing yesterday's jeans, yanking my well-loved Houston Cougars T-shirt over my head and stuffing my feet into ratty sneakers, I thundered down the stairs, grabbing my backpack and clarinet.
I skidded into the kitchen, watching my occasionally absent-minded mother bustle around our round kitchen table. She was obviously not firing on all cylinders yet, because she'd poured me a cup of coffee. Sighing, I selected bagel from the breadbasket, smeared it with cream cheese, and stuffed it nearly whole down my throat.
Marian didn't berate me for my lack of manners, which told me more than anything else how distracted she was. But then, she was attempting to pour syrup on her toast; I doubted my eating habits were the first thing on her mind. I gently removed the syrup bottle from her hand and asked, "Busy work week, mom?"
Outside the house, my mom was cutthroat tax lawyer Marian Levine—whose office was apparently mired in work.
She looked at me tiredly. "I'm sorry. The Palmer case is going nowhere, and David Simms, the intern, is leaving next week for college, and—"
"Mom. Chill a little. Everything's going to be fine—it always is," I chided my mother gently. Marian was absent-minded, but she worked too hard; her waifish figure wasn't natural so much as her habitual meal-skipping due to too much work. She professed she loved it; honestly, I didn't see the appeal.
She sighed. "I know." She stood abruptly, looking at her watch. "And I have to go—you too. Take your pill, though, honey."
I wrinkled my nose. The infamous bottle of white pills stood in the medicine cabinet. The huge capsules tasted awful and stuck in my throat, but my mother forced me to take them every day, without fail. I wasn't even sure exactly what it did, but Marian had pitched a fit the few times I'd tried to circumvent her gimlet eye. "Fine."
She kissed my forehead. "OK, honey. Gotta go!"
As she bustled out the door, I cleared the table and put away the much-abused syrup bottle, smiling. I heard Marian's Lexus whirr out of the driveway as I put the plates in the dishwasher.
The door crashed open, making me jump. "Dang it, Seth!" I yelled across the house. "You're going to break the door one of these days!"
"Aimee, I've been waiting outside for five minutes! We're gonna be late, and Mr. Cortez will murder us!"
"Fine, fine." The door slammed shut. I grinned at the trace of British—or Irish, as he was always quick to correct me, with a snooty air—accent that laced my best friend's voice when he was annoyed. Though he'd been born in Minnesota, he'd lived the first fourteen years of his life in Dublin, Ireland. Since his parents had divorced, he'd moved with his mother back to her hometown of Katy, Texas. We'd been best friends ever since.
I took a swig of orange juice from the carton, grabbed my stuff, and barreled out the door, where the aforementioned and best friend, Seth McAllister, stood waiting for me. His blue eyes, previously annoyed, returned to their normal gentle glow. "No braid today?"
"No time, since a certain alarm didn't go off and a certain annoying Irish nuisance dragged me out the door. I'm just lucky I had time to brush it." As a spoke, I slung the masses of dark-brown waves into a low ponytail.
I've been told my hair is pretty, especially paired with my unusual eyes—a grayish sort of green—and it is, I guess, but it's thick and can never decide whether it's going to be wavy or curly. I usually just tied it back in a braid, but I had been short of time this morning.
Seth turned and set a brisk pace down the sidewalk. "Hey, wait up. My legs aren't as long as yours," I sighed.
"I know, O tiny one. But we're going to be late for school-" He smirked. "So pick it up."
"Five-seven is taller than average." I sniffed. "It's not my fault you're a freak of nature." Seth, at almost seventeen, was five-eleven and his huge hands and feet promised three or four more inches.
He smiled. "I wasn't kidding about Mr. Cortez, though."
"No kidding. He caught Amanda coming in late the other day. Pretty scary stuff." I shuddered.
"Don't worry. I'll protect you."
I looked up for a second. His tone had been merely playful, but I sensed there was a tone of seriousness behind it. Not even seriousness—almost possessiveness.
Wait—sensed? Looks like you got even less sleep than you thought, Levine. I shook myself mentally, then teased right back, "I don't think it'll be me needing protecting—Mr. Cortez likes me."
"True, but everybody likes you."
"'Cause I'm just that awesome," I finished flippantly.
As we walked–well, in my case, jogged—up to Memorial High, home of the Mustangs, kids were still milling in the courtyard, signifying the bell hadn't rung yet, though it would soon. I headed off towards jazz band, my first class, clarinet in hand. Seth split off towards the band hall to snag his saxophone—he was a virtuoso when he wanted to be, but had no interest in practicing—then met me there. The day proceeded as normal; I struggled through "Eleanor Rigby" in band, snored through English, attempted to look smart in Algebra II, doodled on my notebook under the guise of taking notes in History, attempted to conjugate verbs in Spanish.
It was only in chemistry, which was taught by the school ogre, that things went wrong. I knew as soon as I walked into Mr. Folle's class that something was up. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife, and malice was pouring off the man like sweat. He's always angry, Levine. Why should today be any different?
Yeah, but this is different. I argued silently.
Great. Now I was arguing with myself. Well, as long as I didn't lose…
Usually it's just an idle animosity. Now he's actually pissed…better duck and cover.
I lowered my head and walked quickly to the back of the room. This was one of the classes I didn't have with Seth—or with anyone I particularly liked, really—so I sat alone.
"EVERYBODY BE QUIET!"
Oh dear.
The class—usually rowdy—fell silent. Mr. Follé stalked around collecting homework. A quiet little girl—I think her name was Kelly—was taking a minute to find the sheet. Mr. Follé, going against what seemed possible, got angrier. "Of course, Miss Shay, just hold up the class while you root around in that pigsty of a binder."
Okay…that's a little over the line.
"DO YOU REALLY THINK YOUR CLASSMATES ENJOY WAITING FOR YOU, MISS SHAY? DO I REALLY NEED TO DO THIS?" He picked up the binder and threw it on the ground, sending papers everywhere. And poor Kelly Shay, tears in her eyes, remained silent. She didn't even attempt to pick up the papers—all her concentration was focused on not crying. Wait…how did I know that?
But before the horrible man could do anything else to the poor girl, my untamable mouth got the better of me, and I was on my feet. "Mr. Follé!" I cried. "Leave her alone, and calm down."
I stepped towards Kelly, who had lost the battle with her tears and was sobbing. Hoping he didn't lose it any further, I knelt. The class remained silent. "C'mon, guys, pick her stuff up." Apparently someone telling what to do was what they needed—there was suddenly a flurry of activity.
As Kelly gathered her things, I snuck a glance at Mr. Follé. He had inexplicably calmed down, and looked stricken. As I watched, he turned on his heel and stalked out. Since he didn't return for the rest of the period, and no one really knew what to do, quiet murmurs broke out for the rest of class.
I could feel curious—and hero-worshipping, in Kelly's case—gazes drilling into my back, so I attempted to lose myself in my copy of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.
But I couldn't concentrate on Death Eaters and Dumbledore. What did I do? How did he calm down so fast? The questions whizzed around my head, and I soon gave up any pretense of reading the book. As soon as the bell rang, I bolted out the door—and ran straight into Seth.
"What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost." Concern rolled off him—No. This isn't happening. I refuse. "I'm fine. Look, I just need a little down time. Alone," I clarified hastily.
"Well, that's not gonna work, cause they need you in the office."
"After school?"
"Apparently. Look, I've gotta split, but I'll see you tomorrow, OK?"
"Fine," I said distractedly, and turned away. A big hand snagged my shoulder and pulled me into a hug.
He straightened again after a moment, his eyes gentle. "Chill, Aimes."
"I'm fine. Really."
"Okay."
I sighed and headed towards the front office. As I pushed open the glass door, the secretary looked up and gasped as her eyes filled with tears. I saw pain and pity in her eyes. What's wrong? What's happened? I opened my mouth, but she cut me off. "Go see Miss Romjin, darling—she'll explain everything."
Mystified as ever, I walked into the office.
Miss Romjin, our principal, was sitting behind the desk. Similar emotions to the secretary's churned inside her. Two men were leaning against the wall behind her. I couldn't sense them at all. I was too confused to register that as odd.
"Miss Levine?"
"Yeah."
"I'm so sorry I have to tell you this, but…" she took a deep breath.
"Your mother is dead."
For a full three heartbeats, I remained silent, trying to wrap my head around the concept.
No.
She can't be.
There must be some mistake.
I talked to her this morning!
"How?" My voice was raspy. I swallowed and tried again. "What happened?"
"Car wreck." One of the men spoke. I would have shuddered at the sound of his voice, if I hadn't been so numb—it was flat and empty, devoid of emotion. "She died instantly—she didn't suffer."
Died instantly.
She didn't suffer.
Marian, gone? She couldn't be. She was too happy, too full of life, too…vibrant. How could such a bright life be extinguished?
Marian.
Gone.
I'll never see her again.
"Excuse me—"
I turned on my heel and sprinted out the door. I heard Mrs. Romjin call my name, but her voice was lost to the roaring in my ears.
She's gone.
My mom.
She's gone.
The wind in my face dragged tears from my eyes. I let them fall.
She's gone.
"Miss Levine, I'm afraid you can't leave."
It was the emotionless man again. I dubbed him Flat Man. His companion, if anything, was the opposite—shifting from foot and breathing hard. I called him Fidget. Flat Man pulled something from under his jacket—a gun? What?—and leveled it at me.
I turned to run, the only thing I remembered how to do. A soft thunk sounded behind me, then a sting in my left arm. I stumbled, catching myself against the brick wall of the chemistry building. My vision swam and I struggled to keep my feet.
Fidget moved forward, pulling out a bottle of pills. My pills. Why does he have my pills?
He grabbed my jaw and attempted to force it open, when he was knocked backward by a force that barely missed me. Flat Man cursed and swung around, only to be blasted backward by a blur of silver and navy. I watched all this uncomprehending, wobbling on my feet.
The pair was taken care of in short order, and the assault battery that had nearly taken my head off stood. He was huge—easily six feet six, with broad shoulders and strong arms. His companions blurred behind him; I was fixated on what I saw at the ends of those arms. Gleaming silver claws, dripping with Fidget's blood. I felt nausea—
Then nothing.
