11. Complications
Everyone watched us as we walked together to our lab table. I noticed that she no longer angled the chair to sit as far from me as the desk would allow. Instead, she sat quite close beside me, our arms almost touching.
Mr. Banner backed into the room then — what superb timing the man had — pulling a tall metal frame on wheels that held a heavy-looking, outdated TV and VCR. A movie day — the lift in the class atmosphere was almost tangible.
Mr. Banner shoved the tape into the reluctant VCR and walked to the wall to turn off the lights.
And then, as the room went black, I was suddenly hyperaware that Marceline was sitting less than an inch from me. I was stunned by the unexpected electricity that flowed through me, amazed that it was possible to be more aware of her than I already was. A crazy impulse to reach over and touch her, to stroke her perfect face just once in the darkness, nearly overwhelmed me. I crossed my arms tightly across my chest, my hands balling into fists. I was losing my mind.
The opening credits began, lighting the room by a token amount. My eyes, of their own accord, flickered to her. I smiled sheepishly as I realized her posture was identical to mine, fists clenched under her arms, right down to the eyes, peering sideways at me. She grinned back, her eyes somehow managing to smolder, even in the dark. I looked away before I could start hyperventilating. It was absolutely ridiculous that I should feel dizzy.
The hour seemed very long. I couldn't concentrate on the movie — I didn't even know what subject it was on. I tried unsuccessfully to relax, but the electric current that seemed to be originating from somewhere in her body never slackened. Occasionally I would permit myself a quick glance in her direction, but she never seemed to relax, either. The overpowering craving to touch her also refused to fade, and I crushed my fists safely against my ribs until my fingers were aching with the effort.
I breathed a sigh of relief when Mr. Banner flicked the lights back on at the end of class, and stretched my arms out in front of me, flexing my stiff fingers. Marceline chuckled beside me.
"Well, that was interesting," she murmured. Her voice was dark and her eyes were cautious.
"Umm," was all I was able to respond.
"Shall we?" she asked, rising fluidly.
I almost groaned. Time for Gym. I stood with care, worried my balance might have been affected by the strange new intensity between us.
She walked me to my next class in silence and paused at the door; I turned to say goodbye. Her face startled me — her expression was torn, almost pained, and so fiercely beautiful that the ache to touch her flared as strong as before. My goodbye stuck in my throat.
She raised her hand, hesitant, conflict raging in her eyes, and then swiftly brushed the length of my cheekbone with her fingertips. Her skin was as icy as ever, but the trail her fingers left on my skin was alarmingly warm — like I'd been burned, but didn't feel the pain of it yet.
She turned without a word and strode quickly away from me.
I walked into the gym, lightheaded and wobbly. I drifted to the locker room, changing in a trancelike state, only vaguely aware that there were other people surrounding me. Reality didn't fully set in until I was handed a racket. It wasn't heavy, yet it felt very unsafe in my hand. I could see a few of the other kids in class eyeing me furtively. Coach Clapp ordered us to pair up into teams.
Mercifully, some vestiges of Marshall's chivalry still survived; he came to stand beside me.
"Do you want to be a team?"
"Thanks, Marshall — you don't have to do this, you know." I grimaced apologetically.
"Don't worry, I'll keep out of your way." He grinned. Sometimes it was so easy to like Marshall.
It didn't go smoothly. I somehow managed to hit myself in the head with my racket and clip Marshall's shoulder on the same swing. I spent the rest of the hour in the back corner of the court, the racket held safely behind my back. Despite being handicapped by me, Marshall was pretty good; he won three games out of four single handedly. He gave me an unearned high five when the coach finally blew the whistle ending class.
"So," he said as we walked off the court.
"So what?"
"You and Abadeer, huh?" he asked, his tone rebellious. My previous feeling of affection disappeared.
"That's none of your business, Marshall," I warned, internally cursing Fiona straight to the fiery pits of Hades.
"I don't like it," he muttered anyway.
"You don't have to," I snapped.
"She looks at you like… like you're something to eat," she continued, ignoring me.
I choked back the hysteria that threatened to explode, but a small giggle managed to get out despite my efforts. He glowered at me. I waved and fled to the locker room.
I dressed quickly, something stronger than butterflies battering recklessly against the walls of my stomach, my argument with Marshall already a distant memory. I was wondering if Marceline would be waiting, or if I should meet her at her car. What if her family was there? I felt a wave of real terror. Did they know that I knew? Was I supposed to know that they knew that I knew, or not?
By the time I walked out of the gym, I had just about decided to walk straight home without even looking toward the parking lot. But my worries were unnecessary. Marceline was waiting, leaning casually against the side of the gym, her breathtaking face untroubled now. As I walked to her side, I felt a peculiar sense of release.
"Hi," I breathed, smiling hugely.
"Hello." Her answering smile was brilliant. "How was Gym?"
My face fell a tiny bit. "Fine," I lied.
"Really?" She was unconvinced. Her eyes shifted their focus slightly, looking over my shoulder and narrowing. I glanced behind me to see Marshall's back as she walked away.
"What?" I demanded.
Her eyes slid back to mine, still tight. "Lee's getting on my nerves."
"You weren't listening again?" I was horror-struck. All traces of my sudden good humor vanished.
"How's your head?" she asked innocently.
"You're unbelievable!" I turned, stomping away in the general direction of the parking lot, though I hadn't ruled out walking at this point.
She kept up with me easily.
"You were the one who mentioned how I'd never seen you in Gym — it made me curious." She didn't sound repentant, so I ignored her.
We walked in silence — a furious, embarrassed silence on my part — to her car. But I had to stop a few steps away — a crowd of people, all boys, were surrounding it.
Then I realized they weren't surrounding the Volvo, they were actually circled around Lady's red convertible, unmistakable lust in their eyes. None of them even looked up as Marceline slid between them to open her door. I climbed quickly in the passenger side, also unnoticed.
"Ostentatious," she muttered.
"What kind of car is that?" I asked.
"An M3."
"I don't speak Car and Driver."
"It's a BMW." She rolled her eyes, not looking at me, trying to back out without running over the car enthusiasts.
I nodded — I'd heard of that one.
"Are you still angry?" she asked as she carefully maneuvered her way out.
"Definitely."
She sighed. "Will you forgive me if I apologize?"
"Maybe… if you mean it. And if you promise not to do it again," I insisted.
Her eyes were suddenly shrewd. "How about if I mean it, and I agree to let you drive Saturday?" she countered my conditions.
I considered, and decided it was probably the best offer I would get. "Deal," I agreed.
"Then I'm very sorry I upset you." Her eyes burned with sincerity for a protracted moment — playing havoc with the rhythm of my heart — and then turned playful. "And I'll be on your doorstep bright and early Saturday morning."
"Um, it doesn't help with the Gummy situation if an unexplained Volvo is left in the driveway."
Her smile was condescending now. "I wasn't intending to bring a car."
"How —"
She cut me off. "Don't worry about it. I'll be there, no car."
I let it go. I had a more pressing question.
"Is it later yet?" I asked significantly.
She frowned. "I supposed it is later."
I kept my expression polite as I waited.
She stopped the car. I looked up, surprised — of course we were already at Gummy's house, parked behind the truck. It was easier to ride with her if I only looked when it was over. When I looked back at her, she was staring at me, measuring with her eyes.
"And you still want to know why you can't see me hunt?" She seemed solemn, but I thought I saw a trace of humor deep in her eyes.
"Well," I clarified, "I was mostly wondering about your reaction."
"Did I frighten you?" Yes, there was definitely humor there.
"No," I lied. She didn't buy it.
"I apologize for scaring you," she persisted with a slight smile, but then all evidence of teasing disappeared. "It was just the very thought of you being there… while we hunted." Her jaw tightened.
"That would be bad?"
She spoke from between clenched teeth. "Extremely."
"Because…?"
She took a deep breath and stared through the windshield at the thick, rolling clouds that seemed to press down, almost within reach.
"When we hunt," she spoke slowly, unwillingly, "we give ourselves over to our senses… govern less with our minds. Especially our sense of smell. If you were anywhere near me when I lost control that way…"
She shook her head, still gazing morosely at the heavy clouds.
I kept my expression firmly under control, expecting the swift flash of her eyes to judge my reaction that soon followed. My face gave nothing away.
But our eyes held, and the silence deepened — and changed. Flickers of the electricity I'd felt this afternoon began to charge the atmosphere as she gazed unrelentingly into my eyes. It wasn't until my head started to swim that I realized I wasn't breathing. When I drew in a jagged breath, breaking the stillness, she closed her eyes.
"Bonnie, I think you should go inside now." Her low voice was rough, her eyes on the clouds again.
I opened the door, and the arctic draft that burst into the car helped clear my head. Afraid I might stumble in my woozy state, I stepped carefully out of the car and shut the door behind me without looking back. The whir of the automatic window unrolling made me turn.
"Oh, Bonnie?" she called after me, her voice more even. She leaned toward the open window with a faint smile on her lips.
"Yes?"
"Tomorrow it's my turn."
"Your turn to what?"
She smiled wider, flashing her gleaming teeth. "Ask the questions."
And then she was gone, the car speeding down the street and disappearing around the corner before I could even collect my thoughts. I smiled as I walked to the house. It was clear she was planning to see me tomorrow, if nothing else.
That night Marceline starred in my dreams, as usual. However, the climate of my unconsciousness had changed. It thrilled with the same electricity that had charged the afternoon, and I tossed and turned restlessly, waking often. It was only in the early hours of the morning that I finally sank into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.
When I woke I was still tired, but edgy as well. I pulled on my brown turtleneck and the inescapable jeans, sighing as I daydreamed of spaghetti straps and shorts. Breakfast was the usual, quiet event I expected. Gummy fried eggs for himself; I had my bowl of cereal. I wondered if she had forgotten about this Saturday. She answered my unspoken question as she stood up to take her plate to the sink.
"About this Saturday…" he began, walking across the kitchen and turning on the faucet.
I cringed. "Yes, Dad?"
"Are you still set on going to Seattle?" he asked.
"That was the plan." I grimaced, wishing he hadn't brought it up so I wouldn't have to compose careful half-truths.
He squeezed some dish soap onto his plate and swirled it around with the brush. "And you're sure you can't make it back in time for the dance?"
"I'm not going to the dance, Dad." I glared.
"Didn't anyone ask you?" he asked, trying to hide his concern by focusing on rinsing the plate.
I sidestepped the minefield. "It's a girl's choice."
"Oh." He frowned as he dried his plate.
I sympathized with him. It must be a hard thing, to be a father; living in fear that your daughter would meet a boy or girl she liked, but also having to worry if she didn't. How ghastly it would be, I thought, shuddering, if Gummy had even the slightest inkling of exactly what I did like.
Gummy left then, with a goodbye wave, and I went upstairs to brush my teeth and gather my books. When I heard the cruiser pull away, I could only wait a few seconds before I had to peek out of my window. The silver car was already there, waiting in Gummy's spot on the driveway. I bounded down the stairs and out the front door, wondering how long this bizarre routine would continue. I never wanted it to end.
She waited in the car, not appearing to watch as I shut the door behind me without bothering to lock the dead-bolt. I walked to the car, pausing shyly before opening the door and stepping in. She was smiling, relaxed — and, as usual, perfect and beautiful to an excruciating degree.
"Good morning." Her voice was silky. "How are you today?" Her eyes roamed over my face, as if her question was something more than simple courtesy.
"Good, thank you." I was always good — much more than good — when I was near her.
Her gaze lingered on the circles under my eyes. "You look tired."
"I couldn't sleep," I confessed, automatically swinging my hair around my shoulder to provide some measure of cover.
"Neither could I," she teased as she started the engine. I was becoming used to the quiet purr. I was sure the roar of my truck would scare me, whenever I got to drive it again.
I laughed. "I guess that's right. I suppose I slept just a little bit more than you did."
"I'd wager you did."
"So what did you do last night?" I asked.
She chuckled. "Not a chance. It's my day to ask questions."
"Oh, that's right. What do you want to know?" My forehead creased. I couldn't imagine anything about me that could be in any way interesting to her.
"What's your favorite color?" she asked, her face grave.
I rolled my eyes. "It changes from day to day."
"What's your favorite color today?" She was still solemn.
"Probably brown." I tended to dress according to my mood.
She snorted, dropping her serious expression. "Brown?" she asked skeptically.
"Sure. Brown is warm. I miss brown. Everything that's supposed to be brown — tree trunks, rocks, dirt— is all covered up with squashy green stuff here," I complained.
She seemed fascinated by my little rant. She considered for a moment, staring into my eyes.
"You're right," she decided, serious again. "Brown is warm." She reached over, swiftly, but somehow still hesitantly, to sweep my hair back behind my shoulder.
We were at the school by now. She turned back to me as she pulled into a parking space.
"What music is in your CD player right now?" she asked, her face as somber as if she'd asked for a murder confession.
I realized I'd never removed the CD Gunter had given me. When I said the name of the band, she smiled crookedly, a peculiar expression in her eyes. She flipped open a compartment under her car's CD player, pulled out one of thirty or so CDs that were jammed into the small space, and handed it to me.
"Debussy to this?" She raised an eyebrow.
It was the same CD. I examined the familiar cover art, keeping my eyes down.
It continued like that for the rest of the day. While she walked me to English, when she met me after Spanish, all through the lunch hour, she questioned me relentlessly about every insignificant detail of my existence. Movies I'd liked and hated, sexual orientation, the few places I'd been and the many places I wanted to go, and books — endlessly books.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd talked so much. More often than not, I felt self-conscious, certain I must be boring her. But the absolute absorption of her face, and her never-ending stream of questions, compelled me to continue. Mostly her questions were easy, only a very few triggering my easy blushes. But when I did flush, it brought on a whole new round of questions.
Such as the time she asked my favorite gemstone, and I blurted out topaz before thinking. She'd been flinging questions at me with such speed that I felt like I was taking one of those psychiatric tests where you answer with the first word that comes to mind. I was sure she would have continued down whatever mental list she was following, except for the blush. My face reddened because, until very recently, my favorite gemstone was garnet. It was impossible, while staring back into her topaz eyes, not to remember the reason for the switch. And, naturally, she wouldn't rest until I'd admitted why I was embarrassed.
"Tell me," she finally commanded after persuasion failed — failed only because I kept my eyes safely away from her face.
"It's the color of your eyes today," I sighed, surrendering, staring down at my hands as I fiddled with a piece of my hair. "I suppose if you asked me in two weeks I'd say onyx." I'd given more information than necessary in my unwilling honesty, and I worried it would provoke the strange anger that flared whenever I slipped and revealed too clearly how obsessed I was.
But her pause was very short.
"What kinds of flowers do you prefer?" she fired off.
I sighed in relief, and continued with the psychoanalysis.
Biology was a complication again. Marceline had continued with her quizzing up until Mr. Banner entered the room, dragging the audiovisual frame again. As the teacher approached the light switch, I noticed Marceline slide her chair slightly farther away from mine. It didn't help. As soon as the room was dark, there was the same electric spark, the same restless craving to stretch my hand across the short space and touch her cold skin, as yesterday.
I leaned forward on the table, resting my chin on my folded arms, my hidden fingers gripping the table's edge as I fought to ignore the irrational longing that unsettled me. I didn't look at her, afraid that if she was looking at me, it would only make self-control that much harder. I sincerely tried to watch the movie, but at the end of the hour I had no idea what I'd just seen. I sighed in relief again when Mr. Banner turned the lights on, finally glancing at Marceline; she was looking at me, her eyes ambivalent.
She rose in silence and then stood still, waiting for me. We walked toward the gym in silence, like yesterday. And, also like yesterday, she touched my face wordlessly — this time with the back of her cool hand, stroking once from my temple to my jaw — before she turned and walked away.
Gym passed quickly as I watched Marshall's one-man badminton show. He didn't speak to me today, either in response to my vacant expression or because he was still angry about our squabble yesterday. Somewhere, in a corner of my mind, I felt bad about that. But I couldn't concentrate on him.
I hurried to change afterward, ill at ease, knowing the faster I moved, the sooner I would be with Marceline. The pressure made me more clumsy than usual, but eventually I made it out the door, feeling the same release when I saw her standing there, a wide smile automatically spreading across my face. She smiled in reaction before launching into more cross-examination.
Her questions were different now, though, not as easily answered. She wanted to know what I missed about home, insisting on descriptions of anything she wasn't familiar with. We sat in front of Gummy's house for hours, as the sky darkened and rain plummeted around us in a sudden deluge.
I tried to describe impossible things like the scent of creosote — bitter, slightly resinous, but still pleasant— the high, keening sound of the cicadas in July, the feathery bar redness of the trees, the very size of the sky, extending white-blue from horizon to horizon, barely interrupted by the low mountains covered with purple volcanic rock. The hardest thing to explain was why it was so beautiful to me — to justify a beauty that didn't depend on the sparse, spiny vegetation that often looked half dead, a beauty that had more to do with the exposed shape of the land, with the shallow bowls of valleys between the craggy hills, and the way they held on to the sun. I found myself using my hands as I tried to describe it to her.
Her quiet, probing questions kept me talking freely, forgetting, in the dim light of the storm, to be embarrassed for monopolizing the conversation. Finally, when I had finished detailing my cluttered room at home, she paused instead of responding with another question.
"Are you finished?" I asked in relief.
"Not even close — but your father will be home soon."
"Gummy!" I suddenly recalled his existence, and sighed. I looked out at the rain-darkened sky, but it gave nothing away. "How late is it?" I wondered out loud as I glanced at the clock. I was surprised by the time — Gummy would be driving home now.
"It's twilight," Marceline murmured, looking at the western horizon, obscured as it was with clouds. Her voice was thoughtful, as if her mind were somewhere far away. I stared at her as she gazed unseeingly out the windshield.
I was still staring when her eyes suddenly shifted back to mine.
"It's the safest time of day for us," she said, answering the unspoken question in my eyes. "The easiest time. But also the saddest, in a way… the end of another day, the return of the night. Darkness is so predictable, don't you think?" She smiled wistfully.
"I like the night. Without the dark, we'd never see the stars." I frowned. "Not that you see them here much."
She laughed, and the mood abruptly lightened.
"Gummy will be here in a few minutes. So, unless you want to tell him that you'll be with me Saturday…" She raised one eyebrow.
"Thanks, but no thanks." I gathered my books, realizing I was stiff from sitting still so long. "So is it my turn tomorrow, then?"
"Certainly not!" Her face was teasingly outraged. "I told you I wasn't done, didn't I?"
"What more is there?"
"You'll find out tomorrow." She reached across to open my door for me, and her sudden proximity sent my heart into frenzied palpitations.
But her hand froze on the handle.
"Not good," she muttered.
"What is it?" I was surprised to see that her jaw was clenched, her eyes disturbed.
She glanced at me for a brief second. "Another complication," she said glumly.
She flung the door open in one swift movement, and then moved, almost cringed, swiftly away from me.
The flash of headlights through the rain caught my attention as a dark car pulled up to the curb just a few feet away, facing us.
"Gummy's around the corner," she warned, staring through the downpour at the other vehicle.
I hopped out at once, despite my confusion and curiosity. The rain was louder as it glanced off my jacket.
I tried to make out the shapes in the front seat of the other car, but it was too dark. I could see Marceline illuminated in the glare of the new car's headlights; she was still staring ahead, her gaze locked on something or someone I couldn't see. Her expression was a strange mix of frustration and defiance.
Then she revved the engine, and the tires squealed against the wet pavement. The Volvo was out of sight in seconds.
"Hey, Bonnie," called a familiar, husky voice from the driver's side of the little black car.
"BMO?" I asked, squinting through the rain. Just then, Gummy's cruiser swung around the corner, his lights shining on the occupants of the car in front of me.
BMO was already climbing out, his wide grin visible even through the darkness. In the passenger seat was a much older man, a heavyset man with a memorable face — a face that overflowed, the cheeks resting against his shoulders, with creases running through the russet skin like an old leather jacket. And the surprisingly familiar eyes, black eyes that seemed at the same time both too young and too ancient for the broad face they were set in BMO's father, Hugwo Black. I knew him immediately, though in the more than five years since I'd seen him last I'd managed to forget his name when Gummy had spoken of him my first day here. He was staring at me, scrutinizing my face, so I smiled tentatively at him. His eyes were wide, as if in shock or fear, his nostrils flared. My smile faded.
Another complication, Marceline had said.
Hugwo still stared at me with intense, anxious eyes. I groaned internally. Had Hugwo recognized Marceline so easily? Could he really believe the impossible legends his son had scoffed at?
The answer was clear in Hugwo's eyes. Yes. Yes, he could.