2 Chapter 2: Silver Eyes, Part 1 

KALISTA

I sat up in bed with a jerk, breathing in long, deep gasps. My heart drummed wildly within my chest and my hands tingled, as if small bolts of electricity dotted my fingers.

Taking a nap hadn't been the best idea after all. Instead of resting on a white cloud of peace, a thunderstorm of dread had filled my head with shadowy images of creatures moving through the woods.

Weird.

It must be this town. Almost a week had passed since we'd moved from New York City. The sheer peacefulness that pervaded everything around here was still unreal to me-so unreal I needed ridiculous nightmares to compensate, apparently.

I released the striped comforter from my iron-grip, my fingers still tingling. I climbed out of the bed and looked around, confused by the brightness filling the room. I'd fallen asleep with the lights on. Great. The curtains on the balcony doors were open, and the bathroom door was open, too, the light on there as well.

Jeez. Keep helping the world's energy crisis, Kalista.

I reached the curtains to close them and a jolting shock struck my fingertip. I jerked back my hand with a frown and encircled the throbbing tip with my mouth. I hated when that happened. It was as if I was the human version of a battery, always releasing electrical charges.

I had a fat list of uncomfortable moments-some embarrassing enough to color my scalp a deep shade of red. Really. I didn't know if I was dragging my feet too much or if I wasn't using good dryer sheets, but static was a big bummer in my life. And this town only seemed to have increased the problem, turning my Rayovac-like body into a Duracell-like one. Doorknobs and car handles were a nightmare now. I had to think twice before touching them.

I turned off the bathroom and bedroom lights with no painful shocks. Thank God. The bed looked as if a tornado had cut a swath of destruction across it, but I-wait, why was I still looking at the bed under a full bright light? I stepped back and observed the switch with doubt. I'd flipped it off. It was down. So, why was the light still on? I pushed it up and, this time, a confusing darkness fell on me. I frowned. Maybe the light switch was installed backwards?

I shook my head. Enough with electrical nonsense. I ran down the stairs and found Dad in the living room. He was looking all around at the new furniture-and definitely wondering how many trees had died to build this house.

I know I did.

"God, this is so beautiful... just what we needed," he said when I sat down next to him on the couch.

"Sure," I replied with a sigh. To be honest, moving from New York into this place had been a big shock, even if I'd been the one who'd chosen this town. But the selection process hadn't been exactly normal, so having a result, well, not normal was expected.

He was the one who'd wanted to move out of New York, claiming he needed a change of atmosphere. Fifteen long years of working as a playwright in the fast paced world of Broadway had finally taken its toll. The exhilaration of the city that never slept wasn't his grand source of inspiration anymore. So a new "setting" was needed, preferably a small, quiet town, and since he was the one inflicting that change of life on me, he'd let me choose the place.

The one thing he hadn't known, though, was that I, too, needed a change of atmosphere. That I, too, wanted to leave the Big Apple. The reasons? Only one. One that lived in the opposite building right across from our apartment, reminding me of the ache within my chest every time my eyes caught its familiar shadowy outline behind the gauzy curtains. Stephen. He was the one that had pushed me away from the warm, familiar embrace of the city lights.

So one night, with that painful shadow moving right across from my window, I unfolded a map and trailed my fingers across the dry paper, trying to spot what would be our next home. It was kind of adventurous and I loved that sense of freedom and recklessness. But something odd happened while tracing the bottom of that wide paper. My fingertips suddenly froze with a jolting shock-much like the one I'd had minutes ago-and fixed in a tiny black point on the state of New Mexico. I raised my finger and felt the skin pucker between my eyebrows when I spotted the name: Ruidoso. I didn't know why or how this was happening, but I suddenly knew this was the place-our new home.

Of course, if I'd known I would be surrounded by massive chunks of trees and mountains, I would've thought twice before coming to "Woodland."

I placed the unpacked books on the couch and stretched my fingers. The electric tingles still crowded my hands. Was this normal? It usually lasted just a few seconds after a discharge of energy and then it was gone. But it hadn't this time. Why?

A cold gust of air seeped through the house and blasted on my face, like a slap telling me to stop wandering with my mind. I stood up and snapped the long, narrow window shut. "Crazy mountain weather," I muttered. Perhaps this was the reason for my increased energy discharges. Mountain air wasn't the same as city air, after all. And I bet that living next to a huge forest-Lincoln National Forest to be exact-had a lot to do with it.

"Honey, could you please go upstairs and bring me the scissors. I need to cut this...stupid...bag." Dad said, tugging on the plastic that refused to yield.

Yep. Even my dad who never used "bad language" surrendered to the curse of blaspheming while unpacking. "Why don't you use a knife?" I nodded to the kitchen.

"Don't you even go there, Kalista. You know my answer already."

Oh, I did. Knives were precious tools made for cutting and crafting delicacies-alias food-not for mundane activities-alias opening boxes or stupid bags.

"Where are they?" I sighed. The idea of looking for the scissors in his office was worse than searching for a needle in the garbage. He was the only one who could find things in that mess.

"Next to my laptop."

I rolled my eyes and hurried upstairs.

The cabin-like house still looked like a warehouse. Unpacked boxes lined the hallway, and since Dad lacked time to do it-my guess was he didn't want to do it and stayed a few extra hours at the Spencer Theater-there was no one left besides me to unpack things. With all the school material I had to catch up with, unpacking had been the least of my worries. Being a newbie around this time of the year was practically academic suicide, but we both needed the change, and change meant sacrifice.

I took in a deep breath, stepped inside his office and made my way through skyscrapers of papers and boxes. The long slab of oak that served as a desk stood imposingly at the end of the room. How can you be so messy, Dad? I said to myself while walking amid the city box-maze. Setting up this office was going to be a hell of a hard task.

Once the deed was done-the scissors hadn't been next to the laptop but on top of a box lying beneath a pile of more towering boxes-good one dad-I rushed downstairs to find Dad was now in the kitchen and set the evil things on the pristine kitchen counter next to him. Despite his organizational issues, he managed to keep the kitchen as spotless as a display case. "I hope dinner is really good tonight because after that expedition to your office...I am exhausted".

I knew dinner would be good, of course. Cooking was what I'd come to know as my dad's true passion. He loved writing plays and taking people to places they would never expect. He'd once said to me he couldn't imagine doing something else. But the sparkle shining in his eyes every time he put on his "Don't mess with the Chef" apron told otherwise. The kitchen was his Mount Olympus. He just hadn't realized he could take people to unexpected places with his cooking, too. He was that good. The smell of his dishes could make anyone float to a Shangri-la of mouth-watering flavors, and whatever he was cooking right now fit the bill. It swirled wonderfully hot in the air, awakening my taste buds.

One would say I could've inherited his masterful cooking skills. But no. The "chef gene" was completely nonexistent in me. As far as spoons and pans and fire were involved, I was a lost cause. The microwave was the only thing that saved me from total ignorance. Pretty pathetic, I know.

"Thank you for the scissors, honey," he said, giving me a quick glance as he stirred something that looked like...rice with mushrooms? Yeah, definitely rice. "It is pretty messy, isn't it?"

"Sorry, Dad, but messy is an understatement. The whole place made me feel claustrophobic."

"That means you're not going to help me with the place, huh?" He poured a bit of white wine on the rice and added some parmesan cheese. The poised grin flashing above his chin told me this was a dish he'd mastered to perfection.

"I'm not going to stick my fingers in your office. I'll do the rest of the house." Like if that was easier. Or maybe it was. Hard to tell.

"No risotto for you, then."

"Risotto. You're making risotto?" He didn't need his chef's ego to be pampered, God knows he had it of the size of Brazil, but I couldn't deny the truth. I loved that thing.

"I guess you'll stick your fingers in the office after all," he said with a satisfied smile.

I rolled my eyes.

Bribed with food. I was so pathetic.

After the heavenly rice feast, I pulled up the heavy pile of books from the leather couch and climbed up the stairs to go to my room. With a relieved sigh, I settled the tower of paperbacks on my wooden desk and walked up to the wide, wooden armoire in the far corner. God, everything in this house screamed wood all over. It felt as if I was living in a huge "tomb" of mutilated trees, which, to top it all, was surrounded by a vast sea of still "breathing" trees. Talk about irony.

I put on my night clothes and skipped the bathroom. I wasn't in the mood to wash my face and catch my reflection in the mirror. After so many years, I still hadn't grown fond of the light smattering of freckles across my nose and cheekbones. Bleaching creams, oatmeal facials, rubbing lemon juice on my face-none of that had helped to get rid of them. Though considered cute, to me, freckles were the dirty little demons that kept me away from having smooth, spotless skin.

I pulled off my long chocolate-brown hair from its tight clasp, turned off the lights and strode to bed. A sense of peace started settling all over my body. The four walls and balcony doors were no lid to my ears; they caught the sounds of the night as if I was standing outside. I listened to the trees whisper, unfolding and dancing in the wind, pulling me under a wave of harmony. I imagined the dew falling and moistening the blades of the grass, coating the tips with diluted tears.

I opened my eyes and gazed at my ceiling, dotted with stars that glowed as diamonds on black velvet. So beautiful...mesmerizing...and then, everything went dark, my mind lost in faraway dreams.

"Let's go, honey. I'm running late," my dad said, grabbing his car keys from the breakfast counter. He'd woken up late and hadn't even grabbed a bite for breakfast.

Luckily, I wasn't the type of girl who freaked out over clothes because she didn't find a matching shirt, or the type that followed trends in fashion magazines with half-starved girls on the cover-I wouldn't have the time for long morning showers if that was the case and God forbid if I didn't stay twenty minutes under that cascade of water. Me? It was always the same for school: a tight tee, a pair of skinny jeans and my favorite mud-crusted white converses. Quick and easy. So I had time to spare.

"Running late?" I arched one eyebrow. "Has the stage cracked or something?" I teased. My dad spent a couple of hours at the Spencer Theater every day. It'd been recently built and needed people to bring it to life. Dad had offered his help and, of course, it'd been accepted right away because, who would've denied the precious help of the great playwright, Peter Hamilton?

"Kalista," he pointed his eyes at me.

"Okay, okay." I sipped the last puddle of milk and dashed to grasp my sporty biker jacket from the hook behind the door. The day wasn't really cold so I wasn't in need of a heavy coat.

We slipped inside the blue Escape and I couldn't help but feel a small shiver as I buckled my seatbelt. Dad said this new hybrid was friendly on the gas mileage, but I was more interested in its friendly side while rolling on the road. In other words, I was more interested in the will-I-get-squelched-like-a-cockroach-if-the-car-crashes than in the benefits of hybrid electric technology.

Feeling safe in a speedy four-wheeled machine wasn't easy for me, especially when I was the one driving. The anxiety and fear that swamped my body whenever I was behind the wheel defied the strength of a tsunami.

It'd been a complete hell when I'd had to take the driver's license test months ago. My whole body had been shaking and sweating, my feet accelerating at the wrong points when turning...It'd been a disaster, an atomic disaster, more like the Hiroshima type.

"How is it possible that I passed my driver's license test?" I said in awe, looking at the sea of trees edging the road.

"Miracles do happen, honey," my dad said with a smile.

"Very funny, Dad. With this kind of support I'm never going to be behind a wheel again." He was right, though. It was a miracle.

"Grab the Escape and go for a run then. It's a small town...light traffic...perfect for practice, don't you think?"

"I don't know...We'll see".

"Why is it so hard for you? I don't understand. Most kids your age would kill to have a car and drive around."

"I'm not like most of the kids, Dad," I reminded him through clenched teeth. "It's just-just the fact of having other cars around..."

"Meaning?"

I hesitated for a moment and sighed. "I'm scared that they will...well...that they'll crash against me or something," I confessed, lowering my head. I knew my last words would arouse painful memories of Mom's death, which is why I didn't talk about this with him.

She died twelve years ago. She was a doctor and loved volunteering in mountain villages in Central and South America. She was in Peru the day she made the wrong choice and decided to go for the quickest road. She didn't see the car that took the curve too fast and, well, you can guess the story. It was a very difficult time for my dad, and I was too little, I guess. The only things to remind me of her were old pictures, faded memories and fairy tales.

"Don't be silly honey, that's not going to happen." I looked up at him. "If you practice enough," he added, glancing at me.

Of course, I thought to myself. But practice was nerve-racking. Cars were moving deathtraps! "Maybe I'll give it a shot someday." But not soon, definitely not soon.

He smiled and kissed the top of my head. "That's my girl."