Chapter 17

If Ian had thought I was a cold, uncaring person before, his mouth was going to fall flat open to the floor, and he was going to beg for mercy on his knees after the little artful revenge I had planned for him. He was going to think twice before tricking me, sweat thick with fear snaking on his forehead.

“There’s something I still don’t see,” Linda said, chewing the red chubby-button she’d shoved past her thin lips. “If he said he wanted to make a truce with you because he was Buffy’s boyfriend, then, wasn’t it obvious that he was doing it just for her?”

“Maybe it was, yeah,” I mumbled with the last piece of chocolate in my mouth. Whereas I’d engulfed my throat with three mushy bars while pouring out the anger boiling inside me, she’d barely eaten one quarter of the small bag filling her hand—the result of eating at a snail’s pace—one by one. “But that’s not what bothers me, Linda. The fact he fooled me into believing that he did care about the stupid truce is! I believed him. I believed he was doing it out of some goodness I’d considered impossible in him—with the ‘let’s be mature’ speech he gave me, I really thought it was true. I…I freaking believed him!” I threw my hands in the air. “I mean, how did that happen? I know him. I know how crafty he is with the opposite gender and still fell on his goddamn trap. Me, of all people.”

“Ah, so it’s a matter of pride,” she prompted with a smile. “He saw you crying, too, so it’s a double stab to your ego.”

“No, yeah, I mean, no, it’s not my pride that’s been hurt.” Okay, maybe a bit, but I wouldn’t admit it out loud. Okay, okay, the double-stabbing had hurt like hell. Shedding tears in front of him had massively killed my pride. Setting my feet on fire wouldn’t hurt as much. Him spotting me crying had been like the meteor crashing against the earth and killing the dinosaurs—a massive extermination of my ego.

I paused and breathed out a big gulp of air. “It’s just that…for a moment I thought—I know it’s dead crazy.” I cracked a humorless laugh. “But I thought we could get along. When we were there, I had this nice glimpse of what we could’ve had and, I don’t know, I liked it.” I looked down at my fingers, intertwined on my lap. “I saw a person who might’ve become a friend with time—a friend for Christ’s sake.” I added, awed by the stupidity of that idea.

“You know, I still don’t understand why you two don’t get along. I mean, you have so many things in common, with the artsy thing going on, even that indie rock band you both like so much—and I’ll bet you my Betty Boop ticker double or nothing”—she raised her wrist to show the oversized watch crowding the spot below her hand—”that these aren’t the only things. You’re, like, on the same wavelength.”

“Yeah, well, all of that is reduced to ashes.” I snorted, a tiny spike prickling my stomach. Okay, another confession. I’d always thought Ian and I shared a lot of things in common, despite all the hatred and snapping business between us. Linda’s heart-tearing bet—because I knew how important her silly watch, I mean ticker was for her—she had a thing for Betty Boop, who knows why—wasn’t necessary. She wanted to prove how sure she was of our compatibility as friends, and the problem was…I didn’t need such distressing means to acknowledge it. That glimpse at the stairs last night had just reinforced what was already lurking in the depths of my mind. I knew we were compatible. I knew it since the first day I stepped into school and saw him on that corner in the cafeteria, staring through the window at the gray sky as if it held all the answers in the world, musing. I knew he was an artist and that somehow, he used the sky as a way of inspiration, a bridge to his inner flyer, losing himself on the cottony clouds and bottomless blue—a shade of hypnotic azure during the bright days, dulled to an ashen periwinkle before rain, and a shade of soul-stirring sapphire after twilight. I knew the sky’s identity well, just as he did, because we both mused on it, we both breathed that peaceful energy, feeding our creative juices to then smear them out on the tangible or sculpt them.

Something inside of me recognized him, as a sibling would recognize another, or as an ant would recognize the scent of a coworker with its long antennae. We artists could somehow sense that trail that led us to the same colony, though instead of pheromones, like ants used, it was an invisible thread that guided us to that recognition—and to that belonging. A belonging to a world where imagination and creativity fueled life. A world I had in common with Ian.

Had I felt compelled to close the distance between my table and his in that moment, to say hi and introduce myself? Well, yeah, he’d been the only—still was the only—person around me distilling that same arty vibe swirling inside me, and it’d been, after all, my first day at school. I hadn’t known anybody. So the logical thing would’ve been to approach him and discuss whether the sfumato technique was worth all the pain to create a smoother look, even if at that time I’d promised myself I wouldn’t expand my horizons and try to befriend people. But he had a pull and I couldn’t ignore it. Neither could the girl who plastered her face against his a few seconds later, sucking him in a lip lock without caring about the audience in the room. I remembered how my cheeks had flushed warm, as if I’d been the one who was kissing him that deeply, and I remember how I’d wanted to slap my face for such a childish reaction and turn my face away.

I hadn’t done any of that, though. I couldn’t stop staring at him with a stream of disappointment coursing through me. He hadn’t noticed, even if my stare had been unrelenting. He’d been too busy fisting his hand on the girl’s hair while his other one grabbed her butt. A very carnal-minded scene, which ended killing permanently my will to spark a chat. Guys like him, who didn’t care about public exposure of that kind—because, really, the only thing they’d needed was a bed—had only one thing in their mind: have fun, fun. I knew that type. It was, actually, over processed in my mind. They didn’t look to have friends in the female department. They looked for ways to lure them into bed. And as days passed by, my theory got only more solid grounds. Every girl that approached him, that sneaked a side glance in his direction, that threw a mischievous smile at him, always ended up in his arms in one way or another…to be discarded for a new one later.

The pull to be his friend was strong, but the disgust that’d built inside of me was stronger, which had only increased when he started dating Buffy. Maybe the ghost of that pull had reappeared for a few minutes last night, but it was buried deep down in the grave of my mind now, layers and layers of anger pressing it down.

“You’re going to do it, then,” Linda stated, watching my hard expression. “You’re going to make him pay.”

I nodded. “I just don’t know how I’ll be able to pretend everything is still sunshine between us so I can mislead him and strike when he least expects it. Just the thought of seeing him again…” I curled my hands into tight fists.

She sighed with a shake of her head, and with that sigh, she told me everything she wanted to say but couldn’t, because she knew I wouldn’t listen. Once an idea flourished in my head, the roots couldn’t be unearthed. They were there to stay, clawed into my brain. I could, in fact, be found on the last pages of any dictionary with the word “stubborn” to my left.

Linda produced her smart phone and started typing, her elbows anchored on her knees, and the top of her shoes closer to my crossed legs, I noticed. Was she that disgusted by the couch? Poor old fella.

And there I was again feeling sorry for inanimate objects.

“Good, there’s reception here.” She smiled, her eyes glued to the small screen.

“It’s a storage room, Linda, not a jungle.” I rolled my eyes. “Who are you texting by the way? Your friend here is in great need of advice, you heartless traitor. I’m desperate.”

She chuckled. “I’m not texting anyone. I’m checking out my email to see if I got any response from Iowa. You know how big it is for me to get into their creative writing program.”

“Oh, come on, are you serious? Your parents used to work there, you have it already.”

“No, I don’t.” She glanced up at me. “And anyway, if you want to keep your emotions on a leash when you’re in front of him, think of something nice he might’ve done—because there has to be something, even if it’s just one little thing.” She lowered her eyes to the screen again. “Thinking of nicer things won’t work if he’s not in them, so don’t try that,” she said, as if she’d guessed my thoughts.

“Ugh, I guess it’s the only thing I have. It’ll be hard as hell, but I can make up those nice things if nothing comes my way. I have a pretty good imagination, after all.”

The bell rang, the strident ring muted by the door as if we were under water in a submarine. Footsteps tapped a muddled rhythm outside.

“Forget what I said. I'm pretty sure Bio is going to mess up my imaginary skills for the day.” I stood up grudgingly. “I'm doomed.”

“Wait,” Linda prompted already on her feet, frowning at the smart phone on her hands. “There’s something going on.”

“Of course there's something going on. Aren’t you listening? We’re headed to Bio-hell. My head will be so scorched I—”

“Dafne,” she ignored me. “Remember what you told me yesterday, about those three people who fell into coma out of the blue?”

I stopped brushing the dust off of my jeans and narrowed my eyes at her. Her tone had edged on apprehension, close to the one she’d used when telling me Peanut’s belly had swollen, fearing her dog’s heart disease had worsened. She only used that tone when something bad was coming, and I didn’t like it. “Yeah?” I said, worry lacing my voice.

“They say it’s getting worse. It’s on MSN news.” She told me as she read the information. “The cases have increased, and they think it might be a virus, but it’s not a sure thing.”

“A virus?”

She nodded stiffly. “Too many hospitals have reported people in coma, a weird type of coma, and the facts are always the same—people suddenly falling asleep while watching TV, or listening to their iPod, or reading a book, just out of nowhere—at least that’s how most witnesses saw it, though it became obvious they weren’t sleeping. Poor people,” she added with a sad sigh.

Surely the amount of cases weren’t that high and Linda was blowing things out of proportion, like she always did when she got too worried or excited about something. Though excitement was out of the question right now. “How many?” I asked doubtful, worry sharpening my voice.

“They still don’t know the exact numbers, but”—she paused and looked up at me—”It’s…it’s all over the country.”