CHAPTER 20: Black hole
"Everyone, quiet, please," the teacher called out as the bell rang. Something about his voice grated on me—the same way Flynn's had. "As I call your name, please take your seat, starting with the near corner and filling the rows front to back. Nicole Adams."
As I waited for my name, I examined the man. He looked young, maybe late twenties, but of course that didn't mean much. He could be a hundred, for all I knew. Light brown hair and lightish eyes—I couldn't really tell the color, especially since Rigel seemed to be trying to block me from his view. Handsome, but in a smarmy kind of way, like a politician or TV pitch man. I wondered if he was the actual guy Shim had talked about. What had the name been? Mor-something.
"Trina Squires."
As she moved to the second seat in the last row, Rigel muttered, "Come on."
He shuffled toward the next desk and I did the same, a couple of paces back. Remembering how Rigel had been confused on the first day of school, I figured he was trying to make it harder for the Martian guy to pinpoint my vibe now.
When he called Rigel's name, the teacher watched intently as he took his seat behind Trina. Then he called mine and I sat behind Rigel, and was relieved to see that he wasn't watching me nearly as intently.
After Pete Warner sat down, the teacher surveyed the whole class for a moment, then said, "Good morning. I'm Mr. Smith and I'll be your teacher for the rest of the semester. Ms. Garner left her lesson plan, and I plan to stick to it with a few minor modifications."
He droned on and I had to resist the urge to whisper to Rigel, Smith? Really? How obvious is that? But I didn't dare do anything that might draw the man's attention.
Just before class ended, I noticed a scrap of folded paper on my desk. I didn't know how Rigel had managed it without me seeing him, but it read: Don't talk to me. Don't let on you know me. Leave quickly. Destroy this.
I wadded the paper into a tiny pill and shoved it into my jeans pocket. That seemed safer than leaving any piece of it in the classroom. The brief surge of optimism I'd felt earlier had evaporated, leaving despair in its wake. Even if Rigel had been on the verge of reconsidering, now that "Mr. Smith" was here, there was no chance he’d get back together with me now.
Even I couldn't argue with that.
For the rest of the day I was scared enough to keep my distance from Rigel. Mr. Smith—or whatever his name really was—roamed the cafeteria during lunch, keeping a close eye on Rigel, I noticed. Rigel was sitting with Trina again, but the other cheerleaders were flirting with him almost as much as she was. I did my best to be inconspicuous, eating my lunch in near silence while Bri and Deb chattered with the football players at our table.
I spent most of History class composing a note to Rigel, asking if he had a plan and if he was going to tell his parents about the new teacher. But when the bell rang, he left ahead of me, before I could get it to him. Since I doubted I'd see him again before the end of the day, I swung by his locker after French and slipped it through the vent, hoping his locker wasn't as messy as mine, so he'd actually see it.
When I opened my own locker the next morning, I saw a little triangle of blue paper on top of the jumbled pile of crap at the bottom. I dropped a book so I'd have an excuse to bend down to retrieve it—and the note. Then I hurried to the girls' room and locked myself in a stall before unfolding it.
Told my folks about Smith. They called Shim and he's checking on it, doesn't think it's Morven. But you felt it too, right? Really, REALLY important we not let on we even know each other until we know what's what!! Thinking of you, even if I don't show it. –R
I hugged the note to my chest, comforted beyond all reason by those last few words. It really was all an act to keep me safe! I knew I should flush the note, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Instead, I folded it up really small and tucked it into my bra, grateful that I no longer had to deal with gym class.
Rigel's hidden note helped me cope with what was otherwise a really yucky day. For one thing, the nausea and aches had been getting worse and worse as the week went on. The only relief had been in English, where I sat right behind Rigel, and Science, where I sat right in front of him.
But today Rigel was taking avoiding me to new lengths. He seemed to be actively encouraging not only Trina, but the other cheerleaders, as well. It was bad enough in first period—Deb hissed her indignation to me—but even worse in English.
Right directly in front of me, he laughed at Trina's lame jokes and murmured stuff back to her in what I considered an unnecessarily sexy voice. When she put her hand over his, on his desk, he didn't pull away. Even after class started, she kept sending flirty glances over her shoulder at him and I could tell from her reactions that he was totally going along with it.
I was struggling so hard to keep from crying that if I was getting any benefit from having Rigel so close, I couldn't feel it. I just wanted to die, and honestly couldn’t tell if I was in more emotional or physical pain. I kept repeating to myself that he was only doing this because Mr. Smith was watching. I had his note to prove it. But did he have to be so convincing?
Science was a little better, if only because I couldn't actually see what was going on behind me. I did my best not to listen, but I thought, just maybe, Rigel wasn't being quite as encouraging now. It comforted me a little. But only a little.
"Marsha, what's wrong?" Will whispered partway through class. We were supposed to be taking turns sorting rocks into piles depending on their type—igneous, sedimentary, etc.—and I kept missing my turn. "You look a little sick."
I felt a little sick. More than a little, actually, but I managed a smile. "Sorry. I didn't sleep very well last night." That was true enough, even if it was only a tiny part of the whole truth.
"Well, here, let me do those. We're way behind everyone else," he said, sliding half of my pile into his.
"Thanks." I didn't even try to argue, which showed just how awful I was feeling.
At lunch, Rigel was surrounded by cheerleaders again. I sat with my back to them all and played with my food.
"C'mon, M," Bri said, kicking me under the table. "You can't let him get to you like this. Eat." She glared over my shoulder and I knew all too well what she was looking at.
"I'm not hungry." Massive understatement since I thought I might throw up. "Maybe I have a stomach bug or something."
"Y'know, I think Rigel misses you more than he's letting on," Bri commented after a moment. "He's smiling and all, but it doesn't look like his heart is in it. His color looks off—kind of like yours."
That reminded me of what Trina had said in Health class on Monday—and that I still really, really needed to talk to Rigel to find out exactly what his folks had said last night about Mr. Smith. He might even have talked to them on his cell since this morning.
After lunch, I checked my locker for another note, but I didn't find one—not even when I dug through the old papers on the bottom. Disgusted, I threw them all out, leaving the bottom bare so I couldn't possibly miss any future notes. I wrote another quick note of my own that just said, Any news? and dropped it onto Rigel's desk in History as I walked past it to my own.
It was risky, but I didn't care much at this point. And not really so risky, since it disappeared into Rigel's pocket before anyone else could see it. Still, he half-turned to give me a quick glare. I just smiled blandly back.
I didn't get an answer until the end of the day when, after detouring to check my locker between every single class, I finally found another note. There was nothing warm and tingly about this one, though.
Shim says it's not him. All I know. Do NOT pass notes in class again.
Not even an initial at the end. Hmph. And even if Smith wasn't Morven, he was somebody bad. I just had to figure out some way to actually talk to Rigel and find out what was going on.
By the time I got on the bus, I was feeling so lousy I told Bri and Deb I wasn't sure I'd be able to come to tonight's game, even though it was at home.
"Wh
at?" Bri was aghast. "No! You have to come. If you don't, it's like forfeiting to Trina! Everybody will think you stayed away because of Rigel."
Deb nodded. "She's right, M. Unless you're really sick?" She looked at me in concern.
"Yeah, actually, I—"
But Bri cut me off. "We'll pick you up for the game. If you start feeling worse—and I mean only if you're throwing up or something—call me."
"And my mom can drive you home if you start feeling really bad," Deb offered. "She's just coming to sell t-shirts before the game and doesn't have to stay."
"Okay, okay," I caved, against my better judgment.
But by the time Bri's mom came by to pick me up, I decided it was just as well I was going. There would be tons of people swarming around Rigel before the game to wish him luck, and there was no reason I couldn't do the same. I'd written another long note asking a bunch of questions, and that would be a perfect chance to slip it to him unnoticed. I could totally ignore Trina.
We got to the stadium well before kickoff, while the players were doing drills out on the field. Bri and Deb and I staked out our now usual spot near the fifty yard line, three rows up, but I didn't even sit before I headed down to the sidelines. The players had just taken a break, and all the early birds were converging on them.
I made a beeline toward Rigel—along with at least half of the fans and pretty much all of the cheerleaders—with my note clutched in my hand. He didn't see me until I was just a few yards away, but I saw his eyes widen with alarm when he spotted me. I knew he was going to try to motion me away, but I didn't care. I was determined to at least give him the note.
I shouldered my way through the crowd, occasionally losing sight of him, since most of the people in front of me were taller than I was. Finally I broke through, just an arm's length away from him—only to see Trina right next to him, flanked by two of her fellow cheerleaders.
She saw me at the same time I saw her, and gave me an evil smile before flinging herself into Rigel's arms.
"Good luck, Rigel," she cooed. "I just know you're going to have a fabulous game, with me cheering for you!"
Then, right in front of my face, she planted a big kiss directly on Rigel's mouth.
I froze, disbelieving, waiting for him to push her away. But he didn't. His eyes locked with mine for a split second, and then he turned half away from me and kissed her back. Actually kissed her back!
I heard a weird, strangled sound then realized it was coming from my own throat. Blinded by sudden tears, I whipped around and forced my way back through the crowd, back to the stands, my undelivered note a crushed wad in my fist. I could tell as soon as I reached them that Bri and Deb had seen exactly what I had, but I absolutely did not want to hear whatever they had to say about it.
"Deb, can your mom take me home?" I asked in a tight little voice. "I . . . I'm feeling really sick."
All the pity I didn't want was evident in her eyes, but she only said, "Sure. Let's go find her."
It seemed forever before Mrs. Andrews could hand off the t-shirt sales to someone else, but finally, just a couple minutes after kickoff, we were headed to the parking lot.
"I really appreciate this," I said as we reached the car. "I'm sorry to be such a bother."
"It's no trouble at all, Marsha." Her voice was kind. "You really shouldn't have come at all if you weren't feeling well."
"No," I agreed. "I really shouldn't have."
I was glad she didn't insist on coming to the door with me. I waited until she drove away, then sat on the front porch and stared into the dark for the next two hours, trying unsuccessfully to keep my mind blank. Finally, when I saw other people driving up the street on their way home from the game, I went inside.
"You didn't mention that Jewel lost last night," Uncle Louie greeted me when I dragged myself down to breakfast the next morning, pointing at the sports section open in front of him. "Your guy Rigel have an off game?"
I shrugged, trying to hide my surprise. "I guess. We've still had an amazing season so far, though."
He agreed with that, then went on to speculate about the sectionals coming up.
I didn't really listen. I was thinking about last night—again. As if obsessing and crying half the night hadn't been enough. I knew I shouldn't be glad the team lost, but I couldn't help hoping, in the most petty part of my mind, that Rigel felt every bit as lousy as I did. It seemed only fair.
"You'd better eat and get started on your chores," Aunt Theresa said. Her interruption was actually welcome until she added, "You have your belt test today, remember."
Crap. I never would have forgotten about that BR—Before Rigel. Nor was I at all confident I could pass, given how I was feeling. But first I had to get through the bathroom cleaning and lawn mowing without letting on how sick and weak I felt. The last thing I needed was Aunt Theresa deciding I had to see a doctor.
Mowing took a lot more out of me than usual, even though it was overcast and cooler today. It also took longer, which meant I had less time to rest before leaving for taekwondo.
The belt test was a disaster. I couldn't seem to remember my form, and even though two weeks ago I'd been doing great with my roundhouse kick against the targets, I just could not get the board to break. Finally, Master Parker took me aside.
"Marsha, I think you'd better retest in a couple of weeks, when you're feeling better. I'm surprised your aunt even let you come, as sick as you seem to be."
Was it really that obvious? "I, um, I didn't feel bad when I got up, sir," I lied, since it really wasn't Aunt Theresa's fault. "I guess it's just something that came on quickly."
"Let's hope it will pass as quickly," he said. "I'd hate to see you lose all the progress you've made over the past month or two."
"Me too, sir," I said meekly, not feeling up to any explanations even if I'd had one I could share.
It was starting to mist as I walked home, but I didn't hurry. With every step, I went deeper into wallow-mode, telling myself I was the lamest person who ever lived. First I lose my soul-mate to Trina, of all people, and now I can't even pass a belt test that several little bitty kids passed without difficulty.
No matter how slowly I went, though, I had to reach home eventually. I tried to pull myself together before going inside.
Bri had called while I was at class, so I called her back as soon as Aunt Theresa gave me the message, ready for any distraction from my most recent screwup. But her first words brought me right back to the other topic I wanted to avoid.
"Wow, you really know which games to miss, don't you?"
"Yeah, I heard we lost. That's too bad."
She sighed heavily, but then said, "Well, maybe you won't feel as bad when you hear why. Rigel was even worse than last week. He could barely complete a pass at all! In fact, he was so bad, the coach benched him halfway through the third quarter, if you can believe it."
"Benched him? No way!" Again, I felt guilty for wishing this on him—until the persistent vision of him kissing Trina smacked me again in my mind's eye.
"Way. Not that it helped. Bryce came in, but he wasn't much better, plus by then we were too far behind to catch up anyway."
I almost asked how Trina had acted, but thought better of it. "So, no after party?" I asked instead, hoping that was oblique enough.
"If there was, I didn't hear about it. And I don't think there was. Everybody was pretty dejected. Not that I felt sorry for Rigel, after what he did," she added loyally.
"So, what are you up to today?" I asked, to change the subject.
"Oh, that's why I called! Deb's sister Maggie is in town for the weekend, and she offered to take us all shopping in Kokomo this afternoon. Won't that be fun?" I thought her enthusiasm sounded a little forced.
I was grateful for her effort, but said, "I really can't. I've got a lot of homework, and I'm . . . still not feeling great."
"But that's exactly why you should come! You need to get your mind off of . . . things. How about if we promise n
ot to mention Rigel—or any boys—the whole time?"
She was right, of course, but I was feeling seriously queasy again and my headache was taking on migraine proportions. "No, I mean I think I might really be coming down with something," I told her. "And before you say it, it's not just in my head."
Though it was because of Rigel. Our connection had always been physical as well as emotional, even before we knew each other.
"Oh. Well, okay." I wasn't sure if she sounded disappointed or relieved, and couldn't bring myself to care. "Feel better. Take a nap or something."
"Thanks. I probably will."
I hung up the phone and turned to see Aunt Theresa standing there.
"Did I hear you say that you're sick?" she asked immediately. "Why would you tell her and not me?"
Maybe it was because I felt so lousy, but I suddenly snapped. "Why do you always do that, listening in on my conversations? Is it because you don't trust me?"
She looked startled, but only for a second. "I don't know what you mean, Marsha. I simply came into the kitchen to water the plants. Now, are you sick or not?"
I shrugged. "Just an upset stomach and a little headache. Nothing serious."
"Upset stomach?" she repeated, her voice suddenly sharp. "How long has this been going on?"
I shrugged again. "A week, maybe. It's a little worse today but I don't think I have the flu or anything."
Now her eyes narrowed. "You've been mopey for two weeks now. What happened between you and that football player?"
I wanted to tell her it was none of her business but I didn't quite dare. "What do you mean?"
"I'm not a fool, Marsha. For a while there, you were happy as a clam and I know you were spending time with him, despite your excuses for staying after school every day. Then suddenly he's not at church on Sundays and you're not staying after anymore, didn't even ask to go to last week's football game. It was like I said, wasn't it? And now you're paying the price."
Now I really didn't know what she meant—or at least I hoped I didn't. "Price?"
"You let things go too far, and then he lost interest. It happens all the time. I tried to warn you, but no, you wouldn't listen. But if you think I'm going to support you and your illegitimate child, you're sadly mistaken!"
I stared at her, not sure whether to scream or laugh. "You . . . you think I'm pregnant?" I finally choked out.
The incredulity in my voice must have been convincing, because she backtracked, but only a little. "You said you were queasy. Everyone knows that's one of the earliest symptoms."
Suddenly, tears threatened instead of laughter. "I'm sorry you don't have more faith in me than that, Aunt Theresa," I said quietly, "but I promise you you're wrong. About everything you just said. But at least now I know that if I ever do find myself in real trouble, I shouldn't expect any help from you."
For the first time I could ever remember, I actually left her speechless. If I hadn't felt so awful, I might have savored the moment. Instead, I just left her standing there in the middle of the kitchen and went upstairs to take a long, hot shower.
I still didn't have any appetite at dinner that night, though I pushed my food around on my plate to make it look like I was eating a little. As usual, Uncle Louie carried on a monologue during the meal, telling funny stories from his work week. I suspected Aunt Theresa was as relieved as I was not to have to say anything. We hadn't exchanged more than two words since our confrontation earlier.
I was just washing the last of the dinner dishes when the phone rang. Aunt Theresa answered.
"Hello? (pause) Yes she is, but you have some nerve calling here, young man, after your behavior to my niece. (pause) No, she didn’t have to say anything. I’m not blind. If you think—"
But by then I’d dried my hands and was reaching urgently for the phone, so she broke off in mid sentence with a snort and handed it to me.
"Rigel?" I’m sure my disbelief showed in my voice.
"Hey, M. I’m . . . I’m sorry. I wanted to talk to you sooner, but—"
"You sound terrible." And he did. He sounded as bad as I felt, his voice raspy and tired.
"Yeah, about that. Look, I know you can’t talk privately, so just listen, okay?"
Though I had a whole lot I wanted to say to him, my aunt and uncle were both unabashedly eavesdropping, so I just said, "Okay."
"We really, really need to talk, face to face, but it has to be some way nobody will see us. Especially a particular somebody. Do you think there’s any chance you can sneak out of the house tonight, after your aunt and uncle are asleep? Just say yes or no."
"Um, probably." I wasn’t going to let him order me around like that, after what he’d put me through. But I was also desperate to see him—to talk to him.
He gave a ghost of a chuckle. "Okay, good enough. If you can get away, meet me at the arboretum at midnight. But be super careful, and if I’m not there, don’t wait. It’ll mean I either couldn’t sneak past my folks or I was being followed. And if you see anything suspicious at all, run right back home. Got it?"
"Yeah, but—"
"The rest will have to wait till later. See you in a few hours—hopefully."
"Hopefully," I echoed. And then he hung up. Aware of my listeners, I waited a moment, then said, "Okay, bye, then."
"And what was that about?" Aunt Theresa asked the moment I hung up. "He didn’t give you a chance to get a word in edgewise."
I shrugged, not having had time to think up a good cover story. "He was mostly just apologizing." It was how he’d started, anyway. "So it seemed better to just let him talk."
"Apologizing?" Her voice was sharp. "Apologizing for what?"
Oops. "He, um . . . well, we were kind of starting to be a couple at school but then he started flirting with a cheerleader." She’d probably learned that much from gossiping with her friends, anyway. "But he didn’t really mean anything by it." I hoped that part was true.
"Hmph. Or so he claims now. Don’t let him string you along, Marsha. Show some self-respect."
Stung, I felt my chin tilt upward automatically. "I have. That’s why he called me."
She was still frowning and looking sour, but apparently couldn’t think of anything else to say beyond another snort. That was fine with me. I needed to figure out how I was going to slip out of the house without being heard . . . and what I was going to wear when I did it.
The sneaking out part turned out to be easy. Aunt Theresa and Uncle Louie were in bed by ten-thirty, and by eleven I could hear Uncle Louie snoring. That was definitely enough noise to cover me tiptoeing down the stairs, through the kitchen and out the back door.
Which gave me a whole hour to decide whether I should dress in something black and espionage-y or something alluring and feminine. Finally after some excruciating angsting, I split the difference and pulled on my black jeans and a dark green—but flattering—top. And my old gray sneakers, because they were my quietest shoes.
The fine mist was still falling when I stepped outside, more than fog but not quite rain. Autumn in Indiana. It gave the night an eerie quality, making halos around the lamppost lights in everyone’s front yards. Reminding myself that no one had any reason—yet—to suspect who I really was, I headed for the arboretum, peering into every shadow just in case there really was anyone watching me.
Even though I still felt horribly tired and achy and ill, excitement bubbled up inside me as I walked at the thought of seeing Rigel again. I imagined I could feel him as I reached the stone wall of the arboretum and stepped through the archway. But, peering through the mist, I didn’t see anyone and the excitement started to leak out of me. Maybe he hadn’t been able to get away. Worse, maybe he’d been followed or even caught by—
A shadow suddenly moved at the base of a huge sycamore tree just inside the entrance and I fought to stifle a scream. Then, as adrenaline kicked in, I tried desperately to remember a defensive taekwondo move or two.
And then I heard Rigel’s voice say, "M? Everythi
ng okay?" and I practically went limp with relief.
"Hey," I whispered back, my heart gradually slowing. "I’m fine. No trouble getting away at all. How about you?"
"A little dicey—I didn’t think my parents would ever go to bed. And my bike was stuck in front of my dad’s car, but I managed to get it out without making too much of a racket. C’mon."
He led the way and a moment later we stood face to face by "our" bench. I wanted to reach out, to touch him, but I didn’t quite dare after all that had happened the last couple of weeks—and especially last night at the game.
"So?" I said when he didn’t immediately speak. "What's going on, exactly?"
"Let’s sit down," he said, taking my hand.
The jolt was even stronger than the very first time we’d touched. Gasping, I clutched at his hand like someone drowning, feeling the connection, the healing, flowing through me. He stared at me for a long moment, gripping my hand tightly in his, and then, without warning, he gathered me into his arms.
"Is it just me?" he murmured, "or can you feel everything wrong righting itself?"
"I feel it. Oh, I definitely feel it," I assured him. "It’s like . . . your touch is curing me, or something."
He nodded. "I hoped, but I wasn’t sure . . ." He gripped me by the shoulders for a moment, then swooped in for a kiss, which I enthusiastically returned. "M," he said when he finally released me, "let’s not stay apart like this again, if we can help it."
"Sounds good to me," I said shakily. And it really, really did. During that too-short kiss, my aches had lessened noticeably and my queasiness had completely disappeared.
I sank down onto the metal bench beside him, not even noticing the soft mist anymore. "So, what did you want to tell me?"
"So much," he said with a sigh. "One thing I only guessed, but now I know—being apart hurts us both. And the last thing I ever want to do is to hurt you."
Instantly, my thoughts went to last night, to the sight of Rigel kissing Trina. He seemed to realize it before I could say anything. He took my hands again and held them tightly, willing me to look him full in the face in the dim, misty light.
"Last night—that was an awful, awful thing I did to you, M. But . . . I didn’t know what else to do. Smith was behind you in the stands, looking right at me, and then Trina, well, she kind of threw herself at me. Please, please believe that I didn’t enjoy a second of it, that I only did it to keep you safe. When I saw you leaving and knew I’d hurt you, it practically killed me."
The grief in his eyes compelled me to accept what he said—and to forgive him.
"I heard you lost the game," I said, "and that the coach benched you."
His mouth twisted into something between a grimace and a smile and he nodded. "Like I said. After you left, well, I was kind of a disaster. Worst game I've played since sixth grade. I don’t blame the coach for pulling me out. Even Farmer did a better job."
"So—" I wanted to make sure I really understood. "This being apart thing. It was as awful for you as it was for me?" I intentionally used the past tense.
"Oh, man, I really hope you haven’t been feeling as bad as I have, M. It was all I could do to get out of bed in the morning. Couldn’t stand the sight of food, and during football season I usually eat about twice my weight every day—or so my mother claims."
I nodded. "And headaches, and aching muscles . . . Sounds like we had it about the same. I don’t want to see how much more I can take without it killing me. Even if it’s to keep someone else from killing me."
I meant it as a joke, but he didn’t laugh. "Exactly. What’s the point of saving you by killing you? Killing us both. Though we'll need to be super careful."
"How careful? I mean, your folks must have noticed how sick you’ve been, and the whole school saw you lose a game. And I . . . I flunked my taekwondo belt test this morning. My aunt’s going to be pissed when she finds out. Almost as pissed as—" I broke off, realizing I did not want to tell him about her suspicions earlier.
"You flunked your belt test? Oh, man, M, I’m sorry. I’ve really messed us both over, haven’t I? And maybe for nothing."
"Nothing? What do you mean?"
"Well . . . My folks talked to my grandfather, like I told you in my note, and Smith is definitely not the guy his people have been watching in California. That guy is still there. Then at the game last night, I pointed him out to my parents. They went and sat right behind him, and they didn’t get any vibes off him at all."
I thought Rigel looked a little uncomfortable as he continued. "The weird thing is, I didn’t get any vibes off him either—last night, I mean. I definitely did Thursday. I thought maybe it's just because I’ve been feeling so lousy. I figured maybe my . . . my brath sensing was messed up, too. Anyway, after last night, I think my folks are chalking the whole thing up to overactive teenage imaginations. That we’re just seeing—or feeling—what we expect to."
I was already shaking my head. "No, there's no way we both imagined it. And I didn't just get a Martian vibe off him, I got a definite bad guy vibe. Like I did from Flynn. Plus, he's been watching you like a hawk. But it's so weird that your parents—and you—didn't feel his brath last night. Do you think he could have a way to disguise it or something?"
He shrugged. "I don’t know what to believe now. I’ve never heard of anybody being able to do that, but then I’ve never heard of anyone wanting to, either. So who knows?"
I definitely didn’t. For a long time—at least ten minutes—we just sat there saying nothing, Rigel's arm around my shoulders. I suspected he was drawing as much strength and health from me as I was drawing from him.
Finally, reluctantly, I asked, "So, what do we do now?" Even though what I wanted to do was just sit here together for as long as we possibly could.
Rigel tightened his hold on me for a second, then released me—also reluctantly, I thought. Hoped. "I’ve been thinking about that," he said. "We both need to be alert—and strong—whether Smith is really after you or someone else shows up who is."
"So we can’t very well stay completely apart," I said hopefully.
"Right. But we also don’t want to tip Smith off. We'll have to meet secretly, like tonight. Or even after school, if we're sneaky—sometimes I can duck out of practice early. Maybe that will be enough."
It didn’t sound like enough to me. "I guess. So when do we meet again?"
"After school on Friday, maybe? I won't have practice, since it's a game day, but I can stay after, if you can come up with a reason to hang around that doesn’t look like it has to do with me."
"I’ll come up with something."
He took my face between his hands and kissed me—still too short a kiss, but very satisfying all the same. "You’re amazing, you know that?" he murmured.
I shook my head, partly because I wasn’t but also because I didn’t mind hearing more flattery.
"You are. You’re the bravest person I think I’ve ever known, to handle everything that’s been thrown at you without freaking out."
But I knew I wasn’t really brave. I was just selfish, wanting more Rigel time. It was no credit to me that my need for him was stronger than any fear could ever be. "I’ll try to maintain that record," I said. "But no promises if the bad guys show up with laser guns."
He laughed and hugged me. "C’mon. Let’s get you home. You go first and I’ll follow about twenty yards behind. That way, if anyone did manage to follow one of us—"
"I’m sure they didn’t, but okay," I said, half enjoying all of this cloak and dagger stuff.
We left the arboretum separately, him walking his bike a block behind me. But once I turned the corner onto my street, he caught up to give me one last kiss— though I very much hoped it wouldn’t be the last.
"Be safe," he whispered. "I’ll see you soon."
He rode off and, feeling much, much better than I had in two weeks, I walked—or rather, drifted—the last half block alone.