Chapter 7: My Stalker
It’s Thursday. Señor Belmont stands in front of the class conjugating verbs. When I glance out the window, he stands in a brown corduroy pea coat, staring up at me from the courtyard. A black beanie covers his head, while his warm breath exhales silvery clouds that swirl around his face—his very beautiful face.
The thought of him outside my window should put me on edge because I’m still unsure whether he falls into the category of friend or foe. However, I’m completely calm with him here. I realize this is a completely irrational, irresponsible thought with so many unexplained questions. How has he found me? Who is he? Who sent me his photo? And why is he here?
When I sink into my chair, heat rushes into my cheeks. I lean into my schoolwork and try to concentrate. Before I realize it, my eyes drift back to the frost-rimmed window, and I’m staring back at him. His face isn’t as unreadable as it was at our first meeting. In fact, he smiles back in a crooked way, the same charming way he did in his photo.
When Mr. Belmont walks past, I pretend I’m working, but really I’m thinking about the boy, wondering about him. Something pulls me toward him, and even when I look away from the window, I see him in my mind. Here, while I sit in class, his perfect image blocks any attempt at studiousness.
Now that I can inspect him from afar, he doesn’t really appear to be dangerous. I decide that when he grabbed my sweater that day at the L, he must have been trying to conceal me from the Grungy Gang. He really meant to help.
He’s visited every morning this past week. I try to ignore him. Despite his good looks, his daily appearance is starting to creep me out a little. It should be, anyway.
The thing is, every morning he just stares, like he’s trying to communicate with his eyes. He waves this morning, and I’m so sure his gesture is not for me that I hunch back into my seat, mortified. When I get up enough nerve to look back out, he’s still there, digging his hands into his pockets, looking back up at me with those eyes. Even from this far, they leave me unhinged and giddy. Quietly, they ask me to join him, and I decide that tomorrow, I just might.
•
I’m a block from the school when the morning bell rings in the distance, making me late for first period Spanish. But timing is essential if I want to accidentally run into Stalker Boy.
Maybe this is a mistake. He seems friendly, but what do I know? I do call him Stalker Boy for a reason. What if he is dangerous, like a real stalker? Or he really is part of the Grungy Gang? There’s no way to be completely sure.
My brain is off, running in frantic directions. Now I’m positive this is a stupid idea. I’ll confront him and he’ll kill me, or I’ll go and find he’s really been staring at someone else every day. That would be extremely embarrassing.
When I finally step into the courtyard, my nerves are wound so tight I might explode. I decide to let the meeting play out. Whatever happens, happens. This is the best I can do. He’s just a boy, and I’m just a girl. A very stupid one.
I stop in my tracks and scan the snow-covered courtyard. He’s not here, anywhere. I relocate to the corner of the school, lean against the building, and crouch behind the bushes. I’m freezing, but from this vantage point, I can get a clear view of the boy if he shows up, without him knowing.
Snow crunches nearby. I hear one step and then another. Someone walks up behind me, and I know I’m busted. Crap! What will it be? Detention? Expulsion? A teacher? The principal? Mona will be so ticked.
I refuse to look up right away because I’m formulating an excuse in my head. Quick, I need something. But it’s too late. A strong presence stands over me. The towering person casts a shadow around my feet.
Whatever the penalty is, I can take it. So I look up as though I have nothing to hide.
Stalker Boy stands just inches from my face. His ocean-green eyes hold such intensity, I’m not sure if I should be scared or mesmerized. The bright green of his eyes contrasts with the darkness of the thick fringe of eyelashes that surround them, making them appear even greener, if possible. They remind me of the sea glass. The kind I’d find on the beach in Miami when I’d skip class. Little shards of milk chocolate hair peek out from under his beanie cap. From this close, I realize he’s much taller than I, and his features are mature.
His perfect, square jaw moves to say something. His words roll through the cold air in silvery clouds and land on my face like a soft, warm kiss. Everything moves in slow motion. I blink. He’s even more beautiful up close, but there’s no sound where his words should be. I’ve tuned out everything completely to focus on his sublime face.
There’s a magnetic force pulling me toward him, and I realize the charge has scrambled my mind, altering my attention span.
Wait. What? What did he say? “Huh?” I ask, stupidly. I refocus on his words. My brow furrows.
He enunciates the words slowly this time. “I said, what the bloody hell are you doing here? Are you trying to get me in trouble?”
“What?” Is he serious? Strange for him to accuse me of getting him in trouble! I’m the one skipping class. I stand speechless and keep staring. I think he might start explaining himself and his stalking ways. He doesn’t. Instead, he grabs my arm, yanks me around the corner of the school, and shoves me into an exit alcove.
“Don’t move!” He points a finger in my face. By this time, I’m in too much shock to do anything else but stand here. I realize he is dangerous, and no one will see if he kills me now.
Scared, I shake. Stalker Boy paces back and forth.
“If you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll scream!”
His expression instantly switches to shock. He rushes toward me. “No, please!” He places his palms on my arms and pulls me close. It’s hard to concentrate again.
“Why?” I mumble.
“They can’t know that I’m talking to you,” he says. Something in his eyes says he’s not here to hurt me, and I realize the thought is one I fabricated on my own from almost no information. I’ve blown everything out of proportion, as usual.
His eyes plead for my silence, instantly making me melt. For some reason, I grab his hands. They’re warm and bare despite the weather. Heat pulses through them and into me. Locked in another world, we just stare at each other, saying nothing, but silently sharing everything.
After a long moment, he clears his throat, drops his grasp, and digs his hands into his pockets. I use my hands to straighten my coat and compose myself as though nothing’s happened.
“You’re not going to hurt me?” I cross my arms. I want to confirm it, regardless.
“Of course not!” He chuckles as though it’s a funny thought.
“Why can’t you talk to me, then?” All I want to do is talk to him—to know everything about him.
A door slams in the distance. His head jerks anxiously back and forth from the front to the back of the building. He really is afraid of being caught with me.
“Have you wandered yet?” He ignores my question and asks one of his own. An edge of desperation creeps into his voice.
My eyebrows pinch together at the question. I’m not sure if I hear him correctly.
“Have you wandered?” He repeats the question, rushing his words as though he’s running out of time.
I stand speechless at his choice of words. Even though I have no idea what the question means, I sense that “no” is the wrong answer.
“What do you mean, wandered?”
“I guess that’s my answer,” he says, looking wounded. Even still, his velvety British accent makes his distress sound beautiful. He shoves a piece of paper into my hands, pivots, and quickly retreats.
He’s upset. Somehow, I’ve hurt him, and I don’t even know how.
“Wait! What’s your name?” I call after him and reach out my arm as though I want to pull him back. He only glances back with sad eyes. They ask me to understand, but I don’t. Our meeting only confuses me further. He disappears behind the Academy building a
nd into the trees.
My mouth hangs open. How can he leave when he hasn’t explained anything about his photo, who the gang is, or what wandering is? As I reflect, I realize he’s the second person to use the term “wandering” since I arrived. The disgusting bum on the L train, Francis, someone called him, said the same word—wandering. What does Francis have to do with this? He isn’t on my list of weird occurrences. Should I put him there?
Now there are only questions and no answers. Annoying. What the freak is “wandering?” And why are the now-renamed British Stalker Boy and Francis Germ Bum asking about it? This creates a new category. Together, they fit neatly in it, but my list of weird is growing:
Lady in Black
Chicago premonition
Francis Germ Bum
Grungy Gang
British Stalker Boy
Wandering
I exhale, frustrated.
I look down at my hand. The piece of paper the boy gave me crunches in my grasp. It’s an envelope, a piece of mail. When I look closer, I see it’s one of Aunt Mona’s electric bills. What’s the boy doing with this? How does he even know where I live? My stomach twists, leaving me queasy.
A green sticky note hangs from the back of the bill. On it, crappy boy handwriting scratches across the paper. I scan the notes. They are directions of some sort.
1. Stand in the front, east corner of the Strovels’ yard. (Address - 125, next to Mona’s house)
2. Hold this piece of mail and concentrate on Mona, and only Mona. (“Mona” is your keyword)
3. Run as fast you can in a straight line going west.
4. Sit down behind the hedges, be very quiet, and listen.
5. Return after you hear what you need to hear.
6. Repeat number two while running in the opposite direction to return home.
The only thing I’m sure of is that British Stalker Boy intended to give this to me today, but what it means, I’m not sure.