Gypsy (The Cavy Files Book 1) (6 page)

My brave front wavers; I’m bone-tired from days of acting as though I’m not freaking out. Even though I’m grateful to be out of the hospital, to have a place to sleep where no one will be watching, I’ve pretended as long as I can. Fatigue stretches my mask of coolness until it’s threadbare, and when my body betrays me with a yawn, Robert notices.

“I’m sure you’re exhausted. Let me show you the upstairs, then I’ll heat up a pizza and you can get to bed early.”

I shuffle behind him up a narrow, carpeted staircase with worn footprints in the middle of each step. The crisp smell of aftershave and fabric softener tickles my nose in his wake, along with a wisp of something citrusy that seems familiar even though it’s not. He points out a bathroom on the right, a swath of pristine white tiles around an equally white claw-footed tub and frosted-glass shower. Fluffy dark blue towels hang from a cheap plastic rod, and the faucet drips.

He swings open a door on the left side of the hall, flipping another switch. “This will be your room. It’s for guests at the moment, so we’ll have to do a little spit-and-shine to make it yours, but that’s easy enough.”

My room. This is
my room.
Not my bed in a shared cabin with no door, but a space that I can claim. Decorate. Close off, if I feel the need. Heat glows in my chest, throbbing and rolling outward until molten gold runs through my veins instead of blood. “Thank you.”

I’m not sure what to call him. In my head I think of him as my father, but calling him Dad feels weird. Using his given name seems just as off, so for now, I avoid calling him anything.

It’s awkward, the air between us. We’re strangers trying so hard to act as though this is normal and comfortable, and even though we’re succeeding on the surface, underneath it’s still a poor fit.

“My room’s at the end of the hall, and I have my own bathroom, so the one we passed is yours.” He trails off, looking at the single small bag he dropped on the carpet inside my door, then fiddles with one of the buttons on his shirt. “You’ll need a few things, I expect. For school and everything. We can go shopping tomorrow.”

Tomorrow doesn’t seem any more solid than today but I nod, drinking in the room that’s mine now. It’s plain, with a double bed on a white metal frame, a desk, and a table. A simple white down comforter covers the bed, not a single picture adorns the walls, and the end table is empty but for a lamp.

But it’s
mine.

“I’m going to cook that pizza. Should be ready in a half hour or so. I mean, if you’re hungry. If you’re not, that’s fine, too.” He stops rambling and draws a heavy breath. He’s obviously feeling as unmoored as I am with everything that’s changed in the past twenty-four hours.

There’s a good chance he’s mourning his life-that-was, too, but maybe he’s not as curious as I am about the life-that-could-be. Either way, the invitation to dinner sounds forced.

The ache in my empty stomach makes me nod anyway, while the tidal wave of confusing emotions drowns another thank-you. He goes downstairs, leaving me with the remnants of his peaceful acceptance. They make this mountain of change and new things and terrifying days ahead seem conquerable. Like it’s possible for me to climb it, one step at a time.

The bed sinks a little under my weight. The comforter ripples beneath my palms, soft and begging for a good snuggle. The rest of the room offers nothing in the way of visual interest, but even if my father takes me shopping tomorrow, I have no idea how to fill it up, what will make it say,
this room belongs to Norah Jane Crespo.

The interiors of our cabins at Darley are nothing but brick and wood beams. There are fireplaces and a table, in addition to two beds on the ground and one in a loft. Like this room, there’s nothing else. Unlike this room, no one ever told me I could make it mine.

The smell of food wafts up the stairs, army-crawls under my door, and coaxes a growl from my stomach. The hospital food was less than appetizing and that, along with my nerves, meant it was left on the tray more often than not. I push to my feet, opening the door and peering out into the hall. It’s empty, and so is the bathroom when I make it in there with my toothbrush in tow.

The bathrooms at Darley were outdoors and separate for boys and girls. If we were ill, the staff would let us use the bathtub or shower at the big house, where the water is hot, but otherwise bathing was quick and freezing, even in the winter.

The bathroom here blinds me with its starkness, but it’s indoors and probably has hot water, a theory that’s proven as I splash my face clean in the sink. Grime, real or imagined, makes the rest of my skin itch but the smell of melting cheese says there’s no time for a shower.

My blue eyes sparkle with a strange combination of fear and curiosity, brighter than usual against my pale face. Chestnut strands escape the floppy bun at the crown of my head, and the sameness of my appearance gives me something to grasp. It feels like the single thing that hasn’t changed since the police raided Darley and took us all away.

“Norah, the pizza’s ready if you want to come down!”

A tentative smile tickles the corners of my lips at the sound of my father calling for me from the bottom of the stairs. It’s like a dream, one I put away a long time ago. I’d accepted that the Cavies were the only family I’d ever have, and I love them more than life. They’re my brothers, my sisters, the people who understand what it’s like to be me.

But they’re not parents.

It seems, based on movies, that lots of girls my age hate their parents, or at least hate the rules and restrictions and expectations that come along with living at home. They don’t realize what they have, which makes sense. Nothing looks as beautiful when you’re living inside it.

My mouth feels clean after a quick brushing, and I hurry down the stairs and find my way back to the kitchen. The combination of cheese, meat, and hot bread hovers in the air and makes my stomach grumble louder, and my father shoots me a smile.

I sit across from him at the maple table and grab a slice, sinking my teeth into the sustenance with the kind of reverence that can only be earned by fasting. Light diffuses through the space, winding around our legs and the table and casting a shimmer that makes the scene look surreal. For the moment, I almost believe this will work. That I’ll be normal and no one will ever find out what I can do.

We chew in silence, which grows more uncomfortable by the minute, pizza disappearing while the lengthening day tugs on my eyelids.

After three slices I sit back, more sleepy than ever after filling my belly. “What should I call you?”

He chews slowly, then swallows some water before answering. “What do you want to call me?”

“I don’t know. I mean, this has to be weird for you, finding out the daughter you never expected to meet needs a place to stay and deciding to share your house and everything. Maybe you don’t feel like a dad.” I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down, worrying that my words are wrong.

“I’ve felt like a dad since I found out your mother was pregnant, Norah. Losing you all those years ago doesn’t mean I wasn’t a father anymore.” He stares at me, determination filling his dark gaze. “I’m not going to pretend this is easy, or that we don’t have lots of adjusting to do, but I’ve always been your father. Whatever makes you most comfortable, I’ll handle.”

His reply squeezes my heart until it beats sideways, squished by the weight of my snarled emotions. It will be days before I can sort them all out, identify the feelings, and address them one by one. The lump that’s taken up residence in my throat bursts, shooting wetness up to my eyes. Exhaustion explodes in a waterfall of tears, sobs that won’t quit. I lay my head on the table, only realizing my father’s tentative hand is rubbing my back with the reappearance of the
83
behind my eyes.

It’s a long time before oxygen trumps emotion, before the sobs ease to hiccups and relief eases to twinges of embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, keeping my gaze on my hands.

“Don’t be sorry. You’ve been through a lot in the past three days. You’re tired, this is all new. Go to bed.”

I don’t move, frozen by the idea that this is a dream. Fiction. What if I touch the wrong thing and this whole life pops like a million bubbles all at once?

“Norah. Get some sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”

The reassurance gives me a push, and I’m back in my room and under the covers without much recollection of getting there. It would be too hard, require too much energy to change into sleep clothes, and my eyes close before I can even think about summoning it.

I wake up drenched in sweat, my heart in my throat, no idea where I am or how I got here. My immediate response is to fly into the Clubhouse, and the familiar surroundings lift the boulder off my chest. The sight of Mole asleep in his chair, his dark hair shooting in every direction, returns oxygen to my lungs. Vegetable lies in his typical spot on the floor, eyebrows raised at my expression, which must be panicked. Haint’s asleep here, too, curled on one of the beanbags abandoned by the twins, who are flopped on either end of the couch.

I guess we all needed a little comfort.

In the quiet, the events of the past few days rush back. The compromise of Darley, the arrest of the Philosopher and his staff. All of the Cavies stuck in the hospital, examined and debriefed and corralled into an explanation the real world can accept.

It’s soothing being here with them, even if no one’s awake. This space might not be mine alone, but offers more comforts than the sterile room at my father’s, at least for now.

Mole stirs, tuned into my presence as though it’s his job. His mossy, sightless eyes open and fix on my position.
“Gypsy?”

“Yeah,”
I say softly so that the others don’t wake.
“How are you?”

“Okay.”

He looks away from me. It takes me a minute to realize that he’s not smiling. Mole’s always smiling, even when we’re having the crappiest day, so this makes my heart beat fast.

“Where are you?”

“Still in the hospital.”

“Your genetic results aren’t back yet?”

“
They are. My mother is dead, and my father doesn’t want me.”

His flat, emotionless tone punches me in the stomach. There’s hurt wrapped around him, coating his face and voice and skin, and there’s nothing I can do to peel it away. A protest sits on the tip of my tongue, begging to tumble free and comfort my friend, but it’s pointless.
“I’m sorry, Mole.”

“Shiloh.”

“What?”

“That was my name. Shiloh Adams Lee.”

It’s all wrong for him, which makes me giggle and him frown.
“I’m sorry. It sounds like some kind of Civil War general or something, that’s all.”

The amusement keeps coming, with snickers flying unapproved out of my mouth, and after a few more, Mole’s lips start to twitch. His first snort crashes between us like a gift, like a flower I can’t decide whether to pick or leave be in the hopes it blooms into more. Our laughter struggles free of our clutches, bounding around the room and banging into our sleeping friends until they’re shoved into consciousness.

Pollyanna shows up while Mole and I try to escape the twins, annoyed at being woken, but the nice thing about Athena and Goose has always been that as much as they enjoy dealing out a good noogie, they’re never truly angry.

Haint grabs Goose by the hair, dragging him off Mole and ending the ruckus. The gales of laughter ease from our guts and we settle down, the room crowded with only three of us missing—Reaper, Flicker, and Prism.

Prism’s the second of our three Unstables, the other person besides Vegetable that Sandra expressed concern about in the hospital. Her powerful empath abilities mean she experiences every nuanced emotion of the people around her, and after years of failed research and drug therapy and lessons in attempting to control it, the staff had no choice but to keep her in a drug-induced stupor.

We hate it, but after her ninth—nearly successful—suicide attempt, the options were limited. Are limited.

“What’s so funny, anyway?”
Polly grumps, dropping to the floor and pulling her knees into her chest.

“Mole’s real name,”
I blurt before he can stop me.

“You think mine is so funny? What’s yours?”
he shoots back, arms crossed over his chest. A twitch still toys with his lips.

“Norah.”
I stick out my chin, waiting for the hoots.

Mole and the others study me with thoughtful expressions. Even Pollyanna doesn’t jump at a chance to poke fun at me, instead studying her cuticles.

“It fits you,”
Mole, aka Shiloh, declares.

“Yeah,”
Haint adds.
“I agree.”

“Who else knows their names? Everyone?”
I’m so hungry for information even though there’s no room left to stow it.

Silence drapes the room, muting our previous lighthearted mirth, and it takes a second or two to puzzle out why.

Haint and Pollyanna and Goose and everyone else, we’re all friends. We
know
each other. Our Darley names represent not only who we are but what we can do, and claiming a different one feels like shedding part of my identity. For them even more than me, probably, since their abilities have defined them. Brought them praise and pride and
purpose.