NEWBORN: Book One of the Newborn Trilogy (6 page)

I stare down at my notepad, taking in the
soft parallel lines and the space for possibility between them. On
my left I notice the boy with russet skin scratching the back of
his neck. He taps the floor with his foot impatiently, his whole
body seeming to pulse with static electricity. Restless.

“I hate writing essays,” he says, staring
straight ahead for a moment after saying this before turning to
look at me.

“Oh,” I say in response, surprised he’s
speaking. “You should switch classes.”

He shakes his head. “Can’t,” he says, “I’m an
English major. This class is required for English majors.”

Geez, he has fantastic, full maroon lips.
They’re like rose petals waiting to be kissed.

“You should switch majors,” I tell him.

“Heh,” he says humorlessly. “Would if I
could. I’m not good at anything else. I’m good at writing, I just
don’t like it.”

“Oh,” I say again, at a loss for what to say.
“I – I understand.” I don’t really, actually. “I’m also an English
major. You weren’t in any of my classes yesterday, were you? I may
not have noticed. I’m not the most observant person ever.”

The boy shakes his head. “Nope. I’m only
taking one class.”

Geez, what is it with all these fucking
slackers? Am I the only person on campus with a full schedule?

“Why just one?”

He shrugs, his dark eyes roving over me
ceaselessly. “No reason, I just have other stuff to do and stuff.
Activities and stuff. You know?”

“I suppose,” I lie. “One class sounds
manageable.”

“Yeah, well,” he begins, looking tense all of
a sudden, “I’m still stressed the fuck out most of the time. I have
other things on my mind besides writing essays.”

I stare at him, utterly at a loss. It’s
official – I picked the school with all the crazies and now I can’t
leave. Not for three months, anyway. I’m fucked. Oh well – at least
Kiri is pretty normal. Or I think she is. No sooner do I decide to
ignore the boy for the rest of term than he stretches out a russet
hand.

“Wolf,” he says, a crooked grin revealing
perfect, sharp teeth.

Shaking his hand, I’m instantly stunned by
his strength. He isn’t even squeezing me – I can just tell by
touching him. “Nora Saynt-Rae,” I reply. “It’s good to meet you –
uh – Wolf. That’s a strange name.”

“Mom had a sense of humor.”

“I can see that,” I reply.

“It’s short for Wolfgang.”

A flash of recognition. “That’s not so odd,
then,” I tell him. “That’s like a real name. I’ve heard of it
before.”

“Yeah?” Wolf asks, sounding doubtful. “Name a
Wolfgang.”

“Wolfgang Petersen,” I tell him, not missing
a beat. “I love
The NeverEnding Story
.”

“That’s a gimme,” Wolf says with a frown.
“Name another.”

Oh shit
.

I think hard. I think harder. I give up.
“You,” I say, and I can’t stop a smile from splashing across my
face. This boy has some serious charm despite my initial
misgivings.

Still
, my alter ego says,
he’s an
oddball
.

True
, I respond.
A muscular, angst
ridden oddball. Hot counts.

“Your mom was right in her choice of a name,”
I tell Wolf. “Nothing humorous about it. It’s a good name.”

Wolf’s full maroon lips stretch in a smile.
“No – trust me – she had a sense of humor. Because, well – I guess
I can’t tell you that, can I?” he says, almost as if asking
himself. I stare at him in utter confusion. “No,” he answers
himself, averting his eyes to the ceiling, “can’t tell her
that…”

He’s crazy. Goddamn it, why do all the cute
ones have to be fucking insane?

The classroom door bangs open and two
students enter. More follow, and before long there is hardly an
empty seat. A man who looks like a professor enters. He appears to
be in his forties with glasses and hair that’s still a sleek black.
Briefcase in hand, he makes his way to the front of the class.

“Welcome to English 301 everybody,” he says,
his demeanor demanding attention. The little amount of talking
going on ceases. “
I’m
Dr. Tuten and
you
are students
who are here to learn how to write an essay,” he deems, his eyes
falling over the class as his hands open the briefcase. “Many of
you may think you already know how to write an essay. I can assure
you that you’re wrong.

“The essay is an art form,” Dr. Tuten
continues, gazing around. “Get that into your heads because if you
cannot, there is very little I can teach you. The essay is the
greatest of the forms the written word can take. At once more
erudite and concise then the novel and more punctual and realized
than the poem, the essay is the finest vessel for any opinion about
anything. It is nothing less than the highest, most learned art
form humanity has ever engineered. And I will be teaching you how
to craft it.”

From beside me I hear a loud, unrestrained
sigh.

* * *

My next class is History 145: The American
Revolution.

It takes me a while to find the right
building, so I’m only just on time. The classroom is bloated with
students. There won’t be any choosing my seat this time. I find an
empty chair near the back and wait for the professor. Although
technically class has already begun, the professor isn’t here yet.
Another five minutes pass. People are looking around expectantly,
wondering what to do.

A young, teacher’s-assistant-looking girl
walks in with her ponytail and manila envelope. “Class is
cancelled!” she announces, dropping her folder to the table in
front and opening it. “Dr. Blakely had to undergo emergency
surgery. Don’t worry, it shouldn’t be life-threatening,” she adds,
answering our collectively unasked question. “But before you leave,
come grab a syllabus.”

* * *

Now that I have all my syllabi I can go
purchase my books. A nagging feeling assaults me as I make my way
to the student union. I
should
have purchased half of them
yesterday. I have reading due for Victorian Lit class and chapter
one of
The Great Gatsby
is also due tomorrow. I don’t think
there will be a quiz, but there’s going to be discussion and I
don’t want to look like a complete idiot on the second day of
class.

My problem is I’m kind of a slow reader. For
most people getting through a few poems and a chapter of
Gatsby
would be easy in one evening. But I like to really
digest my reading, to understand the entirety of its composure.
Hope I don’t get distracted tonight.

Once at the student union, I find the school
store and browse the textbook section. Finding my syllabi, I check
and double check the required books before pulling them from the
shelves. Hmm – I’ll get some pens, too. And an ink cartridge.

Geez, they sell televisions here!

Buy a bigger television,
prompts my
alter ego,
you have enough money!

True,
I agree,
but only if I tell
my textbooks to go fuck themselves!

The great thing about being a liberal arts
major is the textbooks are cheaper than for the science,
technology, engineering, and math fields. I’m out the door for
under $250. You may not think that’s cheap but believe me it
is.

I’m leaving the store when a thought strikes
me. Bag in hand, I turn back to the cashier. “Excuse me. Where’s
the post office?”

The girl points down the hall. “Down
there.”

“Oh,” I say, “thanks.” Turning on my heel, I
head in the direction she indicated. The post office isn’t so much
a post office as a student standing behind one of those
half-door-half-counter thingamajigs. “Hi,” I say, distracted. The
boy behind the counter has prominent ears. “I was wondering if I
have a package.”

“Last name?” He sounds bored.

“Saynt-Rae,” I answer. The boy stares at me
in silence. “What?” I ask.

“Which is it?” he asks.

I blink at him. “Sorry, what?”

“Which is it? Saynt or Rae?”

“Oh,” I reply, “it’s both.”

The boy grins stupidly. “You can’t have two
last names.”

“Yes – actually – I can.” This isn’t
happening. I can’t be having an exchange this stupid. It’s too
early for this, even though it’s well past midday. “My last name is
hyphenated,” I explain.

The boy sighs as though I’m ruining his fun.
He goes to have a look on the stock shelf. He returns with a
rectangular box about the size of a large book. Shaking it, he
holds it up to his ear. “Nope,” he says, “it’s not Legos!”

“Hey, stop that!” I reach for the
package.

He hands it over. “Wanna go on a date?”

I gape at him in awe. What audacity! “No,
thank you
,” I say, trying to sound annoyed. Truth is, few
enough guys have asked me out, so I’m ecstatic when anybody does. I
slip the package into my bag and head for the door.

Outside the student union are a bunch of
round metal picnic tables. I stop at one of these, deciding to put
my plastic shopping bag in my backpack for the walk back. Unzipping
my backpack, I put the shopping bag inside. I’m tempted to open Mom
and Dad’s package now, but I put it off. Have to practice
patience.

A loud pop sounds beside me. “What have you
got there?”

“Ah!” I exclaim, throwing up my hands.
Gabriel has materialized out of nowhere. “How do you do that?” I
gasp at him. “Are you stalking me?”

“Answer my question first,” Gabriel
demands.

I gesture my surrender. “Books – they’re
books, okay. I got books. Happy now?”

Gabriel stares at me, his grin faltering.
“You – you’re looking very pretty today, Nora,” he remarks, his
eyes scanning the entirety of my being. “But you’re too pale and
you’ve lost weight since yesterday, I can tell. Why aren’t you
eating?”

Geez, his note taking is kind of creepy.

“I told you already,” I tell him, “I’m having
anxiety issues.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

I shake my head. “Not yet. I’m – um – getting
to that.”

“I hope so,” Gabriel says, taking my backpack
from the picnic table and swinging it over his shoulder. “You have
to take extra good care of yourself in new surroundings. Come on –
I’ll walk you home.”

I blush. A boy has never offered to walk me
home before. Man, I’m on fire today! Maybe I am looking sexier than
usual. I’ll have to investigate this claim next time I’m near a
mirror. We set off in the direction of dorm building C. No sooner
do we start than Gabriel stops dead.

“Or better yet,” Gabriel says, his gaze
finding inspiration in the dark clouds, “let’s go for a walk on the
beach. We said we would, didn’t we? Might as well live up to
ourselves. What do you say?”

“How about another time?” I suggest. “You
don’t want to carry my backpack all over the place, it’s full of
books.”

“I do, actually,” he replies, his eyes
staring into mine without a trace of humor. “I really do. I want to
go to the beach now, I’m feeling impulsive. I’ll carry your bag,
and if you’re nice I’ll let you come, too.”

I laugh at his nerve before shrugging. “Fine,
have it your way. Sounds like you’re used to that kind of
arrangement.”

“Oh yes,” Gabriel says, “very much so.”

We set off in a westerly direction toward Red
Square. From there I know the beach is due north. Glancing down, I
take in my footwear – sandals. Perfect. I’m so used to wearing this
red pair that I barely register them as I slip them on these days.
I glance over at my traveling companion.

Gabriel is once again flowing in robes, this
time of deepest plum. A thin, short stick emanates from his pocket
and though I try, I can’t distinguish his footwear around his
swaying robes. His blond hair catches the light wonderfully as we
walk. I’m struck by the effortlessness of his beauty.

“Are you sure you should be going to the
beach?” I ask, “dressed like that?”

“What – oh,” Gabriel mutters distractedly,
glancing down. “It’s no trouble. I’m not worried about it.”

“But you’ll get sand all over your nice
robes,” I protest. “Let’s go back to our dorms and I can dump my
books and you can change.”

Gabriel smiles his mischievous smile before
shaking his head. “Sorry, Nora, that won’t be happening.” He swipes
his blond hair to one side of his forehead as he speaks. “The beach
can’t wait, Nora. We must go now. I’ve been meaning to go ever
since you’ve been meaning to ask me to take you.”

I frown in confusion. “Why do you want to go
so badly?”

Gabriel fastens his hands to the straps of my
backpack, his thumbs sticking out in front. “It’s not the beach
that concerns me. It’s the questions I will ask you there.”

Oh? Now I’m interested. Actually, I was
interested before, but now I’m really interested.

“What questions?” I ask, breathless.

“Not here,” Gabriel says, shushing me, “we’re
too exposed. Wait until we’re in the forest.”

Reaching the bustling Red Square, we head
north. Between the college and the beach at Evergreen State is a
tiny forest crisscrossed with pathways. This is my first time
trespassing through, and no doubt Gabriel’s too, for he keeps
looking around as we walk. Perhaps he’s making sure nobody is
listening.

“How is your search for Peninsula students
going?” I ask, trying hard not to sound condescending. “Made any
friends yet?”

“No,” Gabriel answers as he guides me onto a
wilder, less traversed path. “That’s part of what I wanted to talk
to you about. I can’t keep going up to people and asking if they’re
from the Olympic Peninsula. People get freaked out.”

“Can’t imagine why,” I say, sarcasm drenching
my words.

He ignores my attitude. “So I wanted to ask
you whether you’ve seen anything strange recently on or around
campus. Anything in the area – anything at all.
Anything
,
Nora.” He says this last bit very quickly, as though terrified
someone will hear us.