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Benjamin Arrington. Zack's older brother. Only a few years older, but a lot goofier. He's sort of nerdy and quite skinny, like a human Gollum. He's been at a Christian school up in British Columbia for the last three months, training to become a pastor. Zack was sad when Ben first left, and I missed kidding around with him, too.

Ben holds out his hand for me to shake. I do, and he draws me into a one-armed hug.

“They kick you out?” I joke.

Ben withdraws. “Yeah. I wasn't holy enough or something.” His dark eyes sparkle.

I laugh. Ben's a good guy. He's very Christian, but not the overzealous kind. I think he'll make a nice pastor one day.

“Actually,” Ben says, “they let me loose for some hands-on experience.”

Zack claps his brother on the shoulder. “Ben's staying with our parents for awhile. Justin was in Canada on business, so he gave him a ride down.”

“Justin?” I say. “Who's he?”

“Oh, our cousin,” Zack says. “He'll be here for a few weeks, I think.”

“Yeah,” Ben says, “it's a veritable family reunion!”

“My parents say you can come over for dinner tonight,” Zack tells me. “Seven o'clock?”

I smile. “Sounds good to me.”

“Just don't eat all the food this time,” Ben teases.

I narrow my eyes at him and pretend to be annoyed.

Zack scans the table of stuff for sale and picks up a medieval-style cross made of silver and amethysts. “Look at this one.”

Ben nods. “Beautiful.”

A knot tightens in my stomach. “Yeah.”

Calm down, Gwen. Just because you're going to a Christian home for dinner doesn't mean you're stepping into enemy territory. The Arringtons are nice. They like you. But would they like me if they knew what I really am?

five

I
sit at my desk, my head in my hands, and wait for my computer to load. Now that I've met him, I can't resist inspecting “Takehiko's” blog again. He has a lot of inspired lunacy on there. Last week he posted a comic called “Invasion of the Mutant Tribbles!” An anime-style samurai stands in a bamboo forest as monstrous little furballs jump toward him, fangs gleaming. The samurai says, “WTF? (in Japanese).” Tavian also has a strange fascination with zombies. He likes putting them into sophisticated situations, like zombies golfing, or zombies sipping champagne and saying, “Indeed.”

Stuff like that makes me wonder whether Tavian's just a total goofball with a penchant for the bizarre, but he occasionally posts serious fantasy art. At least he calls it fantasy, but the Others he draws look so very realistic.

Today he uploaded a quickly colored sketch of a bay centaur standing on a grassy hill. The centaur is standing with his back to us, staring at a flaming sunset beyond a grove of olive trees. I can see longing in the tilt of his neck, the tension in his arms. The title: “Home.” Oh, the centaur must be in Greece.

Wait. I stare at his dark curly hair. Isn't this the exact same one I saw at the Safeway?

I lean back in my chair and frown. Who is Tavian, anyway? I open up his blog profile. It doesn't say anything about his age or location. Under
Bio
, it says, “I'm a work in progress.” But aha, look here. His Instant Messenger username.

“FoxFire88,” I murmur.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. I can't resist seeing if he's online. I have a different username for IM, so that my blog can stay anonymous.

r3dgw3n: Tavian?

FoxFire88: who is this?

r3dgw3n: Gwen. We met today at the bookstore.

FoxFire88: are you e-stalking me?

r3dgw3n: Maybe. ;-)

FoxFire88: O_O

r3dgw3n: lol

r3dgw3n: I like your new art on your blog. Especially the centaur.

FoxFire88: thanks

FoxFire88: brb

After about five minutes of waiting, I wonder if I scared Tavian off. Or if he's just not interested in chatting with me.

FoxFire88: Back. I was typing one-handed while eating.

r3dgw3n: Eating what?

FoxFire88: Tofu. Mmm.

r3dgw3n: Seriously? :-P

FoxFire88: I <3 tofu.

r3dgw3n: Okaaay.

r3dgw3n: So did you draw that centaur sketch from life? It's really realistic.

FoxFire88: Yeah. Saw a centaur at Safeway.

r3dgw3n: Me too!

FoxFire88: Sweet.

A new IM window pops up with a chime. It's Zack.

ThirteenthPaladin: Hi, Gwen. How are you?

r3dgw3n: Fine. You?

ThirteenthPaladin: I'm looking forward to dinner tonight.

r3dgw3n: Me too. :-)

ThirteenthPaladin: Though to be honest, I signed on because something has been bothering me, and I wanted to talk about it with you.

r3dgw3n: Oh, okay.

There's a pause of nearly an entire minute, during which time I chew on my lip. Why must Zack type complete paragraphs with proper grammar?

ThirteenthPaladin: I keep thinking about the drowned couple we found in the pond. They weren't the first dead people I have seen. When I was ten, my Great Aunt Zora passed away. I saw her lying in bed. I can remember being scared and sad, but now I know it was her time to go. The drowned couple just feels wrong. They were going to have a baby. How could God let them die?

My stomach twists. I'm not sure whether I believe in God or not. My other IM window flashes as Tavian sends a message.

FoxFire88: Still there?

r3dgw3n: Sorry. IMing somebody else.

FoxFire88: No prob.

FoxFire88: I've got to go, anyway.

r3dgw3n: Why?

FoxFire88: Dinner.

r3dgw3n: Tofu wasn't enough?

FoxFire88: Don't insult tofu or I'll spork you. ^_^

r3dgw3n: lol

FoxFire88: We should get together sometime, since we live in the same town. We would piss off coincidence if we didn't.

r3dgw3n: Yeah.

FoxFire88: See you later!

FoxFire88 went away.

I close the window and turn my attention to Zack. I'm not sure how to respond.

r3dgw3n: Sorry, distracted.

ThirteenthPaladin: It's okay. Take your time, I'm reading a book.

r3dgw3n: I wish we could have done something to help those poor people, but I guess it's best not to think about it too much.

ThirteenthPaladin: Yes. We just have to trust God. He knows what He is doing.

I type nothing. What can I say? I don't trust God because I'm not sure he exists?

ThirteenthPaladin: I have to go now.

r3dgw3n: Okay.

ThirteenthPaladin: I'll see you at seven. My mom is making chicken casserole right now, and it smells good.

r3dgw3n: Mmm.

ThirteenthPaladin: Until then … Love, Zack.

r3dgw3n: Me too. <3

ThirteenthPaladin went away.

Violet evening softens the sky as I ring Zack's doorbell and hear “When the Saints Go Marching In.” The tune makes me wince a little today. Then the door sweeps open to reveal Mrs. Arrington, she of the artfully applied makeup and only fancy clothes. Today she's wearing a beaded tunic and a silk scarf. Her long nails click against the door frame. I feel somewhat shabby in my thrifted peasant blouse and green tie-dye skirt.

“Gwen!” Mrs. Arrington arches her penciled eyebrows. “How lovely to see you.”

“You too,” I say, mustering a smile.

Mrs. Arrington looks over her shoulder. “Zachary! She's here!” She glances back at me, smiles, and walks into the kitchen.

“Hey, Gwen.” Zack pecks me on the cheek. “Survived my mom?” he whispers.

I roll my eyes and mutter, “There's nothing wrong with her.”

“Then you don't know her well enough.” Grinning, he clasps my hand. “Onward. Time to brave the gauntlet.”

“None of that medieval junk!” I whisper.

“Yes, milady.”

I dig my nails into his hand, just hard enough to make him stop smirking.

“Zachary, where are your manners?” Mrs. Arrington says. “Escort Gwen inside.”

He leads me into their “parlor,” a dressed-up extra living room straight out of a JC Penney showroom. The furniture looks unused. Zack says that when he and Ben were kids, they were never allowed to play in there. Like their marble chess set, really fancy, that no one touches. I'm surprised they haven't roped the place off yet. Their house is always cool, even if it's summery outside, and quiet, except for the ticking of clocks. Kind of spooky when nobody's talking. And I don't think I've ever seen them open a window.

My house isn't anything like Zack's. Mine has that stagnant old house feel where there's too much stuff, not enough storage, and familiar clutter strewn about. Old and comfortable, if a bit claustrophobic.

I perch on the edge of a stiff loveseat. Zack flops down beside me. The smell of cooking meat wafts through the house.

“I do hope you like chicken casserole,” Mrs. Arrington says. “Zachary's last girlfriend was a vegetarian. Poor girl couldn't eat a thing.”

I glance at Zack, who pantomimes zipping his lips shut.

“Where's Ben?” I mutter. “And Justin?”

“They'll be here in a bit. They're buying some ice cream for dessert.”

“Can you help set the table, dear?” Mrs. Arrington says.

Zack sighs dramatically and heads into the dining room. I sit alone for a minute, then follow him to help. As we lay silverware—probably real silver—on the damask tablecloth, he keeps pretending to accidentally grab the same ones as me. The touch of our fingers feels like a little electric shock. I stifle a slightly girly giggle.

Somebody rings the doorbell.

“I'll get it,” Zack says.

I peer into the foyer. Zack opens the door. A tall man, well over six feet, slouches there in grungy overalls. His bleached hair stands in sweaty spikes. He has a lean, windswept look. If he weren't so dirty, he might be handsome.

“Hey Justin,” says Zack. “How's it going?”

“Fine, just fine,” the man says in a soft, somewhat high-pitched drawl. He looks past Zack with the same pale blue eyes. “Now, who's this young lady?”

“Hi,” I say, walking to them. “I'm Gwen.”

“I'm Justin Arrington.” He holds out his grimy hand, then pulls it back. “Forgive me. I'm a bit dirty.” He smiles, revealing dazzling teeth. At least they're clean.

I laugh politely. “Oh, don't worry about it.”

Ben elbows past the considerably taller Justin, holding a plastic grocery bag high. “Ice cream!” he shouts, pantomiming a battle cry.

“Benjamin!” Mrs. Arrington calls from the kitchen. “Don't deafen our guests, please.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Ben says.

Justin sniffs the air. “Aunt Penny, you must be cooking something special.”

Mrs. Arrington's voice warms. “Why, thank you, Justin.”

Ben rolls his eyes and whispers, “Kiss-ass.”

I bite back a smile.

Mrs. Arrington peeks round the corner. “Justin! How did you get so … filthy?”

“Had to help a friend out with some home improvement.”

Mrs. Arrington clicks her tongue, though she can't help smiling. “Go make yourself look presentable.” She bounces her hand under her hair-sprayed curls.

“Yes ma'am.” Justin touches his brow as if tipping a hat. “I'll see you soon.” He bounds upstairs, taking the steps two at a time.

“Where's he from, anyway?” I say.

“Down south,” Ben says, mimicking Justin's accent.

“Texas,” Zack says.

“Which explains everything,” Ben says dryly.

“How old is he, anyway?” I ask Zack. “You never mentioned a cousin.”

“I have zillions of them. Justin's twenty-three.”

I head toward the dining room. A framed print catches my eye. Some prayer written in flowery calligraphy over a photo of footprints in sand. I don't stop to read it, just like I ignore the collection of Precious Moments figurines in a curio cabinet.

“Their teardrop eyes always creep me out,” Ben says. “Probably creep out God, too.”

“Wow,” I say. “I can't believe you just said that.”

“What?” Ben looks comically innocent.

“Boys,” Mrs. Arrington says, “didn't I ask you to set the table?”

“Right,” Zack says.

“Didn't ask me,” Ben whispers, but he helps anyway.

I focus on setting the table with Zack and Ben. We're done all too soon. With nothing to do, I sit and fiddle with my fingernails.

A key grinds and clicks in a lock. The front door swings open. “Honey, I'm home!”

I try not to smile. I didn't think anybody actually said that in real life.

Mr. Arrington strides inside, toting a briefcase. He's a short man with a pot belly and a shiny bald spot ringed with white hair.

Mr. Arrington spots me and holds out his hand. “Good to see you, Gwen.”

“Hi,” I say.

He shakes my hand rather vigorously, then heads into the kitchen. I hear a loud smack of a kiss. Zack and Ben grimace, and I smile.

“Dinner's nearly ready.” Mrs. Arrington peeks out of the kitchen. “Please, sit.”

Zack pulls out a chair for me, then sits beside me. Ben sits across from us.

Mr. Arrington settles at the head of the table and smiles. “How are you, Gwen?”

“Fine,” I say.

“So,” Mr. Arrington says, “have you decided on a college yet?”

I try to keep my voice light. “Nope! Still looking.”

Mrs. Arrington comes into the kitchen with a casserole between her oven mitts. She looks like a housewife straight out of the '50s. She sets the casserole in the center of the table, then heads back into the kitchen.

“It looks just as fine as it smells,” Justin says, right behind me.

I glance over my shoulder. My eyes widen. Justin looks ten times better. He showered, slicked his wet hair, and abandoned his overalls in favor of black jeans and a sky blue shirt that flatters his eyes.

“You make me look like a slob,” Ben says, tugging at his T-shirt.

I take a closer look and see it's got a nerdy web comic on it. “Wow, real formal, Ben.”

He grins. “I'm glad you think so.”

Justin sits beside me and rests his elbows on the table. Mrs. Arrington gives him a sharp look, and he straightens, instantly proper. When Mrs. Arrington isn't looking, Ben stares at the casserole with buggy eyes and sneaks a claw-like hand toward it.

I swallow a laugh. “So, Justin,” I say, “what brings you here?”

“Doing some traveling for work,” he says. “I just wrapped up in Canada, so I thought I'd give Ben a lift and visit you all again.”

“So what is your work?” I ask.

“Justin's an
exterminator
,” Ben says, like the voiceover in a scary movie trailer.

“I prefer the term ‘pest control officer,'” Justin says.