Other (6 page)

I nod, not sure what to say. I've always thought of exterminators as having a particularly creepy job. I wonder if he came in all dirty because that “home improvement” involved helping a friend exterminate something. Ugh.

“How is it down in Texas?” Zack asks.

“Hot,” Justin says, with a lazy smile. “Not much else to say.”

Everyone laughs, even me.

Mrs. Arrington sets down wild rice, a pitcher of apple cider, and mesclun salad with arugula, chard, and lettuce. It all looks very nice. “Well!” she chirps. “That's all the food. John, do you want to say grace?”

Mr. Arrington starts to nod, then glances at Ben. “Let's give that honor to Benjamin.”

Ben smiles quickly. His face sobers as he begins to say grace. Everybody but me bows their heads and shuts their eyes. I stare at my plate until “Amen.” I'm sure Ben said a nice grace, but I'm glad when it's time to eat.

Mr. Arrington saws a piece of chicken with his knife. “How's the game in Texas?”

“Quite lively,” Justin says.

“What game?” I ask, thinking football or basketball.

“There's plenty of it where I live.” Justin smiles at me. “I prefer deer.”

“Oh.” My stomach sinks.

I hate hunting. After all, I transform into animals. Their minds don't think so differently than my human one.

“You should come back when it's deer season here,” Mr. Arrington says.

“I'd like that,” Justin says. “Anybody else interested?”

Ben toys with his fork. “Oh, you know I haven't gone hunting in years. I probably won't be picking up a gun any time soon.”

“Fair enough,” Justin says. “How about you, Zack?”

Zack glances at me and swallows. He knows I hate hunting. “Maybe.”

I poke at my chicken, suddenly aware of it being dead flesh.

“Speaking of hunting,” Justin says, “is it true that you folks have a werewolf problem?”

I flinch under his gaze, and my fork scrapes my plate. I talk fast to cover it up. “Yeah. A whole pack of them, apparently.”

Ben tilts his head to one side. “Oh? A pack moved down here?”

“I haven't seen any,” Zack says with a shrug.

“I live right by the national forest,” I say, “and I heard them howling a few times.”

Zack shoots me a look. “Really? Why didn't you tell me?”

I stare at my plate. “I didn't want to make you worry.”

“We don't have a real werewolf population in Texas,” Justin says. “Werecoyotes, though, keep crossing over the border from Mexico.”

I nod. “This pack is supposed to be from Canada. Probably came here illegally.”

“Probably criminals,” Mr. Arrington adds.

“What's sad,” Ben says, “is when innocent people are bitten and forced to live as beasts.”

I glance at him, wondering if he's joking. If he is, he's deadpanning it.

“I suppose,” Mr. Arrington says, his forehead furrowed a little.

“But you hear all these rumors about what they've done,” I say. “Theft, rape, murder.”

Chloe's voice echoes in my head.
Do you mean that?
But I don't have to defend them just because they're Others. Bloodborn Others, to boot.

Mrs. Arrington shudders, the water in her glass sloshing. “Nasty creatures.”

“Definitely,” I say.

“Though I do admire them as hunters,” Justin says pensively. “Their skill.”

“Skill?” I arch my eyebrows. “Brute force is more like it.”

Justin fixes me with his pale gaze. “Have you seen them on the hunt?”

“No.” My face flames, no doubt as red as my hair. “Have you?”

Justin shrugs and sips his cider, his eyes still on me. I clench my jaw, the beginnings of a headache throbbing in my temples.

“Let's pray we never do,” Ben says, his face especially serious.

There's an awkward silence, punctuated by clinking silverware and a cough or two.

“Oh!” Mr. Arrington claps his son on the shoulder. “Zack, tell us about what you and Gwen discovered the other day.”

What's he talking about? Wait … oh, not this.

“You probably heard it on the news.” Mr. Arrington plows on as if pursuing a juicy bit of gossip. “A couple drowned in Wilding Park.”

six

Z
ack swallows hard and glances at me. I press my lips together.

Ben knits his brow. “In the river?”

“In a pond,” Zack says flatly.

Mrs. Arrington lowers her gaze. “Poor things.”

“Yes,” Ben murmurs. “May God have mercy on them.”

I expected him to say “on their souls,” but I suppose I've seen one too many melodramatic movies. I stare at his glimmering eyes and wonder if the death of strangers actually saddens him, or if he's just a good actor.

“I heard rumors,” Justin says, “that the couple wasn't quite human.”

I'm drinking cider when he says this, and it goes down the wrong tube. I sputter, cough, and grope for a napkin. My face burns.

“We can discuss this later,” Mrs. Arrington says primly. “I hardly think it an appropriate subject for dinner.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I agree, rather hoarsely.

The conversation moves to the subject of college. Zack's already been accepted to the University of Washington. I haven't applied yet.

“I'm sure you could get into UW,” Mr. Arrington assures me, blatantly winking in Zack's direction.

His parents then grill me about homeschoolers as if I'm a walking library. I force myself to answer their questions pleasantly, despite my worsening headache. At least I've dispelled the myth (much to their disappointment) that I'm one of those super-religious Christian homeschoolers.

“Honestly,” I say, “I'm not sure when or where I want to go. My parents say I should save the time and money until I know.”

And it has to be a college that is accepting of Others, but of course I don't say that.

“Very true,” Mrs. Arrington says.

Justin listens in silence, then shrugs languidly. “I never did go to college. You can get by just fine without it, if it suits you.”

Ben nods. “Myself, I found a calling higher than higher education.”

Zack cuffs his brother on the head. “Of course, Mr. Holier-Than-Thou.”

“Boys!” Mrs. Arrington says, but she bites back a smile.

For dessert, Mrs. Arrington serves something like ice cream lasagna with chocolate between the layers. It hurts my teeth. Soon I have a full-fledged headache, but I hide it behind a polite smile while they talk about the summer.

A grandfather clock chimes nine, and I put down my glass. “I have to catch the bus.”

“So soon?” Mr. Arrington says.

I nod. “Before it gets too dark.”

“Be safe!” Mrs. Arrington says, with genuine concern.

“Goodbye,” I say. “Thanks for the dinner.”

Zack follows me to the door. He kisses me, and I feign interest. When we withdraw, I rub my forehead.

“Hey,” he says softly. “What's wrong?”

“Headache,” I sigh.

He frowns sympathetically. “Do you want me to walk you to the bus stop?”

I shrug.

“I'm going with Gwen,” Zack calls over his shoulder.

“Come back soon!” Mr. Arrington chuckles. “No hanky-panky now.”

Ben wolf-whistles at that, and Zack rolls his eyes.

Outside, I see a white windowless van parked in front of the garage. Justin's, I assume. On its side it has a cartoon rat with crosses for eyes. In the glow of houselights, I read the motto.
We Get What the Others Leave Behind
.

“Creepy,” I mutter.

“Justin can't afford a car,” Zack says. “He's been driving in this all over the U.S.”

“Oh.”

Zack pauses. “He's a good guy. He's been through a lot.”

“Like what?”

“Well, he loved this woman a year or so ago, even brought her to meet his family, but it turned out she was a vampire.”

My stomach does a somersault. “Really?”

“Yeah. Apparently she just went around screwing with guys. She planned to bite him soon. Needless to say, he broke up with her.”

“Yeah,” I say weakly.

“I'm still not sure he's over her,” Zack says.

We walk in silence toward the bus stop. Amber light pools beneath the streetlamps. In the darkness between them, Zack disappears from my sight. I clasp his hand tighter, glad he's solid and real beside me. He squeezes back.

I don't want to lose him. But I have to tell him.

Next morning at breakfast, Dad drafts me to help out at the hardware store. I grumble and poke at my oatmeal, but can't really think of a good excuse not to. So when Dad fires up his old pickup truck, I'm sitting shotgun.

Mum and Megan wave goodbye from the kitchen. I wonder why my sister never has to help out at the hardware store. Probably all that precalculus and cello practice or something. I, however, play nothing except the harmonica. While math doesn't bore me to death, I'm not titillated by quadratic equations.

The truck rattles and clanks down the driveway. Dad hums to himself. The sun wavers in and out of clouds as if it doesn't want to get out of bed—I sympathize. When I yawn, Dad glances at me. “Tired, Gwenny?”

I sigh at the babyish nickname. “Yeah.”

“How was dinner over at the Arringtons'?”

“Meh.”

“Meh?”

“So-so.” I roll down my window and listen to the hissing wind. “But Ben was amusing.”

Dad smiles. “Ben's back?”

“Yeah. Oh, and Zack's cousin, Justin, from Texas.”

“All the way from Texas?”

“Yeah. He's an exterminator,” I snort. “Pest control officer.”

“Hmm.” Dad pays more attention to making a left turn than to me. “I guess somebody has to do it.”

I grunt neutrally.

The air feels cool, despite it being summer (try telling that to Washington). Goose bumps rise on my arms, so I roll up the window. Dad turns the radio to some folksy music, and it replaces our conversation until we park outside the hardware store. Ever since I was a kid, I've loved the hardware-store smell of fresh-cut wood, rubber boots, alfalfa, fertilizer, and well-oiled metal. I can remember playing in the big bins of nuts and bolts when I was six or so. The saw blades hanging on the back of the wall scared me then.

“Gwen.” Dad tosses me a red apron. Time to work.

I start tidying tools. Whenever a customer comes in, I ask if I can help. These two old guys with hearing aids make me yell where to find the paint thinner. I have a nice conversation about petunias with a kooky lady wearing fake flowers in her hair. A couple with three kids comes in, and while the parents argue over greenhouses, I have to keep the little brats from playing lightsabers with PVC pipes.

After they leave, there's not much business for an hour or so, and I sweep the floors. I see Tavian walk past the windows. I wave, but he doesn't see me. My stomach drops. Stop it, I tell myself. You don't want to get his hopes up.

Around noon, Dad says, “Okay, Gwen, you have half an hour off for lunch.”

I throw my arms into the air and mime a triumphant cheer. Dad laughs.

When I set foot in the Olivescent, I spot Tavian bending over a book, a slice of pizza drooping in his hand. My heartbeat stumbles, then comes back pounding harder then ever. Maybe it's because I find black eyes sexy. That makes me remember the whole eye candy fiasco, and I blush.

Chloe's voice echoes in my ears.
One word: boyfriend
.

What the heck. He's cute, and probably just friend material.

I stand in line, stealing glances at Tavian as he reads. He has dark shadows under his eyes, and his spiky hair stands up in all directions. Wonder why.

After buying some food, I make my move. “Hey, Tavian.”

“Hah? Oh. Hey, Gwen.” When he says my name, I smile, and he smiles too, the tired look vanishing from his face.

Damn, he's cute.

He raises his pizza in salute. “Have a seat.”

I perch in the chair opposite him, my heart rate still fast, and set down my plate of calzones. “Tavian's an unusual name. Japanese?”

He laughs. “No.”

“One of those New Age things?”

He laughs again. “It's short for Octavian. My parents are opera buffs.”

I squint. “Which opera?” I've only seen a few on PBS.

“
Der Rosenkavalier
. Octavian is the count.”

“What kind of count? Good? Bad?”

“Ugly?” Tavian adds, his eyes sparkling.

I give him a blank look.

“It's an old spaghetti Western,” he says. “
The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.
”

“Oh,” I say.

“Anyway, Octavian's a good guy. He's the Rosenkavalier, the Knight of the Rose.”

Knights again. I wonder if Zack knows about this.

“What's that mean?” I ask.

“He has to deliver a silver rose to Sophie for her wedding with the pompous Baron Ochs. But Sophie and Octavian fall in love.” Tavian frowns. “It's kind of weird, because Octavian is played by a soprano.”

“What?” I laugh. “Why?”

“Young men in opera are usually played by women.”

“That's weird.”

“I know. I don't even like opera,” Tavian says. “My parents just drag me along.” He slaps his knees. “Well. That was an odd tangent.”

“It certainly was.” I smile. “Octavian.”

He groans and shakes his head. “Nobody calls me that. I mean, I only ever hear it when my mom's pissed. Octavian Kimura!”

“Octavian Kimura,” I echo. “Cool.”

Tavian keeps shaking his head. “Not cool. Weird. I'm forever branded with weirdness.”

I laugh. “I like weird.”

“Do you?”

We smile at each other, and then I look away. Oops. Didn't mean to start flirting. What would happen if Zack saw us?

Tavian's smile slides away, his face weary again. He looks back at his book.

“Are you actually from Japan?” I say. “Born there?”

He glances up. “How did you know?”

“You have just a teeny-tiny bit of an accent.” I pinch about half an inch of air.

“Most people don't notice.” He rubs his eyes and yawns. “I'm tired.”

“And you said ‘hah?' instead of ‘huh?' when you saw me.”

A smile shadows his lips. “Did I?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

My stare zeros in on the title on the spine of his book.
Unlike Us: A History of Paranormal Activity in America
. A tingle dances down my spine. Please let him be Other. Or at least on our side.

“What're you reading?” I say.

“Just some nonfiction.” Tavian shuts the book and slips it into his backpack.

“Research?”

Tavian shrugs. His eyes say something I don't understand. A blush rises in my cheeks.

“I've got to go, actually,” he says. “But we should hang out some time.”

“Sorry.” My blush intensifies. “I already have a boyfriend.”

“Oh.” He doesn't look crestfallen. In fact, he looks surprised. “Not like that. I mean, we're already kind of online friends.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“IM me if you're interested.”

“Okay.”

He gives me a half-hearted wave as he walks away. “Catch you later.”

“Yeah,” I say, brilliantly.

I watch him leave the Olivescent. Why on earth would he be reading that book if he's not Other? Or interested in Others?

Sunday evening, I think of Chloe, and I can't believe I forgot her all morning and afternoon, moron that I am. She always makes a pilgrimage every Sunday—not to church, but to the forest at Boulder River. Dryads have to sleep in a tree at least once a week or they sicken and eventually die. Of course, this Sunday there are werewolves lurking about. I really hope she had the sense to change her plans.

I grab my cell phone and dial her number. Voicemail. Bollocks. My stomach flip-flops at the thought of shapeshifting to follow her.

I tramp downstairs, calling, “Mum?”

She's scrubbing dishes and setting them in the dishwasher. “What, Gwen?”

“Can I go over to Chloe's? I left something there.”