Other (8 page)

Inside, I see no sign of Dad. Justin, in overalls and a cowboy hat, is browsing axes.

I tie on my red apron. “Can I help you?” I ask, in my fake-chirpy work voice.

Justin turns and gives me a lazy smile that feels like warm sunshine. “Fancy seeing you here, Gwen.”

“I work here,” I say, now blushing for a different reason.

He nods. “I'm looking for some chain.”

The spools of chain lie at the back of the store. I'm glad to get away from the door.

Justin ambles behind me. “I want extra strong.”

“Right here,” I say, pointing at the thickest we carry.

I glance out the windows and see the four guys loitering across the street. I exhale. Justin takes about five yards of chain to the checkout, along with a camouflage poncho, three pairs of thick gloves, a shovel, and an ax.

As I scan the items, I say, “What's all this for, anyway?”

He shrugs languidly. “Hiking, geoducking, that sort of thing.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Geoducking?”

“Digging for clams,” he says.

“You need an ax for geoducking?”

Justin's laugh surprises me. “I doubt that would be a clever way to get geoducks. The ax does a much better job cutting firewood.”

“Oh.” I'm blushing, but smiling. “Yeah.”

“Actually,” he says, “Ben would be the one—”

“Zack!” Dad strolls up to us. “My, you've grown. And you cut your hair.”

“Dad,” I groan, “it's Zack's cousin, Justin.”

When Dad grins, I know he's teasing. “From Texas, right?”

“Born and bred,” Justin says.

“I've got to use the restroom,” Dad says. “Woman the store, Gwen.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay.”

Justin tips his hat to me. On his way out, he holds the door for an elderly man who's shuffling in.

I recognize the man: Mr. Quigley. He lives in an ugly little pistachio-colored cottage with plastic windmills stuck in the flowerbeds, and he doesn't get out much. When he does, it's mostly for numismatist meetings. He keeps asking people for coins to add to his collection. I gave him an old penny once.

“Hi, Mr. Quigley,” I say. “Can I help you?”

With his five-foot-one height, wire-rimmed glasses, and curly white beard, he looks like he should be a jolly old man, but he scowls at me. “Eh?”

I raise my voice. He's probably hard of hearing. “Are you looking for something?”

He nods sharply. “Some hooligans smashed my mailbox.” His strong Boston accent gets on my nerves sometimes.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” I say. “Do you need a new one?”

“Of course I need a new one,” Mr. Quigley grumbles.

“They're in this aisle.”

He follows me, muttering under his breath. After one glance at the mailboxes, he jabs his finger at the cheapest one. I carry it to the checkout for him and ring it up, then hand him a dollar bill and two quarters in change.

Mr. Quigley perks up. “What's this?” He squints at one of the quarters. “Wisconsin … 2004-D … extra leaf!”

“Extra leaf?”

He holds it up to me. “The corn has an extra leaf. This could be worth five hundred dollars, easy!”

“Wow,” I say, mentally kicking myself.

Mr. Quigley beams, his cheeks rosy. He carefully folds the five-hundred-dollar quarter in a handkerchief and tucks it into the pocket of his shirt. “Thank you very much, young lady! Keep the rest of the change.”

“Uh, have a nice day,” I manage. “Don't forget your mailbox.”

Mr. Quigley carries it under his arm. Whistling, he leaves the store. I see Chris, Brock, and company crossing the street again, advancing on Mr. Quigley. The fine hairs on my arms bristle. I think I know who bashed his mailbox.

Damn. Dad's still in the restroom. I start spray-
cleaning
the windows in order to watch.

Mr. Quigley tries in vain to step around the guys. They jeer and dance around him, blocking him. Justin peers around his white van and frowns. I brace myself for trouble. Then Justin says something to the guys I can't hear. They hesitate, then slouch back toward the store. Mr. Quigley climbs into his rickety car and leaves.

The door opens, and a prickle crawls down my spine. Apparently they've found enough balls among the four of them to actually come inside. Footsteps approach behind me. I scrub the windows harder.

“Hey, firecrotch,” Chris says.

Play innocent, I tell myself. Wait until they screw up, then nail them.

I feel stinky breath on my neck. That has to be Chris.

I make my face blank and turn around. “Can I help you?”

Chris is standing only a few inches from me, his hands at his sides, his fingers twitching.

“Uh, yeah,” Josh says. “We're looking—”

Brock elbows him, and he shuts up with a squeak of protest.

Chris bends closer. “Quit playing dumb,” he whispers.

Oh, I think I'm going to keep playing dumb. “I'm sorry I snapped at you guys in the woods.” I smile through clenched teeth. “I was just worried about you. But I'm sure you can take care of yourselves, being as tough as you are.”

The guys inflate like proud roosters—except for Chris.

“You're a filthy liar,” he hisses.

I wrinkle my brow. “What are you talking about?”

“Your eyes are this fucked-up color,” Chris says.

“Hazel,” I say.

“What?”

“They're called hazel.”

Chris's face twists. He shoves me in the chest, his fingernails digging into my breast.

“Okay,” I say. “That's sexual harassment. Get out of the store before I call the cops.”

Mikey bites back a nervous giggle. Josh edges toward the doors.

“Oh really?” Chris says. “Think they'll believe a gick like you?”

I laugh. “Think they'll believe an asshole like you?”

“Is something going on?” Never have I been so glad to hear Dad's voice. “Gwen?”

Chris backs away from me. “We're just browsing,” he says. “Come on, guys.”

They slouch off in the direction of the machetes.

Dad pulls me aside. “Gwen,” he whispers. “Were they bothering you?”

I shrug. “They were just being dickheads, as usual.”

“Hey. Watch the language.”

I narrow my eyes, two seconds away from telling Dad that Chris shoved me, but that would lead to me explaining why he did it in the first place. So I inhale slowly, then sigh. “Okay. Sorry. Wouldn't want to scare off customers.”

Dad claps me on the shoulder. “Next time, let me know, okay? I'll deal with them.”

I stay close to Dad until the guys buy a machete and leave the store. I shudder.

eight

T
he night breathes rain-cooled air into my bedroom, rippling the curtains by my window. I inhale, savoring the tang of woodsmoke. It helps me sleep if I can see the sky. Tonight it's cobalt blue, etched with the silhouettes of trees.

An owl starts hooting outside my window. After about five minutes, it starts getting annoying. Stupid bird. I jump out of bed and slide open the window. Surprised, I laugh. Zack is perching in the vine maple, his hands cupped to his mouth. I roll my eyes at his hoodie and pajama pants.

“Gwen!” He grins at me. “You heard.”

“What are you doing here?”

He hops onto the roof. “Your virtue is in no danger from me, milady,” he says, his hand over his heart. “May I come inside?”

I laugh—it sounds a bit rusty—and shove the window open wider. Zack climbs into my bedroom, kicks off his shoes, and smooths his hair. I hurry to lock the door, then face him. My heartbeat thumps against my ribs. Just the sight of him in my bedroom excites me, but I don't want to wake my pooka half.

Zack sits on the edge of my bed. “You've seemed kind of down lately.”

My smile fades. “Yeah.” I sit next to him, my hands clasped in my lap.

“Especially this past week.”

I laugh curtly. “I've had a lot going on.”

“I know, but it's more than that.” He hesitates. “You seem uncomfortable around me.”

“Zack!” I sigh and lay my hand on his shoulder. “It's not your fault.”

He frowns, as if my casual gesture belittles the moment.

“I've just been … dealing with some personal issues,” I add.

“Why won't you tell me about them?”

Something inside me hardens, goes cold. I stare at the carpet.

“See?” He slides off the bed. “You're uncomfortable around me.”

“It's not that! Zack, you have to believe me. My feelings for you haven't changed.”

He says nothing, just stares at me, his eyes glimmering.

I stand and kiss him, trying to tell him everything without words. He doesn't move. Then he embraces me, and the kiss deepens. His hands slide from my neck to my hips. Blood whooshes in my ears. He drives me backward, up against my bedroom wall. I arch against him, my body as taut as a bowstring about to be loosed. We break apart, breathing raggedly, our faces close enough to kiss again.

“Gwen,” Zack whispers, his eyes closed. “I believe you.”

I press my lips against his and run my hands over his strong shoulders. Heat rushes through me, melting the numbness inside. Nothing else matters but us, together, so close, yet not close enough.

My heartbeat's pounding so hard I wonder if Zack can hear it, but still, I feel nothing alarming from my pooka half. So long as I don't think about biting or other wild things, I'll probably be okay—I hope.

“I know just the thing,” Zack says, “to make you feel better. Lie down.”

“What?” My heartbeat stumbles. “Why?”

Zack smiles. “Trust me. It's not what you think.” He glances pointedly at my bed.

“Wait,” I say. “Let me tidy up a bit.”

I clear my stuffed toys off the quilt. I don't want them staring at me with their big innocent eyes, reminding me of the people who gave them to me. Last into the closet: the fishbowl of toys from my nightstand. Zack watches me, his face shadowed—I wonder if he thinks I'm childish. Not looking at him, I lie down.

“On your stomach,” he says.

I roll over. He tugs my hair aside and starts massaging my shoulders. When my tension melts away, I realize just how uptight I was.

“Mmm,” I say, muffled by my pillow.

Zack kneads my back in deep, satisfying circles. I love his touch around the lower curve of my spine. I drift into a half-sleeping daze. His fingers slow, then slide along my waist. He kisses the clover tattoo on my neck.

“Gwen?” he murmurs. “Are you asleep?”

“Almost.”

I'm so sleepy my pooka side seems to be snoozing, blissfully unaware. Maybe it won't wake up. Maybe I'm safe. I roll over and stare at Zack. The soft look in his eyes makes me melt. I'm so lucky to have him as a boyfriend.

I draw him into a kiss. When he pulls away, I catch his arm. “Stay.”

Zack raises his eyebrows. “Stay?”

“You can sleep here.” My face burns, but I stare steadily at him. “I mean, in the most innocent sense of the word.”

“Sure.”

He tugs the hoodie over his head, giving me something to stare at, and climbs into bed next to me. The bed jiggles and creaks as we get comfortable. He lies beside me, not touching. I'm acutely aware of the space between us. Frogs chirp in the silence.

Okay. Try to fall asleep.

Zack laughs.

“What?”

“I have to pee,” he whispers.

I sigh. “Really?”

“Yes. I drank too much water before I got here.”

“The bathroom's across the hall. But if you wake anybody up … !”

“I won't.” He slips out of bed. My gaze meanders over the moonlight on his bare chest.

“Watch out for my sister. She sometimes goes late at night.”

“Okay.” Zack unlocks the door and tiptoes out.

I brace myself for Megan shrieking or Dad bellowing. How could I explain? I hear the toilet flush, the sink run, and soft footsteps approach. Zack slips back into my bedroom, locks the door, and climbs into bed.

I smile. “I hope you washed your hands well enough.”

“Yes ma'am. But they're cold.” He grabs my arms with a hissing noise.

“They're icy!” I wriggle away, laughing.

Zack rubs his hands together. “How's this?” He wraps his arm around my waist.

“Better.” I snuggle into the curve of his body. “Much better.”

I watch digital minutes pass on my clock. An ache gnaws inside me. I can't stop thinking about his hot breath on my neck.

I whisper, “Zack?”

“What?” he murmurs.

“Are you awake?”

“Obviously.”

Long pause.

“I can't sleep,” I say.

“Me neither.”

I rest my head on Zack's chest. His heartbeat thumps in my ear, slower than mine. I stroke his long hair, and he buries his nose in my curls. Our ankles cross beneath the sheets. It feels so sweet just to lie so close.

Zack sighs, and he doesn't sound content.

“What?” I say.

“I don't want to pressure you, Gwen, I really don't, but we've been together long enough that it seems like we should be ready.”

I stare at his silhouette. “For sex?”

“Yes.”

I flick on my bedside lamp so I can see his face, but I still can't read his expression. “It has to be the right moment.”

“There have already been many right moments for me.”

His words sting. “But it has to be for both of us.”

“Of course,” he murmurs. “I didn't mean it that way.”

It's my turn to sigh. “Maybe I'm just scared. I mean, once we do, there's no turning back. How will it change things?”

“Gwen,” he says, “don't worry about it. It'll be okay.”

I exhale slowly. “Well, this is certainly not the time or the place.”

He nuzzles the hollow of my neck. “I can wait.”

I manage to smile and kiss him, then flick off the light.

Around dawn, Zack wakes me by getting out of bed. Half-asleep, I catch his arm and make a soft moan of protest.

“I have to go,” he whispers.

“Why?”

He smiles. “This is your bedroom.”

“Oh.” I shut my eyes again. “Goodbye.”

He kisses me, then leaves me with the memory of his lips.

I drift off again, then wake at my normal time. Nothing remains to say Zack spent the night. I grin to myself. Something does look different though … oh, I put away all my stuffed animals. I take them back out of the closet. There. All my toys look at me with little black eyes. They seem too innocent to know about sex. I wonder if I will give away my virginity in this room, or somewhere else.

Should I tell Zack the truth about me being Other before? Or after? I bite the inside of my cheek. What will happen? A thorn of fear pokes my heart. I don't know what he'll say. Not exactly. Not at all.

Much to my chagrin, Dad says I've got to help out at the hardware store again, since he's so busy with a wayward shipment of lawn mowers. Sure, I'm getting paid, but I'm skittish all morning, keeping an eye out for Chris, Brock, and Co. Dad doesn't seem to notice, his ear glued to the phone. When lunchtime comes, I'm glad to escape the store.

Just when I'm turning the corner, somebody calls, “Gwen!”

I hesitate between steps, not sure whether to stop or walk faster.

“Gwen, wait up.”

I recognize the voice. “Tavian?” I face him. “What are you doing here?”

He looks even more tired and pale than he did last time I saw him. “Looking for you.”

“Since when do you know where I work?”

“I asked a waitress at the Olivescent.” Tavian ruffles his hair to a new level of spikiness. “Which reminds me. Do you want to get something to eat?”

“Tavian … I'm really not planning on dating behind my boyfriend's back.”

He sighs. “It's not that. I want to talk somewhere not so public.”

“About?”

Tavian presses his lips together and jams his hands deep into his pockets. “Bad news.”

“What happened?”

He starts to wave me closer, then just grabs my hand. “Come on.”

All right. Let's see where this leads. Actually, Tavian doesn't lead me very far at all. Just to a little garden outside a café.

He sits on a bench. “I didn't want to tell you in the street, but …”

I don't sit, and cross my arms. “Tell me what?”

“You know Mr. Quigley, right?”

“Yeah. A lot of people do. Kooky old man.”

“He's dead.”

We stare at each other.

I don't know what to say, except, “Really?”

“I saw him.” Tavian rubs his hands over his face. “He's—he was—my neighbor. I saw him … lying in his yard.”

“Was it an accident?” I say in a small voice.

“Not unless he accidentally strangled himself.” Bitterness saturates Tavian's voice. “And the weird thing is …”

My heart's thumping with dread. “What?”

“He was dressed all in green, with a whiskey bottle in his hand and a couple dozen coins scattered around him.”

“What! Why?”

Tavian stares at me. “His coin collection, I suppose. I don't know why.”

“All in green?” I say. “Was he trying to make some kind of a statement?”

“I don't think
he
was.”

I try my best to ignore the sick feeling in my stomach. “You're saying … ?”

“Gwen,” Tavian says in a low voice, his head tilted in my direction. “There was no noose. Nothing around his neck. If he killed himself, how did he get himself out in his backyard, so neatly arranged like that?”

I sink onto the bench, my knees suddenly shaky. “Unless it was a murder.”

“Yes. And I think,” Tavian adds, in an even lower voice, “that the murderer wanted to tell us something about Mr. Quigley.”

“What do you mean?”

His voice is barely above a whisper, his black eyes intense. “Mr. Quigley was Other.”

I jerk away as if his words burned me.

“You knew, didn't you?” he says.

I shake my head. “Tavian, I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Gwen,” he says, his eyes saying he doesn't believe me.

“And why
would
Mr. Quigley be Other?”

“Think about it. Green clothes, coins, short old man.”

I laugh hollowly. “Being a short old man makes you an Other? That's news to me.”

“He was a leprechaun,” Tavian hisses. “I'm sure of it. And I think the murderer killed him because of that.”

“That's speculation,” I say, not wanting to believe it.

“What about the vampire they found dead outside the 7-Eleven? What about that couple who drowned in Wilding Park?”

The water sprites. He must have heard rumors about me finding them.

I turn away and press my knuckles to my mouth. “Why are you telling this to me?”

“Gwen.” Tavian softens his tone. “I think you know.”

With that, he stands and walks away. I don't have the guts to follow. He has to be Other. Does he know I am?

That night, I huddle on the couch with my family, watching the news. It isn't good. A streak of apparently random killings in Seattle. A homeless teenage boy, a solitary middle-aged woman, two brothers on vacation. They don't have a photo of the homeless boy, but they do have one of the woman: pale-faced, without makeup, her seal-brown hair parted down the middle. She looks ordinary, not Other. But with the two brothers, even the police can't deny their quicksilver eyes, ivory hair, and ice-water blood—sightseeing frost spirits from somewhere in Norway. Flamboyant, obvious targets.