Over the Moon (4 page)

My imagination could be so overly dramatic, but I'd never heard
strange male voices in my extremely impressionable brain before. I
only heard the one small voice in there, and it was my own personal
voice, not different and unrecognizable like the one I had just heard
in my head. I clutched the table in front of me tightly as I tried
to get a firmer grip on reality. I still couldn't take my eyes off his.
Oh no! This was not happening! I had to fight off any feelings and
emotions that threatened to surface. Finally, after intense effort, I
found the strength to lower my eyes and stare down at my plate. I
felt dizzy and oddly faint. This was seriously freaking me out. His
appeal was almost overpowering. I'd never felt any attraction this
powerful before. It was a little scary, almost supernatural. I must be
making it all up. Here was yet another reason why living in Hurricane was totally unhealthy, mentally as well as physically. I vowed
not to look at him ever again. I didn't need or want the inevitable
pain and undeniable suffering that would come if I pursued this
particular unhealthy fantasy.

Jordan rose from his seat and insisted on taking my abandoned
tray. The food had tasted better than it looked, but I couldn't really
remember eating that much of it. I thanked him, and he acted like I'd declared him king of the world. He insisted on walking me to my
next class, precalculus. I graciously accepted his offer because I was
too shaken by my imaginary or psychotic episode to figure out where
I needed to go. I appreciated the fact that he was trying so hard to
be nice to me.

I sat down in my math class, still feeling dazed and silly for letting Andrew affect me as I had. I kicked myself mentally for being
so ridiculously idiotic. A cute, spiky-haired boy with round glasses
passed me a handout on what Mr. Porter expected from us this
semester. That brought me abruptly back to stark reality. I groaned
as I read it. Math wasn't my favorite subject.

"Rule number three: no groaning in class, Miss Dawson." Mr.
Porter had heard me. The girl behind me giggled. I turned to see
Jillian Martin smiling at me.

"Rule number four: no giggling, Miss Martin." Mr. Porter was
not amused. She rolled her eyes at me. I wanted to talk to her after
class, but she seemed to fly out the door before I rose from my seat.
That was probably just as well. I had no idea what I would have
said to her. "Your brother is incredibly hot" probably wouldn't be
the right thing to say if I wanted to make a good first impression.
Besides, I wasn't going to think about him at all. Starting right now,
I would have to pretend he didn't exist.

Physical education was boring. Miss Calhoun and Coach Gordon handed out gym uniforms and discussed the competitive sports
we would be participating in this year. I didn't care about sports that
much. I could take them or leave them. Usually, I preferred to leave
them to the more coordinated people. My most redeeming physical
talent was that I could run fast. My brother, Mark, used to chase
me with spiders and snakes and any other grotesque insects or ugly
creatures he could find. I guess I should be grateful to him for that.
I wasn't.

My last class was English with Miss Cole. It was clear on the
other side of the school, so I practically had to run to get there on
time. I made it into the classroom just as the bell rang. Oh no, not
again! No, no, no, no, no! Why me? Fate was certainly having her way with me today. There was only one seat left, and it was right
next to Andrew Martin. He looked up at me through his dark lashes
and grinned. I swallowed hard, bit my lower lip, and sat down slowly,
willing myself to remain calm and keep my heart from popping out
of my chest and betraying my unwise, unhealthy attraction to him.

"Hello, beautiful!" He beamed at me. I looked behind me to see
if he was talking to someone else. No, there was a cowboy with curly,
black hair and a bad complexion. He wasn't beautiful by any stretch
of the imagination. Was he really talking to me?

"I'm Andrew Martin." He did sound British or Australian. His
accent was completely irresistible. "You must be Tiana Dawson."

"You know my n-name?" I stuttered. I must be hallucinating
again. He struck me as unearthly, almost other worldly. I fought off
a compelling urge to touch him to see if he was real.

"Everyone knows your name. It's the blessing of living in a small
town."

"Blessing or curse?" I asked dubiously. I was surprised when the
words came out of my mouth in a coherent manner. I hadn't choked
on them, and I wasn't blushing yet. That was exceptionally good
behavior for me.

"It depends on what day it is. Today, it's a blessing."

"Mr. Martin, will you pass these papers out, please?"

"Certainly, Miss Cole." He gracefully stepped to the front of the
class to distribute them.

Suddenly he gave me his full attention. He looked straight at
me, his eyes pierced me, penetrating my head like he could see everything going on inside my brain, and I nearly fell out of my chair.

"Please take these getting-to-know-you papers home and answer
the questions. We'll read them tomorrow," Miss Cole instructed. For
the rest of the hour, she went over the suggested reading list and
the other requirements. It took nearly forever, but finally the class
was over. Before I could gather my books, Andrew had disappeared
like an apparition from some alternate, ethereal realm. Had he really
called me beautiful? I must have imagined it. Hallucinations sometimes seem absolutely tangible, don't they? Oh, and did I mention I have a very vivid and overactive imagination? I knew I should accept
the fact that I was not Cinderella. This was real life. The chances of
a boy like him ever taking an interest in an ordinary girl like me were
one in a million. I tried to erase his face from my memory. I vowed
that I was never, ever going to look at Andrew Martin again!

I drove home deep in serious thought. I had almost enjoyed my first
day of school. How could that be possible? I wasn't used to so much
attention from the opposite sex. It wasn't altogether unpleasant, just
a little confusing. Okay, it was completely baffling. There must be
something wrong with the kids in this town. They were all way too
nice to me. I thought they might have been left out in the sun too
long. I expected their favorable attention resulted from the fact that
I was new and they didn't get too much new blood at their tiny high
school. That would probably wear off when they all got to know me,
so I should enjoy it while it lasted. At least I hadn't been ignored or
harassed, and so far there was only one person who seemed to hate
me. Not too bad for a first day.

Who was Andrew Martin? He was the only boy that I wanted
attention from. I knew there was no chance of that ever happening.
He was too perfect. There had to be something wrong with him.
What about his family? Were they really too nice, too smart, and too
mature to be real? Why did they live in Hurricane, Utah? He called
me beautiful. He could be insane or indeed in Witness Protection,
as Jordan suggested. I needed to put these thoughts in a pile and set
them on fire. I should burn them out of my dangerously delusional
mind before I got toasted. I had already decided to forget him, so
why was I still thinking about the boy? Perhaps all this excruciating
heat had melted my brain cells and permanently fried all my common sense. Was I turning into a socially masochistic moron, or did I
harbor some kind of fatal attraction to misery?

I wasn't paying attention to my surroundings as I mused on
about my deviant thought processes, and I missed the turn to my
house. I took the next street to find a spot to turn around. It was a
road that curved gracefully up a hill. At the top, there was an elegant,
white, Southern-plantation-style house with marble columns and a
decorative fountain in the front yard. It looked oddly out of place in
Hurricane, where most newer homes were Spanish or Southwestern
looking with varying shades of earth-toned stucco and topped off
with brightly colored roof tiles. The mailbox was a small replica of
the house with the word Martin printed in large gold letters. No
way! What were the odds of me driving directly to his house? This
was miles past bizarre. Another immense dwelling stood next to it.
It was contemporary, with lots of rock, glass, and beige brick mixed
with brown stucco. Now that was a house that blended in with the
desert. It had to be home to the Allens. I hastily turned around and
followed the road back to the familiar highway. An older model,
red Mustang convertible passed me. It was Andrew and his family,
along with the Allen brothers. He saw me and waved. The others
just stared. Fate just wouldn't stop tormenting me today. What had I
done to deserve this cruel and unusual emotional punishment? What
if he thought I was a stalker who was checking out his residence? I
hoped not, but I was worried he would get the wrong impression. At least I hadn't followed him home. That would have been worse.
What would he think I was doing on his street? No one else lived
there except the Allens. Maybe he'd realize that I was a ditz who
got lost easily. Would that be better? Why did I even care what he
thought I was doing?

Somehow I managed to find my way home. I pulled into the
driveway of our new house. It wasn't as big as the Martin residence,
but it was attractive in a subtle, southwestern flavor and it blended
in with all the other houses on the block. The rich brown stucco
structure had an orange-red tile roof and an oversized, arched door
made of rich, dark, cherry wood. The backyard bordered on the lush,
green lawns of the municipal golf course. I missed our stately Victorian in the suburbs of Chicago. I entered the living room and threw
my backpack on the couch. It was tastefully decorated with lots of
leather and stone. Paintings of Indians and red rock scenery adorned
the walls. There was a huge Navajo rug in orange, red, and brown
on the hardwood floor. This was my mother's idea of going artistically native. The best part of the room was a large picture window
that had an excellent view of the Martins' home on the hill. I should
have closed the drapes right then and forgotten that I knew where
he lived. Why didn't I?

Mom was working as Dad's receptionist temporarily. She wanted
to teach art at the college in St. George, a larger city about twenty
miles away. She and Dad didn't usually get home until around six.

The phone rang. I didn't think it could be for me, but I automatically answered it without checking caller ID. That was my first
big mistake.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Tiana? This is Jordan." I should have checked the caller
ID. Why was he calling me? I hardly knew the boy. This couldn't be
good. What did he want?

"Hi, Jordan." I tried not to sound disappointed. I should at least
try to be diplomatic and polite.

"I wondered if you would go with me to the Welcome Back
Dance. It's a week from this Saturday."

"Urn, can I call you back? I need to check with my parents."
What I needed was a good excuse to say no. I was so surprised by
this invitation that I couldn't think of one that sounded real. "I have
to wash my hair that night" wouldn't cut it. Neither would "I'm
moving to Mars."

"Sure ... I guess." He sounded really disappointed. I hated to
hurt his feelings. I didn't want to be perceived as mean or stuck-up,
and I really didn't want to cause anyone else pain. I'd been on the
receiving end of pain on so many occasions, and I knew from my
vast experience with emotional suffering that it was far from fun.

"I'm pretty sure it will be okay." Why did I say that? This was my
second big mistake. I didn't want to go to the dance with him. Why
not? He was nice. I should go. Why did I feel like I'd been invited
to walk over red-hot coals in bare feet? I was being silly. I should be
excited that I got invited at all.

"I'll let you know for sure tomorrow at school." I tried to sound
enthusiastic. I remembered how difficult it had been for me when I
asked Jace Pratt to a girl's choice dance. I was devastated when he
said no. Even though he had a good excuse (someone had asked him
already), it took me a whole month to recover from the humiliation. I'd never want to wish that misery on anyone else. What was I
thinking? How could anyone be miserable by my rejection?

"I really hope you can go. I'll look forward to seeing you tomorrow." He sounded a little desperate, poor boy. I guess rejection always
hurts even if it comes from someone as unimportant and inconsequential as me.

I said good-bye and hung up the phone.

Then the doorbell rang. I looked through the peephole, wondering who it could possibly be. I hoped it wasn't a nosy neighbor
or a pushy door-to-door salesman. I couldn't think of anyone who
knew I lived here. It was Tiffany, so I opened the door and breathed
a sigh of relief.

"Hi, Tiana. Sorry to barge in on you like this," she said pushing
past me into the house like she'd been here a thousand times.