Sage's Eyes (28 page)

“Such is life,” he said. “You bend with the wind, or you break.”

“So you're a philosopher, too?”

He laughed. “I try. Look, I don't see the point in having to go through days and weeks of getting to know each other before we can see each other socially after school. You and I can know someone pretty quickly if we want.”

“Why do you keep saying you and I?”

“There's a saying that's
true, especially for us. It takes one to know one. You're one.”

“One what?”

“Person with exceptional insight. Besides, I get the feeling you're almost as much a newcomer as I am. You're still feeling your way around with this crowd. We should do it together. I know I respect your opinion already. You'll get to respect mine, too. What do you say? Should I come by to pick you up?”

“No,” I said quickly. “I've got to prepare my parents more.”

“Now I can't wait to meet them. They sound like refugees from Victorian England. So what about meeting me at the mall, and we'll go to the party together, okay?”

Oddly, my fingers went to my new necklace. I touched it as I thought. My hesitation annoyed him.

“I mean, if you go there with your friends and the party isn't what you'd like it to be, you'll be stuck. With me, you won't be.”

He was right about that. “Okay. My father is dropping me off at the mall at six.”

“I'll be waiting,” he said. “See you tomorrow,” he added, as if he wanted to end the call before I changed my mind.

After he hung up, I sat and thought for a few moments. Was it possible that we really were alike? Was he just quicker at discovering that? Was it snobby to think like this, to think he and I were so different from everyone else that we were almost in our own world?
This all left me with a greater interest in him, a greater desire to know more about him. In a strange way, I was thinking that the more I learn about him, the more I might learn about myself.

I didn't think anyone I had met was as concerned about knowing herself as I was about knowing myself. They were who they were, and that was it. Most of them felt comfortable in their own skin, but I was still searching for my identity, waiting for the day when I would hear my real name. Sometimes I felt like I was wearing my face and body the way someone else might wear a costume. Who among my friends ever looked at herself deeply in a mirror, concentrating on her eyes as if they were two windows through which she could see her true self?

Who stood there asking herself, “Who are you?”

And who actually waited for an answer?

The following day, the girls were outwardly just as friendly to me as they had ever been, gathering around to thread and tighten the knot that made us special. They included me in all their personal intrigues and problems. I sensed who was at fault but kept my opinions to myself. From the way she was lording over them with her controlling looks, I could see Ginny had persuaded them to be nice to me again and wanted to be sure they were, but I still wasn't getting good vibes. I didn't like the way they exchanged smiles behind my back when they thought I couldn't see them, not that I was around them as much as usual. The moment Summer appeared, I broke away.

“Going my way?” he asked, winking at the others.

“As far as the next class for now,” I said, and we walked off. I didn't want to look back at the green pool of envy, not that any of them should have been surprised.

Summer and I were spending most of our free time
during the school day together now. We would walk together to classes and sit together at lunch. Since I had agreed to meet him Friday night, I wanted to know as much about him as I could, as did he about me. Even though my personal history was nowhere as interesting as his, he was very interested in it. I was surprised at how many questions he had about my parents. I was embarrassed to admit that I didn't know as much as I should about their past and their families.

“Maybe they're ashamed of them,” he commented. It was the first time I ever thought about that possibility, but it did start me wondering. After all, what other possible reason could they have for not being willing to talk much about their parents and grandparents? I didn't want to dwell on it, so I made him talk more about himself.

I particularly enjoyed his descriptions of places he had been with his father after his mother had been killed and the things they had seen in Europe and elsewhere. When he spoke about it, he had the far-off look of someone who could easily recall and relive the beauty he had seen and the good times he had enjoyed. His voice softened and warmed, drawing me closer to him. He was so descriptive and visual that I felt I was accompanying him on his journey back through time.

“Every summer since my mother died, we took a small villa in the south of France or on the Amalfi coast in Italy,” he told me. “We went to wonderful restaurants with flowery patios, enjoyed the soft, sandy beaches and the refreshing Mediterranean, and especially enjoyed walking through the colorful and active
streets at night, listening to all the languages spoken, seeing the fashionable women and men. The laughter was melodic. It was different.”

“You make it sound wonderful.”

“It was. It was like I was living in a movie. My father is a very handsome man. I could see the women, even those with other men, startled by his good looks, smiling flirtatiously, and moving on like children being tugged away from the playground, gazing back at us until they disappeared around corners or into restaurants. One summer we went to Greece, and one spring we went to South Africa on a safari. I have some fantastic pictures to show you one of these days.”

“I can't believe how much you've traveled.”

“My father's books are sold in so many countries now. He had people meeting us everywhere.”

“But who was teaching you, homeschooling you, all this time?”

“He was, of course. Wait until you meet him. My father is an amazing guy. He's an expert in just about every subject and speaks four languages.”

“My parents can speak French, Italian, Spanish, even Portuguese,” I said. “And it doesn't seem to matter that they don't use them much. Whenever there's an opportunity, they do.”

“Same with my father. He can learn a new language quickly.”

“What about you?”

“I speak French well enough, and Spanish.”

“And your father can teach you math and science?”

“Do I seem far
behind the others in our class in any subject?”

“No.”

“There's your answer,” he said.

“But really, what about friends all these years? It sounds like you weren't anywhere long enough to make any, and being homeschooled, you didn't have the same opportunities to make friends.”

“I managed,” he said. “When I wanted to, that is. Although it might look like I'm trying to be friends with everyone here, I'm quite selective when it comes to that. I know the difference between an acquaintance and a friend. Besides, who are you to talk, anyway? You're more than fifteen years old, and from what you've told me, you haven't exactly been a social butterfly. In fact, it sounds to me as if you've been locked up like the Lady of Shalott in the Tennyson poem we read in class yesterday.”

“It's not quite that bad.”

“But close,” he insisted. “What are they, from another century or something?”

I didn't answer. I wasn't going to disagree with him.

“You're really confusing your girlfriends,” he continued.

“Why?”

“From what you've told them, they know how little social experience you have, but they're impressed with how you handle the boys and the advice you hand out to them about their little romances.”

“Who told you all that?” I asked suspiciously. Was
one of them actively trying to damage my relationship with him before it had really gotten started? “And don't say a little bird,” I warned.

“I overhear them talking. Mia, in particular, likes to raise her voice when I'm anywhere in earshot. Besides, I can see all that for myself anyway. I don't need any of them to point out what's real and what's not.”

“Mr. Know-It-All.”

“Not Mr. All but Mr. Enough,” he replied. His eyes sparkled when he smiled.

“Why is it I believe you're not kidding?” I said.

“Neither of us is when it comes to ourselves,” he replied. “That's what I like about you, your brutal honesty.”

“Brutal?”

“Well, I suppose for most people, any honesty is brutal. I don't care as long as it doesn't create new problems for me with you,” he added.

Did I blush? Was that my heart beating harder but happier? Or was my mother right, and it was merely my hormones, subdued until now, finding their voice inside me. This is how it should begin for any girl, I thought, really learning about each other first; only for me, it was happening faster, peeling off the layer of protection with which we all cover our personal and intimate details.

Was it happening too fast? How could you tell? If I ever needed a warm mother-daughter talk, I needed it now, but I was afraid even to suggest it, afraid of what new scrutiny and suspicion it would bring. I was living under a microscope as it was. No, the only way
I could navigate through this new sea of passion and emotion was to make the most I could of my time with him and be as careful as I could be.

Even though Summer spent much more time with me now, he didn't ignore the friendships or, as he put it, acquaintances he had made. Whether he wanted to impress me or not, he seemed to be influential in getting Nick, Ward, Skip, and Jason back together, brokering a truce. He had them laughing and hanging out together again in a matter of days. When I complimented him on that, he shrugged and said, “It was easy. They're like little children, Sage. It still takes longer for boys to grow up. You can't get better evidence of it than watching them in action.”

“Well, listen to you, Mr. Enough.”

He laughed, but again, I couldn't disagree with him. He was certainly right about the other boys. Still, I wanted him to show more humility, but it was difficult to get him to be modest about anything. He had claimed I would be the one to bring him down to earth. I wondered how could I do that. Where were his weaknesses? He was already excelling in all our classes. In history, Mr. Leshner and he practically were having private conversations. He had a way of challenging the text and the lessons in a manner that amused Mr. Leshner and in some instances had him being the one to rethink facts and conclusions. It was the same way in science, and on two occasions, he caught our English teacher making grammatical errors, but he was clever enough not to look smug about it.
He always couched his corrections in a question, pretending not to be sure himself.

I sat back and observed him more and more, trying to be as objective about him as I could, not because I was, as my mother might accuse me of being, sexually fascinated with him. That was true, but it wasn't all that was driving me. I was learning from him, learning how I should behave, because he was right. In so many ways, we were alike.

When Friday came around, I was more nervous than I had been before going to Ginny's party. I still didn't have the courage to tell my parents the truth about the evening. I was afraid they would forbid it more now than ever because I had held back the truth until practically the last minute. All their suspicions about me, about my true nature, would be justified. Summer sensed my anxiety. Even in this short time, he was better at reading my feelings than I was at reading his. Was it because I wasn't as sophisticated?

“You're worried about your parents finding out you're not really going to a movie with your girlfriends, aren't you?” he asked after we talked again about how we would meet at the mall. I was sure he could hear it in my voice and see it in my face.

“A little.”

“More than a little.”

“Okay, a lot. I'll get over it,” I added, annoyed at myself for being so transparent with him. I certainly wasn't with any other student, or any teacher for that matter.

He put our conversation on hold when class began, but he obviously didn't stop thinking about it.

“They don't follow you around, do they?” he asked as soon as the bell ending the last period had sounded and we were on our way out.

“No, of course not.”

“Are you sure? From what you've told me, they sound obsessive and unreasonable. I mean, since you told me about their problems trying to adopt before, I understand them being nervous about you, but you've been with them long enough for them to know who you are.”

“I suppose so,” I said.

“I mean, what have you done to make them think you're not a good girl? I'm really curious now.”

I was too embarrassed to mention the one other time I had lied to them when I denied looking into my father's filing cabinet. He would surely think something that insignificant would be silly even to mention. Besides, that wasn't what kept my parents nervous about me.