Starfall: A Starstruck Novel (22 page)

“You’re not afraid you’ll short it out again?” I ask, nodding at the computer.

She makes a face. “I remembered to ground myself on the table leg this time. Usually I do that out of habit, but—” She shrugs.

But I distracted her Friday. By not reacting to that jolt the way she expected? “Can you tell me now what the deal is with that touch thing you do? You started to, at lunch.”

After glancing around to make sure no one’s close enough to hear, she looks me right in the eye. I can’t look away. “It’s not so much something
I
do. It’s something
we
do.”

“Huh?”

“You asked if I have that effect on everyone. I don’t. Only on you. I’m guessing you’re also way more sensitive to my
brath
than you are to anyone else’s?”

I nod slowly. “I, um, figured it had something to do with, you know, who you are.”

“It does. But not because I’m the Sovereign, or Royal, or anything like that. It’s because I’m
me.
And you’re
you.
”

 
If that’s an explanation, it doesn’t help much. “So let me get this straight. That…jolt thing only works on me?”

“And vice versa. I feel it too, every bit as much as you do.” Her green eyes are wide, almost pleading. But I don’t know what she’s asking me for.

“Look, I’m not sure—”

“So, how is the research coming?” Ms. Raymond calls from across the room. “We have a newspaper to put together, you know.”
 

We both jump a little and turn to face the computer. It’s easier to think without her looking at me like that, though her nearness is still distracting. I pick up the printout from Friday and read the next item out loud. M types in a search string and we both scan down the results.
 

For ten minutes that’s all we do. Ms. Raymond cruises by to check on us, nods, then moves to the other side of the room to talk to Angela about the lead story.

“So,” I whisper, “are you saying that we—you and I—have some special…connection that nobody else has?”

She nods. “Did you feel…different at all, after I touched you on Friday?”

“Um.” I remember how incredibly well I played at the game. “Yeah. I guess I did. Were you— Did you think it would make my memory come back or something?”

“I hoped it would.”

I glance over my shoulder at the teacher and read the next item from the printout and wait till M types in the search term. “I did remember that little bit about Trina.”

Now M turns away from the computer to look right at me again. “Exactly what
did
you remember about Trina? What would
possibly
make you—?” She breaks off, her cheeks going pink. I know what she’s referring to.

“That’s…what I remembered. Kissing her at a football game. So when she ran up a second later, I just…went with it.” I shrug. “Probably won’t do it again, though. Now that I’ve spent enough time with her to—”

“To realize what a you-know-what she is?” M arches an eyebrow at me. It makes me squirm a little.
 

“Yeah. I mean, she can be nice enough when she wants to.”

M laughs. “Not to me. As you might have noticed.”

I nod. “What she said to you this morning, by the buses, was totally out of line. Especially when you’re so…”
 

“So…what?” Her expression is open, eager. Hopeful.

Memorable,
I want to say.
Special.
Maybe even
perfect.
Luckily, I realize in time I can’t say any of those things to her. “Uh, nice?”

She keeps looking at me and for a second I think another memory is about to surface, something about M. And me. Instead, I get that exact same flash of Trina and me dancing while M dances with Jimmy Franklin. Does that mean it happened more than once?

When I don’t say anything else, she gives a cute little snort and turns back to the computer. “Thanks. I think.” She starts clicking on search results.

I watch her, thinking about what Sean told me last period—that my memory was erased on purpose, for security reasons. I remember Dad telling me once that memory erasure is the highest form of punishment they use on Mars. What could I have done to deserve that? And wouldn’t M, as Sovereign, be the only one who could authorize it?
 

So why is she acting like she wants me to get my memory
back
? I’d ask, but can’t think of a way to do it that won’t sound like an accusation. Plus it might get Sean in trouble, if he wasn’t supposed to tell me.

I spend the rest of the period helping with the fact-checking for the newspaper blog. And thinking. A lot.

*
   
*
   
*

For the rest of the week, I’m careful not to let M touch me again, even though she comes close a few times. Until I know exactly what those touches are doing to me—and know more about what the deal is between her and Sean—I don’t dare let whatever weird connection we have get any stronger.
 

Even without touching, when she sits right next to me in Lit, more bits of memory start surfacing. Not of the two of us, though. Mostly, I get flashes of M and Sean holding hands in the hallways at school. And once, M and Sean kissing in the school gym. In a crowd, with Sean wearing a basketball jersey, like it’s right after a game.

I don’t much like the stuff I’m remembering, but it’s way better than nothing at all. Weirdly, though, none of these memories have any emotions attached to them, good or bad. They’re just…images. Like, I can’t tell if I was happy or upset about M and Sean kissing. Or even about me and Trina kissing.

Meanwhile, my dreams are the exact opposite.
 

Monday night I wake up in a cold sweat from a dream where M and I were in the back seat of a runaway car. I grabbed her hand and lunged over the the front seat and this huge spark arced toward the steering wheel, just as a stone wall loomed up in front of us. It was so incredibly vivid, my heart pounds like crazy until my lingering terror fades.

Then early Wednesday morning I have another bizarre car dream, only this time
I’m
the one driving. It’s snowing, and M is in the front seat next to me. Snuggling against me. She feels so good that when I wake up, I want to get right back to sleep, continue that dream…and those feelings.
 

Much as I’d like to believe it could be based on a real memory, I know it’s not. I don’t have a driver’s license, for one thing, and definitely didn’t last winter. Not to mention how unlikely it is that M ever would have been snuggled against me…

Not till I’m up for real a couple hours later does it fully hit me how wrong it is to want M that way—even in a dream. After that, I’m even more careful to keep my distance from her.

Thursday, I bring my own laptop to school so I can work on that for the newspaper instead of sharing the old school computer with M, since that’s the hardest place to avoid her. She looks a little hurt when I set up at a different table, but doesn’t come right out and say anything. Still, just seeing that look on her face makes me feel like a jerk. Which I totally shouldn’t. I’m doing the right thing.

At practice, Coach Glazier pulls me aside.

“You feeling okay, Stuart? You’re looking sluggish out there, and you sure aren’t throwing like you did Friday night. Let’s see you do a forty.”

He gets out his stopwatch and clocks my sprint. I can tell I’m slow, even before he shakes his head. “Yep, you’re off by more than a whole second from Monday’s practice. Whatever it is, son, try to shake it off before tomorrow night.”

“I know, Coach. I’ll do better. Sorry.”

He claps me on the shoulder and goes off to yell at two defenders who are horsing around instead of doing their tackle drills. I square my shoulders and go back to firing the ball through the hoop on the sidelines, determined to buck up. Because Coach is right. I’ve been off for a couple days now. Not sick, exactly, but I’m not quite operating on all thrusters.

The next morning I eat an extra big breakfast with lots of protein—eggs, bacon and sausage—even though I’m really not hungry. Got to get my energy up for tonight’s game in Alexandria.
 

If it really was M’s touch that made me play so well last Friday—and lift so well Monday—the effect was temporary. I’m more than half tempted to let her touch me again, or even brush her hand myself. But I resist. Because I know tonight’s game isn’t the only reason I want to.

That afternoon in Publications she comes over to sit next to me where I’m alone at the big table with my laptop.

“Rigel, I know you’re not feeling great,” she whispers. “And I know why. Because I’m not feeling so hot myself. If you’d just let me—” She reaches for my hand but I snatch it away from her.

“No. Whatever this…this thing is we have, it’s not right. And it’s not fair to Sean, when he— I mean, when the two of you have to—”

Her green eyes narrow at me. “I don’t
have
to do anything. Don’t you start, too! I’m not letting my whole life be dictated by stupid Nuathan customs. The fact that you and I have this connection
proves
how stupid that one is!”

“But my folks said—”

“They’re only repeating what they’ve been told. But even they know a lot more than they’re telling you.”

I shake my head. “Even if that’s true, I can’t afford to get…addicted to whatever it is you do to me. Stupid custom or not, I somehow don’t see us ending up together. Do you? Really?” Now I’m the one holding
her
gaze, making it so she can’t look away.

For a second I think she’s going to bite my head off, but then her lower lip trembles. It makes my gut twist.

“I guess not. Not if you don’t… I’m sorry, Rigel. I can’t force you to remember. And I can’t force you to…to like me.” She gets up and goes over to the other computer.

Leaving me feeling like total crap, both physically and emotionally.

*
   
*
   
*

Midway through the third quarter, I’m wishing I’d gone ahead and let M touch me that afternoon. We’re down nineteen points and I’m in no shape to turn things around. Two sacks, twelve missed passes…I totally suck tonight. Coach hasn’t replaced me or even yelled at me, but he sure wasn’t happy at halftime. Neither is the rest of the team.
 

The Alexandria fans, though, are ecstatic.
 

“Is this the guy we were so worried about?” I can hear from the home stands. “My grandmother throws better than that!” Sometimes Martian hearing isn’t exactly a benefit.

I’ve mostly switched to handing the ball off instead of passing, but it’s not enough to salvage this series of downs. Our running backs just aren’t that good. Fourth and four on our own thirty-five and the punt team comes in.

Heading back to the bench—again—I tug off my helmet and chug some water, telling myself this thing is all in my head, that I still have it in me to turn this game around. I don’t believe me.
 

Then, from behind me, I feel that super-strong
brath
that can only be M’s. I turn around and see her right down on the sidelines next to Molly. Who’s pushing her in my direction.

“Go on, M, I don’t care what he said,” I can hear her whispering from ten yards away. “If you don’t want to do it for your own sake, do it for his. Or at least the team’s!”

So Molly knows about that special touch thing? From what M said Monday, I thought it was some big secret between just the two of us. Guess not.
 

Weirdly, that makes me even more determined not to let her touch me—even if five minutes ago I was wishing she would. I stand up to face her, shaking my head, ready to tell her to get back in the stands.

But then something just behind Molly catches my attention—a big guy with a mean look on his face, barreling right at M’s back, both hands out like he’s going to grab her or something. He pushes past Molly, moving fast. Farther back, at least another twenty yards or so, I see Mr. Cormac, our vice principal—M’s Bodyguard—running at the guy flat out. There’s no way he’ll get there in time.
 

I act without thinking, vaulting over the bench, then the three-foot-high orange netting stretched between the track and the field. M’s eyes go wide. The big guy’s right behind her now but she still has no clue he’s even there. His hands are inches from the back of her neck when I grab her by the shoulders and whip her around behind me.

“Back off, buddy,” I snarl, sudden strength surging through me. From touching M.

He lunges to my left, still trying to reach her. “Have to—”

I draw back my right arm and whack him hard in the chest with the heel of my hand, shoving him backwards. “No. You don’t.”

“Only way to—” He bulls forward again, his expression almost berserked. The guy is obviously nuts. And Martian.

When he tries to lunge around me on the other side, I don’t hold back but punch him as hard as I can, right in the face. He goes down like a ton of bricks. Mr. Cormac rushes up and I notice a glint of silver in his right hand.

“That was quick thinking, kid. Thanks,” he says, bending over the dude on the ground.

I immediately turn to M. “Are you okay?”

She looks a little shaky, but she smiles. “I’m fine. Thanks to you. Again.”

I figure she’s referring to those times Sean told me about, last fall and on Mars, when I helped protect her. “No problem.”
 

“You didn’t hurt your throwing hand, did you?” She reaches out and takes my right hand in hers, examining it. Her touch sends shock waves through me—but in a good way.
 

“Nah. It stings a little but it’ll be fine. I’m just glad that guy didn’t—”

“Son, you should probably get back on the field,” Mr. Cormac says, hefting the inert guy up, the tiny silver thing held firmly against his side. “I’ll take care of things from here.”

I glance around and sure enough, everyone nearby is staring. A little behind the vice principal I see Sean, who’s come down from the bleachers to stand next to Molly. They both look shocked and worried. “Uh, yeah. I guess I should.”

Mr. Cormac looks past me at M. “Ex— er, Miss Truitt? Perhaps you should come with me.”