Sunblind (6 page)

I stare at the scar and marvel at how close she came to losing her eye, how close I came to blinding my friend. Even though I can't remember it, I can't remember slashing the air with my paw and connecting with her flesh, I'm still responsible. And no matter what everyone says, they all know it.

Unable to look at the product of my actions any longer, I announce, “I think I'm going to turn in. Been a long day.”

I don't know if Arla agrees with me, but thankfully she doesn't argue. Alone, I try to focus on the shapes that the moonlight creates, but my mind is buzzing with thoughts, so I close my eyes tight, try to force my brain to be quiet. Forget about the friend I mauled, forget that I'm living in the house of the man who wants me dead, forget that he's working with my brother to achieve the same goal. Good, Dominy, focus on all the really positive things in your life.

After what seems like hours, I finally drift off to sleep. Just as I do I remind myself that things can't possibly get any worse. When I wake up in the morning, I have proof that I'm wrong.

“Morning,” Arla chirps. “I tried to wake you, but you changed from Little Red Riding Hood into Sleeping Beauty overnight.”

“What are you doing?” I croak.

“Didn't think you'd mind if I used your mascara,” she explains. “I ran out.”

Arla's fully dressed and putting on the last touches of makeup at my vanity table. Today is Wig-free Wednesday, so without a special hair feature, she's taking some extra time putting on eye shadow and lipstick and picking out just the right accessories. My vision is still blurry because I'm not fully awake, but I can see as she puts her makeup on that she never touches the scar around her eye. She doesn't try to conceal it; it's part of who she is. She doesn't need the world's admiration to know that she's beautiful and amazing and confident. As groggy as I am, I know that's advice I should file away and use for myself. Who knew I'd need to use it so soon?

My cell phone vibrates angrily on the nightstand.

“That is like the fourth text you've gotten, missie, and it's just after seven,” Arla announces.

Grabbing my cell phone, I force myself out of bed. “It's Caleb,” I say.

“Who else would it be so early in the morning, but Prince Caleb?” Arla replies. “Do these work?”

Arla spins around on her chair and flicks an earring with her finger. It's a modified chandelier, a long silver chain that ends in a ball of hot pink mesh, the color being a few shades bolder than her lipstick and clashing perfectly with her light-blue eye shadow. I totally approve of her look; I totally disapprove of Caleb's text.

“The prince is breaking another date with me!” I shout, now fully awake and pacing the floor.

Squeezing her left hand into a silver cuff bracelet, Arla grimaces. I'm not sure if it's because she's hurting herself in the name of fashion or if she's indicating her support in the name of friendship. Turns out to be neither. The cop's daughter is getting ready to cross-examine.

“What's his excuse?” she asks.

“He has to study,” I say, as if that's a valid excuse.

“For what?”

“That stupid, idiotic advanced math class he's taking!” I reply, holding up the cell phone so Arla can read his text, which she can't because as I'm holding it up I'm also waving it around.

Multitasking, Arla checks herself out in the mirror and is as pleased with her look as she is with her interpretation of the facts.

“Caleb's stupid, idiotic advanced math class is probably going to get him a scholarship to Big Red or some other college he can't otherwise afford,” she lays out. “So if I were his girlfriend, instead of his girlfriend's pseudo-stepsister, I'd text him back and ask him if I could help him study.”

I hate rational thinking this early in the morning!

“I can't do that,” I reply.

“Why not?”

“Because I've already sent him a text,” I reply, my voice a little bit less forceful.

Without asking, Arla grabs the phone out of my hand to read my text. She responds in much the same way I envision Caleb responding now that I've had half a minute to calm down.

“Seriously?!” she exclaims. “You typed that message and then hit Send?”

I think for a moment, wondering if there's any way I can reply with anything else but the truth. There isn't.

“Yes.”

“Do you want this house to be full of single ladies?” she asks. “'Cuz that's where we're headed if you don't rectify this situation ASAP, and I mean rectify with a capital
B
because you need to
beg
Caleb to forgive you.” Pausing for effect, Arla puts her hands on her hips. “Do I make myself clear, Miss Robineau?”

Justifiably chastised I reply, “Yes, Miss Bergeron, you've made yourself very clear.”

“Good!” she declares. “Now shower up and make sure you accessorize because you're going to need all the help you can get.”

Actually I'm about to get more help than I deserve.

“I'll write a draft of your apology while you're in the shower,” Arla announces. “We can edit on the bus.”

By the time I see Caleb in the hallway before homeroom I have my and Arla's apology memorized.

“Caleb, I'm sorry,” I start.

He's not smiling, but he doesn't look spellbindingly angry. Until he speaks.

“For calling me, and I quote, ‘a disrespectful d-bag a-hole who treats his girlfriend like a piece of garbage,' end quote?”

Did I really text that? Geez Louise, that sounds even worse when spoken out loud. I'm about to tell Caleb that I wasn't even out of bed yet and I overreacted when I remember Arla's instructions: unbutton an extra button. Unfortunately, our school-sanctioned polo only has two buttons, not a lot of room to be sexy and seductive. Luckily, Arla's instructions were twofold. The second part was to tell the truth.

“I'm a jerk,” I say. When he doesn't protest, I continue. “Last night Barnaby and I got into a fight, he had a gun, Arla's father got mad 'cause I was only wearing a towel, and I didn't get any sleep last night, and then I saw your text, and I flipped out. Can you forgive me?”

“Your brother has a gun?” he asks, his eyes bugging out.

That's his takeaway!

“Can we table that explanation for now and concentrate on forgiving me?” I ask.

He leans his head forward and a few stray blond curls hang in the air, like little stars. After a second he smiles, but it's a little bit different from the smile I'm used to seeing. Something's changed. It's not a big thing, I know he's not breaking up with me, but there's a change nonetheless.

“You don't need forgiveness,” he replies. “But . . .”

“But there's a but?”

His smile fades completely, and now I definitely know there's a change.

“You can't freak out like this all the time, Dominy,” he declares. “You know how I feel about you. I can't do anything more to convince you I'm not just crushing on you or trying to get into your pants.”

Okay, a little crass, but I get the point. What am I thinking? My text put the
ass
in
crass!

“Remember this is my senior year,” he adds. “I have to prepare for my future.”

And there it is. The perfect boyfriend is planning the perfect escape. Not that I can blame him; this town is a dead end. So is a relationship with me. There's nothing and no one for him here, so it only makes sense that he's laying the groundwork for a quick getaway.

“I understand,” I say, even though I don't want to.

“Thank you,” he replies.

“And I'm sorry,” I add, because I am.

I was wrong. My family members aren't the only ones who have abandoned me. My boyfriend is planning to do the same thing.

Chapter 5

I love that poem. It's filled with childhood memories of my father and me sitting together in the backyard swing, looking up at the night sky. It's filled with hope that the magic of the stars can be all yours just by wishing really, really hard. The only problem is it isn't nighttime and there are no stars hovering on the ceiling of my Algebra II classroom. Which, if you ask me, is one algebra too many.

But I am reminded of a constellation because speckled against his navy Two W polo shirt—a new alternative to the standard white version—Danny Klausman's dandruff looks like a galaxy. Let's call it Galaxy DK for short. If you look at it and accept it for what it is, it's hygienically disgusting. Honestly, I cannot believe that after all these years someone hasn't shoved a bottle of Head & Shoulders shampoo in Danny's locker, but on second thought it's really a good thing that no one has. Sure, it would result in Danny's having dandruff-free hair, but it would also mean we would have one less thing to mock.

When I squint my eyes, the unhealthy collection of flakes turns into something quite beautiful. Each speck is unique and geometrically interesting, like stars look in the sky. Much more fascinating than listening to Mr. Takamoto describe the principle of inequalities. I learned about this mathematical bore-fest in Algebra I. I hated it then, and I hate it now, but the rest of my class is inexplicably interested in what Mr. Takamoto has to say.

“Excuse me, Dice,” Gwen says, after Mr. Takamoto acknowledges her raised hand. “If ‘a' is greater than ‘b' and ‘c' is negative, then ‘ac' will be less than ‘bc,' is that right?”

“Last I checked it was,” he replies, tossing a piece of chalk into the air from one palm to the other.

Mr. Takamoto is part of a new team of teachers who have invaded Two W this year. Due to the drastic financial cuts to the federal and state educational systems, blah, blah,
blaaah,
blah, blah, we witnessed an exodus of teachers last year who either retired or decided to give a job in corporate America a try. As a result, we not only have to learn new information this year, but new personalities as well. So far, Mr. Takamoto's got a good one. He even allows students to call him Mr. Dice or sometimes just Dice without the “mister,” because Dice is short for his real name, Daisuke. His relaxed nature is one of the reasons he commands attention from his students.

But can he compete with a supernova?

As the fireball descends into class from out of nowhere, I'm about to scream, but quickly realize I'm the only one seeing this spectacle. And when the room is suddenly filled with a blinding yellow light, I know why. A supernova hasn't landed, only Jess.

“Je . . . !”

Luckily, I catch myself and turn the first part of Jess's name that I shouted out loud into a sneeze. Based upon the number of “bless you”s and “gesundheit”s that my sound receives, it was obviously a success. I mumble a “thank you,” ignore Danny Klausman's dirty look because he thinks I sneezed on his back—as if my germs and snot are going to make the bacterial mess on his back any worse?!—and watch Jess materialize.

“How ya doin', Dom?” Jess asks.

She's hovering in the air with her legs crossed in some kind of awkward yoga pose, in the middle of the aisle between Gwen and me. By now I know that no one else can see her, but I still get nervous when she pays a visit in public.

“Don't worry,” Jess replies, reading my mind. “I've experimented before in crowded places like the supermarket and the boys' locker room, and like I said no human being can see me.”

I'm utterly shocked.
“Jessalynn Rosalie Wyatt!”

And totally curious.

“
Did you see Caleb naked?”
I silently ask.

As she raises her right hand, specks of sunshine shoot into the air like golden raindrops. “I turned my head the second he took his shorts off,” Jess answers.

I so don't believe her, but what's done is done, and what does it matter anyway? Even if she did see my boyfriend's full monty, it's not like she can act upon it. Could she? Can she have goddessex? Why am I thinking about Jess and Caleb having sex when he and I haven't even had sex yet? Why am I thinking about sex at all when I should be focusing on trying to find out what Jess is doing here so I can get her to leave?

“You don't want me hanging around?” she asks, definitely insulted.

Trying to appear as if I'm paying attention to the algebraic formula Edgar Sullivan is writing on the chalkboard under Dice's microscopic scrutiny, I mentally convey my concerns to my best friend.

“I love when you're around, you know that,”
I say.
“
But I have to pay attention.”

“Since when do you like math?”

“I don't like math,”
I rebut.
“That's why I have to pay attention.”

“Life is too short, Dom, to pay attention to stuff you don't like,” Jess sermonizes. “How happy and proud am I that I daydreamed through most of biology? I mean, really, corporeal substances and functions don't matter to me anymore.”

I sigh so loudly Gwen looks in my direction, thinking I'm trying to get her attention. Sorry to disappoint you, Gwen, but I'm just trying to deal with the Amaterasu Omikami in the room.

“Deal with me!”

“Sorry!”

“Miss Robineau?” Mr. Dice asks. “Did you say something?”

Thanks a lot, Jess! This is why I don't want her barging into class like a sunburst, hovering in midair, and trying to have a telepathic conversation with me! There's only one end result when that happens, which is that I get into trouble.

“Dominy,” Dice continues. “I asked you a question.”

Time to play dumb. Literally.

“I'm sorry,” I say meekly. “I just don't understand Edgar's formula.”

“Well, it really isn't Edgar's formula,” he explains. “Though he has made it his own with the addition of this extra plus sign.”

Erasing the extraneous plus sign, Dice surrounds the “ab” with parentheses. He looks at me with his arms out to the side in the classic “voilà” stance, as if this simple change will make the formula on the chalkboard decipherable.

“Sorry,” I repeat. “Still don't get.”

Dice looks through Jess to stare at me as if he's trying to determine if I could be so arithmetically challenged and quickly comes to the same conclusion as most of my previous math teachers: I can. He then announces that he's going to take us through the steps of the associative property one more time. When he turns his back to us to erase all evidence of what I incorrectly assumed to be Edgar Sullivan's personal equation, I turn my attention back to Jess.

“Now do you understand why your presence makes me nervous?”
I ask.

“You're just nervous because your new teacher's kinda hot,” Jess gushes.

Ignoring the little pellets of golden sunlight that are cascading down from her fingertips, I close my eyes, hoping that this action will get Jess to realize she really needs to leave me alone so I don't have to spend the entire night relearning what I should be learning right now. When I open my eyes, I see that I've failed. Jess is way too interested in Two W's newest academician.

“I know that I'm predisposed to thinking your new teacher is attractive because we're both Japanese,” Jess says, continuing on quickly before I can remind her for about the seventeen-thousandth time that she is only an honorary Japanese citizen. “But seriously he is adorable. Look at his butt!”

I swear my heart literally stops beating for about ten seconds until I am absolutely certain I did not scream that statement out loud. I love Jess, but seriously, right now I think I'd rather face Louis, Barnaby, and their horde of vigilantes fully armed with machine guns filled with silver bullets than have to spend another second fake-talking to Jess. She doesn't even know the havoc she's causing.

“I can tell by his lack of an accent that he's been abso-thoroughly de-Japanized, but since he's educated, being a teacher and all, he may know about our heritage,” Jess rambles on. “I'm sure he'd be very interested to know that there's a real live Amaterasu Omikami in his classroom.”

Since
I
can hardly believe that there's an Amaterasu Omikami in class, I doubt very much that my teacher is going to accept that fact. He barely accepts the fact that I say I understand what an associative property is when he finishes scribbling on the blackboard and asks me if I comprehend.

“Oh now I get it!” I squeal in the most unconvincing voice ever that even makes Gwen snicker.

I glare at her, and she immediately shuts up, and Dice proves that he's as cool as Jess thinks he looks by not calling me on my obvious fib. He does give me Teacher Eye for a few seconds, that look that silently conveys that the teacher knows that the student doesn't know what the teacher wants the student to know, but the teacher knows that the student will not acquire the required knowledge through further interrogation. It's an educational win-win; the student isn't unduly embarrassed, and the teacher doesn't have to waste time re-explaining a basic theory that should be easily understood. Unfortunately, now that Jess is not part of any educational institution, she's forgotten that sometimes it's necessary to move on from a concept.

“I'm so glad that we can communicate silently and that we're eternally connected,” Jess states. “You being my murderer and all.”

Terrific! I'm stupid
and
a murderer. There isn't an ounce of malice in Jess's voice. She understands and accepts that I personally didn't kill her; I was being used in Luba's psychotic vendetta against my father. But the word still stings. It's a reminder that I'll be eternally connected to Jess's death as more than just a witness or a mourner. I'm the reason she's dead.

I don't say a word in reply or protest, but Jess, being my best friend, can still gauge my emotions even if we're in separate metaphysical worlds.

“Dominysan, I'm sorry. It's just a fact,” she says. “Please don't take it personally.”

Don't take it personally?! How the ef can I not take it personally? That's the most ludicrous thing I've ever heard anyone say.

A glimpse of the clock above the door reveals that there are still fifteen minutes of class, way too long an amount of time to spend trying to half-listen to today's lecture and half-ignore Jess's quips and comments and veiled jabs. I have to put an end to this.

“Jess, I love you, but you need to go,”
I say, all assertive and adult-like.

“I can't,” she replies, all petulant and childlike.

“You have to!”
I silently cry
. “You're being disruptive and, honestly, keeping up this charade is really exhausting.”

“But I came for a reason,” she finally admits. “I have something to tell you.”

“It's about the twins.”

The twins? Jess has to tell me something about Nadine and Napoleon that's apparently important enough to pay me an unscheduled visit, and she's been wasting time goo-gooing over my teacher's butt?! Don't goddesses possess self-control and occupy themselves with existential conundrums and other vitally important things? Since when do they float in and out of classrooms just to say hi?

“I have manners, Dom!” Jess yells so loud little golden cloud puffs shoot out of her mouth. “I am not going to suddenly appear and announce that you can only trust one of the twins because the other one is dipped in pure evil and then poof, disappear again, go on my merry way, and leave you to ponder the ramifications of my statement.”

What did she say?

“Correction,” she adds. “I really do have to let you ponder the ramifications on your own because of the whole limitation thing. I can supply you with information, I can gently nudge you in the right direction so you can combat the negative forces that are multiplying all around you, but I can't tell you everything so that the scales tip and you have an unfair advantage.”

That is a lot of information that I'll dwell on later. Right now I want to zero in on the comment about the twins.
“What do you mean I can only trust one of the twins?”

“That's correct. That's what I said.”

I give Jess a bit of a pause, but she clearly doesn't understand that she needs to complete her statement.

Adopting a shocked expression that borders on outrage, Jess almost flips over right onto the floor at Gwen's feet. How can she be shocked? Can she be so inhuman as to not think that her comment is going to arouse my curiosity, pique my suspicion, and lead me to ask for specific clarification? I mean there are only two twins. Just give me a name!

“I absolutely cannot,” she says grandly. “Nor can I give you a gender or an age, since, you know, one twin is always technically older.”

Infuriating! Absolutely infuriating! And also very scary. If Jess felt the need to make a surprise visit, risk being seen no matter how many times she's practiced her mumbo jumbo in a crowded space, just to tell me this one fact that her superiors—whoever or whatever they may be—have allowed her to share, this has to be really mega-important.

“Actually I can say one more thing,” Jess adds.