The Gifting (10 page)

Some students fidget, visibly uncomfortable. Some scoot to the edge of their seats, as if this discussion is long overdue. Most look indifferent. I look at Leela to see which category she falls into. She squirms and fiddles with her necklace. I glance at Luka. He wears an expression I’ve never seen him wear before. He is not bored or excited or uncomfortable. He is seething. In fact, he glares at those letters on the board as if they spell the most offensive swear word in existence.

Jared, his bulk too large for our small chairs, raises his hand, but doesn’t wait to be called on. “If you ask me, it’s smart.”

Mr. Lotsam scratches his soul patch. “Elaborate.”

“The pregnancy screenings.” He flicks the headline on the magazine in front of him. “I mean, these kids would be born with severe birth defects. How is that fair to them or their parents? They wouldn’t have any quality of life. Their parents would be wiping their butts when they’re fifty years old.”

A ripple of snickers follows the comment.

But I don’t join. I’m too mesmerized with Luka, whose knuckles have turned bone-white. His anger gives him this air of danger that accentuates his appeal. It’s a thought I’m sure Dr. Roth would love to unpack.

Five other hands raise into the air, including Leela’s. Mr. Lotsam calls on her. Her fingers wrestle, reminding me of my mom, but I have to give her credit, because despite her nerves, she looks directly at Jared. “That’s discrimination. Who’s to determine the quality of life?”

“I think doctors are able to determine that, Leela.” Jared says the words with a flat sarcasm that makes the class snicker again.

Summer sets her elbows on the table and addresses Leela. “You’re just saying that because you’re Catholic.”

Leela’s ears turn red.

My hackles rise. I shift forward in my seat. I’ve never given much thought to the pregnancy screenings or the fetal modification clinics, but Summer makes me want to open my mouth so I can tell her to shut hers.

“You’re only regurgitating what your parents tell you,” Summer continues. “How about having an original thought for once?”

“Let me guess,” Luka says in a voice so low, it simmers. “Your parents are
pro
screenings?”

Summer’s sneer melts away. Something inside me cheers.

“She brings up a good point though,” Jared says, rising to Summer’s defense. “The religious people are the ones doing all the bombings. This is exactly why the government nixed all the religion. Isn’t killing
killers
”—he finger-quotes the word—“a little ironic?”

The conversation erupts. Kids interject and interrupt and Mr. Lotsam has to give several reminders to raise hands and disagree respectfully. Even the students who looked indifferent earlier have opinions—the majority of which seem to be in support of the government-mandated screenings. Apparently, I’m the only one without an opinion. Or maybe I’m too consumed by Luka to take the time to form one. A muscle ticks in his jaw as the conversation escalates, until finally he raises his hand and the entire class hushes. Even Mr. Lotsam looks curious, eager.

“Doctors are human. They make mistakes. Screening pregnant women and aborting—” Several students grimace at his choice of word. Aborting is no longer politically correct.
It puts a negative spin on a positive thing
, doctors like to say. “—every fetus they think may have a disability is genocide.”

The accusation is so potent that Mr. Lotsam raises his eyebrows. “Genocide?”

Luka raises his eyebrows right back. “If you ask me, it’s a modern-day holocaust.”

“That’s a bold comparison.”

Luka doesn’t back down. He doesn’t reconsider. And beside him, Summer looks absolutely miserable. As if she wishes for nothing more than to take back her words. I can almost see the cogs in her brain working, trying to think of a way to get back into Luka’s good graces. After so much chatter, the room is eerily quiet.

A Filipino boy—Max, I think?—who always wears a black leather jacket breaks the silence first. “The Nazis were killing people. These doctors are curing women of defective fetuses in the first trimester. That’s hardly murder.”

With that, the spell Luka cast breaks. The class breaks out into arguments again.

Mr. Lotsam holds up his hands. “All right, we definitely have opinions. Let’s get on to our assignment and see if any of these opinions can be further shaped or perhaps even changed.” He has us open up to the articles in our magazines and write down arguments for and against the pregnancy screenings. He encourages us to play devil’s advocate. When we finish, we gather into groups of four and share our arguments with one another. Leela and I pair up with two others. I don’t let myself look at Luka. I don’t let myself hope that he might want to be in my group. I do my best to focus on the assignment.

But my mind has returned to last night’s dream. I have no idea what to make of it.

Mistakes

L
uka broods through the entirety of Ceramics class. He sits at the wheel, shaping and reshaping wet clay into a beautiful vase with his strong hands, that same muscle ticking in his jaw. Nobody approaches him or attempts to engage him in a conversation. His brood is intimidating.

Leela and I murmur at a table about the intense discussion in first period. I can tell she is flattered that Luka rose to her defense, especially against somebody as popular as Summer. At lunch, Summer looks close to tears. She keeps darting glances across the table at Luka, whose mood has not improved. Study Hall and Honors English drag into an eternity. I jiggle my leg, impatiently waiting for final period when I will see Luka again. And Summer. I’m eager to watch the drama unfold. Just how
will
she win back Luka’s favor? The moment the seventh-period bell rings, I jump out of my seat and hurry to Mr. Lotsam’s room.

I sit down and open a notebook and start doodling, which keeps me from staring at the door like Summer, who’s looking a wee bit desperate. She bites her lip and goes out of her way to keep the seat beside her open. When her eyes go wide, I know he’s entered. I force my attention down on my paper, wishing my hair wasn’t in a ponytail. I have nothing to hide behind.

“Is anyone sitting here?”

The smoothness of the voice makes my pulse hiccup. Luka has a way of articulating his words so each sound is heard.

I look up from my doodling. “Um. Go ahead.”

The legs of the chair scrape against the floor as he scoots it back to sit. I peek at Summer, who glares at me with such loathing, you’d think I just murdered her dog.

Jennalee comes in, sits on the other side of Luka, and twirls her hair. The bell rings and Mr. Lotsam announces that we need to partner up for a year-long project that will account for fifty percent of our grade. He claps his hands. “Find a partner and I’ll explain what you’ll be doing.”

I consider excusing myself to the restroom. I hate when teachers make us choose partners, especially in this class without Leela. I don’t want Luka to witness my lameness as everybody else in the class snags a partner and I’m left alone—the perpetual loser. My palms grow clammy. I want to put up my hood and hide my face in my arms. Forget religion, picking partners should be outlawed. So should captains in gym class. I’m always picked last, which isn’t fair, since I’m fast and I can catch a pass, if somebody ever chose to throw me one.

Luka clears his throat. “Tess?”

My heart takes off, double time. When I look, he’s staring at me with those striking green eyes, his head slightly cocked. “Do you want to be my partner?”

I point to my chest, not sure I comprehend his question.

His eyes sparkle with something—curiosity, humor, pity? Oh man, I hope not pity.

I swallow. “Uh. Sure.”

Jennalee stares with insulting disbelief, her mouth ajar, while the rest of the class scrambles to find a partner. My limbs feel like dead weight. I’m not sure if I should move them or adjust them, but then I remember the way Leela fidgets in front of Pete and I make myself sit still while my insides hyperventilate. Luka wants to be my partner. Luka Williams chose me. I tell my heart to chill out before he hears the beating. This project comprises fifty percent of our grade and I’m smart. This is why Luka chose me. I shouldn’t read any further into it.

He twists his hemp bracelet around his wrist. I think he might ask me something, but then Mr. Lotsam starts explaining the project and asks us to read a chapter from our history books and tells us we can talk quietly with our partners when we finish. I have no idea what the project is about. And the words I attempt to read make no sense whatsoever. But I stare at the pages, pretending to concentrate, until the majority of my classmates have put their books away.

Luka bites his thumbnail.

I search for something to say. Anything that might prove I can speak in semi-intelligible syllables. Nothing comes.

“You’ve been coming to the football games,” he says.

Okay. So he’s noticed.

“I waved at you last Friday but you ignored me.” His smile is crooked.

My stomach drops in that way it does whenever I accidentally skip the bottom stair. I find myself wishing I would have worn a better outfit than this old sweatshirt and a ratty pair of jeans. Maybe even the sequined top Leela pulled out of my closet on Sunday. “I didn’t see you.”

“You were very into the game. Very focused. I was impressed.” He twirls his pencil around the tip of his thumb, his smile fainter, but still there. “Most girls don’t watch.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

He shrugs.

I scramble for something to fill up the silence. He beats me to it.

“So, you read a lot.”

“What?”

“I see you out on your deck. You’re usually reading. Sometimes you write, though.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“What do you write about?” he asks.

Crazy grandma. Crazy dreams. The crazy things I see that nobody else can see—like snakes and flashes and men without pupils. Him. “Nothing really.”

“Do you like your new home?”

“Um, sure. It’s fine.”

“You don’t sound very convincing,” he says.

His unwavering attention makes me feel hot and somehow, cold. I have to look away and in so doing, I catch Summer gawking at us. She’s not the only one. “Thornsdale is as good as any other place to live, I guess.”

He folds his arms over his backpack on the table in front of us. “Have you lived in many places?”

“Nine.”

“Really?”

The bell rings.

Luka stands and hitches his backpack over his right shoulder. I wait for him to wave and leave, seeing as he’s no longer stuck with me, but he stands there and waits. So I stand too, shrug on my backpack, and we walk out of class together. “That can’t be easy on you and your brother, moving so much.”

“You know I have a brother?” The question tumbles out before I can take it back. Of course he knows I have a brother. This is a small school. Pete and I are the first new kids since him three years ago. Everybody knows I have a brother.

“Pete, right? Sophomore? Perpetual scowl? Kind of a loner?”

“He’s really not.”

“No?”

I shake my head and loop my thumbs under the straps of my backpack as we make our way toward the main locker bay. “I think he misses his girlfriend.”

“Yeah, I guess that would be hard.” We walk a few more steps. I’m all too aware of the tiny gap of space between his arm and mine. “Did you have to leave anyone behind?”

My cheeks turn warm. “You mean like a boyfriend?”

“Yeah.”

I snort, like actually snort.

“No?”

“I don’t think I’m girlfriend material.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

My stomach does that dippy thing again, because what does
that
mean? “I think he’s still angry at me for the move. Pete—I mean. Not my boyfriend. Because I don’t have a boyfriend.”
Oh my goodness, Tess, close your mouth.

“Angry at
you
?”

“Huh?”

“Why would your brother be angry at
you
for moving?”

My insides tighten. My attention flits from one wall to the next, as if an excuse might be etched on either. “I mean, not at
me
. He’s just … looking for somebody to blame I guess.”

Luka studies me like I’m an impossible-to-place puzzle piece.

“You seemed upset during first period today.” I cringe as soon as my mouth shuts. I really should not be allowed to talk in front of cute boys.

Luka steps in front of me, stops, and leans against the wall, his head dipped so he’s more level with my line of vision. “Sore subject.”

His nearness, his scent—both leave me unbalanced. “Wh-why?”

Some sort of internal battle wages war in his eyes, like he’s trying to decide how much to say. I fight back an almost insuppressible urge to tell him that he can trust me with anything. Those words would be weird. Luka and I barely know each other.

“Are your parents against it?” I ask.

He looks over his shoulder, as if checking for eavesdroppers. The crowd of students has thinned into nothing. Even the gaping stragglers are gone. We are alone in the hallway. Everyone has escaped into the locker bay and then outdoors into freedom. “I’m an only child, but I wasn’t my mother’s only pregnancy.”

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. “What happened?”

“She failed her pregnancy screening.”

“So she …?” The unfinished question dangles between us. I don’t have to ask it. Luka doesn’t have to answer it. Because of course she did. He just told me he’s an only child.

“Eight months later she got pregnant again and the same thing happened.”

I suck in a quick breath. Two failed screenings? I can’t begin to imagine what that might feel like for a woman. She must have been so relieved to finally have Luka.

“Guilt tormented her after she terminated her first pregnancy.”

I find myself holding back a grimace, like all my classmates did in first period when Luka used the word aborting.
Terminated
is every bit as frowned upon. It feels vulgar, somehow, and yet this boy throws out the words without hesitation.

“When the doctors gave her the same diagnosis, she decided to go against their advice.”