The Guardian (2 page)

With a sidelong glance, I look.

The boy stares apathetically at his desk, his acne-pocked face sullen. Long greasy hair, dyed an inky black, hangs limply around his shoulders. He looks quiet, almost wimpy, but surrounding him is a cloud of churning ash that keeps obscuring him from my view.
Crap!

It’s hard to remember exactly when I first started seeing people as light and darkness. I was very young and already on my own. The first time I saw someone truly dark—almost black—I wet myself. I was six.

I slump forward, shuffling to the opposite corner of the room near the window. The class isn’t yet full and no one seems to notice my bizarre behavior as I slide into a first row seat. Gripping my desk with both hands, I focus on yogic breathing techniques as the room fills. In this instance, they help.

I don’t see auras. No pretty colors or hippy dippy philosophies. I see variations of good and evil that halo the entire body and my physiological processes react accordingly. I’ve little control over either phenomenon. And I can’t turn it off—pretend I don’t
see.

Halos are like a color scale ranging from black to gold to white. The center’s neutral, no color or halo of any kind. On one side there’s good, a spectrum of yellows, starting out faint hazy goldenrod, growing brighter and lightening into clear white brilliance. The other side’s bad, starting as an ethereal dull silver mist, turning gray then charcoal, before darkening into the still blackness of pure evil. With an energy all its own, a halo’s pattern and movement mirrors its owner’s emotional and moral states.

The boy in the back of the room is angry. Hurt, pissed, out for revenge. His halo tumbles around him like an ominous storm cloud.

As I continue to breathe, the classroom fills. With more bodies between the dark boy and me, the sensations abate. By the time the teacher, and his very bright halo, enter the class, I’m sure I can make it—for now, at least. Mr. Ramirez, as he introduces himself, begins to take roll.

John Avers. Mindy Butler. Stacey Bucchanan.

I listen intently for the name of the boy in the back.

Geena Davies. Luke Davis. Graham Ernst. 
Alexia Grabovski.

I listen so intently I don’t recognize my own name as it’s called.

Alexia Grabovski.

It’s only after the third time the teacher says it that I react.

Alexia Grabovski.

“Here.”

It comes out as a squeak. Feeling the collective eyes of the class—including the boy—staring at me, I meet Mr. Ramirez’s amused gaze. “Daydreaming already, Miss Grabovski?”

“No, sir.” I shake my head back and forth a few times. Mr. Ramirez goes back to his list and I gulp before regaining his attention. My cheeks burn with humiliation, as I unavoidably prolong the spotlight. “Uh, Mr. Ramirez?” He pauses. “It’s Alex, not Alexia.”

He makes a note on his paper, giving me a warm smile. “Okay, Alex.” He’s surrounded by a thin but solid layer of ecru. If I were staying, I would probably like him. A lot.

But I’m not—staying. And I'm not Alexia.

Alexia is a pert girl on the cheerleading squad, who spends her time shopping and dreaming of prom. The kind of girl who’d carry a rat-dog around in her handbag. Someday she’ll trade in her pink bedroom for a sorority house full of other cheerful, aptly-named sisters. She has her whole bright future ahead of her.

I am not that girl.

My name’s Alex. I spend my days trying to dodge the darkness and, if possible, stay one step ahead of it. The most I can hope for is to make it to my eighteenth birthday so I can get out of the system and fade into obscurity. I take one day at a time, trying my best not to look ahead—the future terrifies me.

By the end of roll call, I learn the dark boy’s name is Jonah.
Jonah Wilkes.

*

Second period French. So far so good. I sit down next to a frizzy, red-haired girl with glasses and hand-me-down clothes. She’s benign—harmless—I’m sure of it. Her halo’s gossamer lemon chiffon.

Most people have very vague halos, slightly good or bad, but for the most part neutral. They may waver with emotion and circumstance, but generally remain on either one side or the other. There are a lot of “good” people surrounded by faint gray halos. These are the people who make the right choices for wrong reasons. The ones that would do wrong if there was no consequence or chance of getting caught. For the most part, society keeps them in check. Those faintly gray people don’t bother me.

On the flip side there are those who do wrong for the right reasons, like Robin Hood. They possess some of the brightest, most clearly-defined halos I’ve ever seen. Ironically, often a school’s bad boy is a rebel with heart of gold. And a golden halo to prove it.

The brighter or darker a person’s halo becomes the more fundamental it is to their make-up. They’re the ones who choose to do good or evil because of their own moral compass, regardless of external expectations. Then there are those rare people who embody goodness or evil. I’ve never seen any up close but I come across them on the news occasionally. Mother Teresa and, at the opposite end of the spectrum, Adolf Hitler are the most famous examples I can think of. The first and only time I saw an image of Hitler, I threw up.

The French
professeur
, Madame Mimi, is one of those outwardly nice people who really isn’t nice at all. She’s surrounded by a light fog the color of dirty cement. As she commences the morning’s
leçon
, I idly wonder if she talks about students behind their backs. Two-faced fits her.

The whole class has to choose French names. I pick Jeanne, like
Jeanne d’Arc
. My own grim joke. But no one’s laughing, not even me.

The lemon chiffon girl, I learn, is
Becke Finch
.

I cross Jonah’s path again in third period Biology, but now that I’m more used to him, I know what to expect. Also his halo’s shifting, less chaotic and lighter by the time we’re dismissed. He reminds me of a child, the way his halo fluctuates.

Children can vary greatly in a short amount of time as their emotional state changes, even flipping from light to dark and back again. They don’t have a developed voice of reason to keep them grounded and without it are often slaves to the feelings of the moment. That seems to fit for Jonah, somehow. Suddenly, I’m feeling hopeful. Maybe he simply needs an outlet for his emotions, a friend or a therapist.

It’s too soon to know for sure, and I’ll probably be gone long before I can discover the answer. But I find myself wishing for his sake, that his friends might make a difference in his life.

After fourth period Government, I sit alone at a corner table in the cafeteria eating a BLT sandwich, carrots, Pringles, and a Vitamin Water. Kate offered to send me with lunch money, but I don’t like taking things. Room and board’s hard enough.

As I eat, I try to ignore the other tables of tightly packed kids. I’ve seen it all before—
tons
of times. High school seems to follow the rules of nature, birds of the same species flocking together. A couple of the tables are noticeably darker, mostly misfits, pariahs, an occasional Goth. There are the few bright tables of the overachievers and honors kids, glowing like beams of sunlight. The predominant tables, though, are a mix of popular kids, their halos, while encompassing both light and dark, are equally weak. They lack substance and definition. Then in the far corner, completely alone, is the roiling halo of Jonah Wilkes.

After lunch is English, not one of my favorite subjects. Reading aloud embarrasses me and every English teacher I’ve ever known has had a hard-on for making the shy kids read in front of the class. When I walk into English, I’m prepared for that. I’m even prepared for Jonah Wilkes, sulking in the back of the class. What I’m not prepared for is Mr. Abernathy.

He’s watching the door, evaluating the students as they enter, sizing up the guys and ogling the girls. Instantly my stomach cramps and my bowels turn watery. I breathe through it, then mumbling an excuse, turn around and sprint for the bathroom down the hall.

I spend a few minutes splashing cold water on my face and calculating my chances of transferring to another class. When I return he’s waiting, smiling at me in an uncomfortable way. Mr. Abernathy is swathed in cold, smooth gunmetal. He leaves a metallic taste in my mouth that makes me want to grimace.

“Alexia Grabovski, I presume.” His voice is jovial, adding to the
ick
factor. He runs a manicured hand through his expensively tousled hair before gesturing toward an open desk. “Please take a seat. Join us, Alexia.”

The only seats left are in the front row.
I wonder why?

The class snickers as he places a not-so-fatherly hand just behind my shoulder, careful not to actually touch me, and guides me to the front center seat. My skin crawls. If I hesitate even a fraction of a second he’ll bump into me causing “accidental” contact. Without stopping to question how I know, I realize he’s used this ploy before. With a tight smile, I slip away from him and take the seat on the end.

“I prefer to be called Alex,” I say, after swallowing back the vomit that’s lodged in my throat. The wall behind his desk is covered with accolades. Awards and articles highlighting him as teacher of the century.

He follows me as the class begins to lose interest and pursue their own conversations. Standing benignly off to my right side, he bends forward slightly so his stale breath brushes against the sensitive skin of my collarbone but still not close enough to seem inappropriate. His smile holds polite yet professional interest at odds with the dark sphere of menace that encircles him.

Bile rises in my throat and I swallow it down with a gag. I kick myself for being a naive idiot—for not skipping school, for actually wanting to stay, however briefly, with the Fosters. For believing things might be different this time.

Mr. Abernathy’s husky voice is nearly covered by the din of the class. “All comfy now, Alexia?”

Contorting in my seat, I look him straight in the eyes. His pupils are so dilated that his watery blue eyes look black. Up close, his expensive cologne has a stench like sour bodies—another byproduct of my condition. It fills my nose, mixing with the metal taste on my tongue and causing my stomach to cramp even worse. Fighting the urge to put my head between my knees, I try to distract myself by thinking up a nickname for him. I decide on Mr. Creepy.

Mr. Creepy stares. His fingertips twitch, as if resisting the urge to touch me. And I can’t help but wonder
what if
this weren’t such a public setting?

After a long, uncomfortable pause he whispers, “Alexia.” The way he says it makes me feel exposed, like I’m spread-eagle in my underwear.

The taste in my mouth is nearly unbearable. I stifle a gag as my voice comes out low and pained. “It’s Alex.”

His reply’s a whisper. “You shouldn’t be afraid of who you are. When you get older like me, you’ll realize
Alexia
is a gorgeous name.” He’s looking down at me, only not at my face.

I feel violated, numb, but refuse to let it show. “Are we going to have a lesson today? Or just talk about what
old
people know?”

Lips twisting into something akin to a grin, his gaze travels lazily upward to my face. But there’s malice in his eyes. Still, he lingers. “Touché, Alexia.”

Strolling back to his desk, he makes a pretense of reviewing his papers while really he’s leering at a couple making out in the back of the class. From my vantage point in the front, I follow his gaze to where the guy’s got his hands on his girlfriend’s ass as she perches on the edge of his desk. Mr. Creepy’s getting off on it.

Suddenly, his eyes shift to me and I get caught watching. Flushing with excitement, he continues to pointedly hold my gaze as his halo coils around him like a snake. He wants me to know that he saw me. Unfortunately, I do.

Feigning a look of shock, Mr. Creepy clears his throat then frowns at the couple disapprovingly. “Let’s begin,” he says. Although speaking to the entire class, his eyes dart to mine secretively before sliding away. Then directed to the girl-half of the couple he orders, “Please take your seat, Miss Bennett.”

He spends the entire lecture seated, lounging behind his desk. His relaxed posture, like every gesture and every question, is calculated. Whenever he looks in my direction his eyes make me feel dirty—like he’s projecting pornographic thoughts.

Five minutes before the end of class his eyes turn feverish and he dismisses us early. I try to get the heck out of there but get stuck behind a couple of slow kids, one of the last ones to exit. Waiting anxiously for my turn to leave, I try to ignore my glassy-eyed teacher and his x-rated thoughts pummeling me from across the room as I make my escape.

I wonder why none of the other students seem to notice something’s amiss. Maybe on top of everything else, I’m beginning to hallucinate. Then I realize they can’t see his halo, which undulates about him in stilted, jerky motions. In my peripheral vision I see him lick his nonexistent lips. He smirks, knowing he has my undivided attention. His dark halo continues to thrust.

I have to get the hell out!

Stumbling out the door, I bump into Jonah. His halo’s darkened again into charcoal, but it doesn’t bother me at this particular moment. His pale eyes, however, are unnerving as he regards me uncomfortably, with something that could pass for sympathy. “Fuckin’ teachers,” he mumbles before ducking his head and shuffling away.