The Guardian (7 page)

I shake my head, not believing h
im.

He straightens, tossing the pans into the air as he begins to juggle. “I’ll bet your gift is totally awesome, and you don’t even realize it.”

I consider this as I watch him.

“Maybe your gift is that you cheat death,” he goes on. “You’ve been to the ho
spital, what?
Twice in a month?
Maybe you’re lucky in life. You have nine lives . . . like a cat. Maybe you’re immortal.” His eyes grow wider.

“Or maybe I’m unlucky,” I point out. “Because not many people would say going to the hospital twice in a month is
a good thing.”

“Only the ones who don’t make it.”

“Touché.”

At the mention of the hospital, and immortals, my thoughts immediately shift to the mysterious guy who’d been there—a Guardian named Seth—who has all but disappeared from my life. “This may sou
nd kind of random, but do you believe in angels?” I ask.

Stu balances the handle of the pan in his palm, keeping it upright and level. “Sure.”

“Do you
like,
think they’re all around us, making things easier and stuff?”

“Why do you ask?”

I shrug. “I’m just
wondering, is
all.
Informal survey.”

“Do you?”

I think for a moment.
About the accident.
About the hospital room.
About the locker room.
Feeling his strong arms wrapping protectively around me.
Sliding my fingers across the paths of his hand.
“Yeah, I do,”
I answer. 

“Then that’s all that matters.”

I eat until my plate is empty and my stomach feels heavy, gorged with maple syrup. The bell above the front door jingles, and in walks the first table of the dinner crowd. I jump down from the barstool and carr
y my empty plate around to Stu.

“Consider me converted.”

“Knew it,” he replies, setting the crumb-covered, syrup-sticky plate on the counter. He turns to me, and places both hands on my shoulders. “And next time, we introduce thee to vegetable soup.”

My no
se crinkles with disgust. “Not for breakfast, I hope,” I say, imagining the whole breakfast for dinner thing might work in reverse. 

Stu turns toward the grill and throws on a couple of hamburger patties. They smoke and sizzle, steam rising to the vent ho
vering above him. He scoffs. “That’s absurd. No one eats vegetable soup for breakfast.”

E
IGHT

It’s the first truly warm weekend of the season. The temperature rose steadily in the days prior, until Selena decided that she, Vivian, Jason,
and Carter just
had
to spend Saturday at the beach. It was Carter who turned to me and asked: “How about it?
You in?”

I’m positive Selena rolled her eyes. I think I hate her.

“Come on,” he pressed. “It’ll be fun. I’ll pick you up. We’ll hang out. You can
get some sun. You love the beach.”

The beach is the only good thing about the entire town. I found myself thinking about it,
then
talking myself into it. “Sure,” I replied, shrugging casually. “Sounds like fun.”

“Are you sure you don’t have to work or so
mething?” Selena asked, hopeful.

“Not until dinner. Are you planning on going at four in the afternoon?”

She stiffened. 

“Of course not,” Carter answered for her. “We’ll go early.”

“I’m in, then.” I looked at Selena as I said this, expression screaming:
I never liked you
, but I’m not entirely certain she was perceptive enough to pick up on this. 

Carter pulls into my driveway around 10am on Saturday. When I pass through the living room, Mom is on the couch watching the Shopping Network. You’d think this
would be torture: watching a program that hawks items you could never, in a million years, afford. But Mom is
always
watching the shopping channels.

“I’m at the beach,” I tell her.

“Sunscreen?” she asks, not taking her eyes off the television.

“In my bag
.”

“Sunglasses?”

I roll my eyes.
“On my head.”
I reach up and touch them, just to make sure. “I’ll see you at Ernie’s.”

“Be careful,” she warns.

I open the front door and bounce down the steps. It surprises me, actually, how excited I am. A day in the sun
is exactly what I need, even if I have to spend it with Selena and Vivian.

“Hey,” I say, opening the passenger’s side door. I toss my tote bag to the floorboard and climb in.

“Hungry?” he asks.

“Not really,” I reply, reaching around to grab the seatbelt
. I’m not exactly a breakfast person . . . unless I’m eating it for dinner, apparently.

“I thought I’d grab us some sodas and snacks at the gas station, just in case,” he explains.

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

He backs out of the driveway and into the street.

A
lready, cars fill The Strip. The happy colors of the homes lining the side streets don’t seem quite so obnoxious in the spring air. Houses boarded up for the last six months are open. Women in bikini tops and visors and men with beer guts hanging over the
bands of their swim trunks occupy roof porches and huddle in driveways, catching up with neighbors after their extended coastline hibernation.

“Are you going to be able to swim with that thing?” Carter asks, nodding toward my cast.

I look down at my wris
t, still covered in what is now a dingy, gray cast. The edges are fraying, the inside perpetually damp, and though I keep spraying it with body spray, the funk never fully dissipates.

“Actually, I have no
intention of getting in the water today. I mean, it’s still early.” I think for a moment. “Not that the sun or sand will be good for it or anything.”

“When does it come off?” he asks.

“I have an appointment next week,
then
it goes in a wrist brace for a fe
w more weeks.”

“That’s good news. We should celebrate,” he says.

“Celebrate the day my hard cast comes off?” I ask, glancing over at him.

“Why not?”
He checks the rearview mirror and changes lanes. When I don’t respond, he clears his throat. “I actually h
ave something in mind.”

I slant a look sideways. “What?”

“There’s this thing.
At the club.
It’s some kind of Friends of the Library fundraiser. Basically there will be dresses and tuxedos, and a lot of drinking and dancing. It’s a reception and silent auct
ion. There’s food, a good band. . . . I don’t know.
Should be fun.”

“At the club?”
I ask, an eyebrow lifting in surprise.

“Yeah.”

“You said those things
weren’t
fun,” I remind him. I mean, how many times had he uttered those very words every time I
wasn’t
invited?

He clears his throat. “Well, maybe with you there it’ll be better.”

I turn back to the window and watch the sky: a bright, cloudless blue.

“I don’t have anything to wear,” I remind him.

“My mom has plenty of dresses. She said you could borrow one
of hers for the night. You two are close to the same size. Or . . . I could take you shopping,” he says. “It’s no big deal.”

I let out an extended exhale. This pushes back our whole “taking it slow,” thing. I mean, if we’re going out again. . . . “No. It’
s okay. I guess I can wear one of your Mom’s. I mean, if she offered.”

“So that means you’ll go?” he asks, gray eyes cautious.

“Yeah.
I mean, I have to check with my mom, but I’m sure it’s fine. When is it?”

“Saturday night. I’ll pick you up early. You ca
n get ready at my house.”

I’ll have to tell Ernie I can’t work the dinner rush. Maybe
Flavia
will cover for me, or I can pull a double shift on Sunday. I pull the visor down, then flip open the mirror cover. I tilt it up a bit, so I can see in the back sea
t. I fully anticipate finding Seth there, a mischievous grin on his face, ready to make a sarcastic remark, or roll his eyes. Knowing how he feels about Carter, I doubt he’ll be impressed with this new development.

The back, though, is empty.

*
             
*
             
*

The
beach is packed by the time we arrive. Selena and Vivian are already perched in their lounge chairs just behind the snaking line of debris from high tide. Our feet sink in the warm, white sand as we move toward them. I kick off my flip flops as soon as we
reach the dampened tide line and continue on, careful to avoid the jabs of broken shells brought in the night before.

“You made it,” Selena says. She flashes a bright smile, happiness directed solely at Carter.

“We’re here,” he replies. We spread our to
wels on the sand. I remove my shirt and slip off my shorts and sit down. My bathing suit is a year old.
Last season.
It’s tight in all the wrong places. I dare them to say something about it. The wind off the ocean whips my hair into my eyes. I remove my s
unglasses and re-adjust them on my head to keep it off my face.

I reach into my bag, find my sunscreen, and start slathering it on my arms and legs with my good hand.   

“Need help?” Carter asks.

“No, I’ve got it,”
I reply, wiping a lotion-filled palm across my stomach. “Thanks.”

I’m begging for splotches, but the last thing I need is Carter’s hands all over me.

Carter and Jason move in front of us and begin tossing a football. I lean back, head on my towel, feet b
uried in the sand. Despite the cool breeze, I can feel the sun’s rays penetrating the layer of sunscreen. My face warms and my skin tingles. I stifle a yawn.

“So what’s up with you and Carter?” Vivian asks.

I turn my head and open one eye. I assume she’s l
ooking at me behind those huge, bug-eyed sunglasses, but I’m not certain as they cover half her face. I close my eye and move back toward the sun.
“Nothing.
Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” she replies. “We just can’t quite figure out if you’re together or no
t.”

“That’s my business. Not yours,” I remind them.

“But you’re still going with him to the Friends of the Library Gala on Saturday,” Selena states. I look at her. “He told me all about his brilliant idea,” she goes on, rolling her eyes.
“Even thought I mi
ght be willing to loan you a dress, when he knows full well we are
not
the same size.”

A smile perches itself on the edge of my lips.
“Yeah.
I know. I don’t quite have the jiggle that you do, yet.”

She scoffs. “It’s such a waste. You’re completely below hi
m, and you don’t even
want
him,” she says bitterly.

“And yet . . . he picked me.” I stand, adjust my bathing suit top, and step away from my towel. Distracted, Carter misses Jason’s latest toss.  The football skitters end over end across the sand. He lung
es for it.

“Where you headed?” he asks, playing it off.

I brush the hair away from my eyes. “I just want to stick my feet in for a minute. I’ll be back.”

“What did you say to her?” I hear Carter ask as I move toward the water, maneuvering through the cro
wd. I pause, waiting for a dog-walker to pass, before stepping into the ocean. The water, travelling just above my ankles, is frigid. My feet are shocked alive with icy needles, then go numb.

I start walking, sinking with every step, feeling the pull of th
e sand underfoot as the water sucks it back to sea and spits it out again. I peer through the water, probing for shells as I make my way down the shoreline.

“Not much worth keeping is there?” a voice asks.

I look up, tucking my hair behind my ears so I can
see. There’s a guy—just a bit taller than me, with blonde hair that seems to want to curl, though it’s dripping with salt water. He’s wearing a wetsuit and dragging a surfboard. What strikes me the most, though, nearly rendering me speechless, are his pie
rcing blue eyes—like tropical seas: sharp and crystal clear.