The Vision (9 page)

chapter 12

The closest Greek Orthodox church was ten miles away, coincidentally in Demetria's school district. I'd been surprised when Petra said she was so close to us—I guess I expected her to live near the hospital in the city—and it made me wonder again about her and Zander. Did he know her? Was it really him I saw at Vauxhall? The idea of the two of them—knowing she was pregnant—stirred up all kinds of weird emotions, none of them pleasant.

Ryan was waiting on the steps of the funeral home. I figured we'd take the bus to the church since that's how I always got around, but Ryan looked at me like I was nuts when I mentioned it.

“No, I'll drive,” he said.

“You have a car?”

He smiled, very amused. “Where are you from exactly?”

I felt my face grow warm. Of course he had a car. Liv's friend told her his house was huge. Death must be very profitable. Then again, I had plenty of money too, thanks to Nan. A car just seemed like a hassle I didn't need.

I shrugged. “I've just never seen you driving. You're always already here. I guess I assumed you got around the same way I do. My bad.”

Turned out Ryan has a very nice car, low and sporty, with soft tan leather seats and butt warmers. He turned on both mine and his as we got in.

“You see my dad and Mr. Ludwig in there?” he asked, pulling smoothly away from the curb.

“Yeah, but I just tossed my stuff in the locker and left. Do they know we're … going to church?”

“Together?” He smiled, reading into my hesitation. “I don't think so. Does it matter?”

“No.” And yes. I still felt a little weird about being here with him, blurring the lines between work and whatever this was, but Ryan seemed completely at ease. Maybe I was overthinking things. I changed the subject. “So what do your friends think about your job?”

He laughed. “They think it's weird. Also bizarre, morbid, gross, you name it.” Ryan shrugged. “Doesn't really bother me. I can't imagine doing the stuff they do to earn money—working at the mall or McDonald's or whatever. So boring.”

“I totally agree.” Liv would love TREND, but it wasn't for me. For a variety of reasons.

He glanced over, still grinning. “Death is fascinating, isn't it?”

“You know,” I said, “saying stuff like that will only make your friends think you're more bizarre.”

“Do you think I'm bizarre?”

“Yes.”

His grin got bigger. “But you're okay with that.”

“I asked you to church, didn't I?”

“Maybe you're trying to reform me.”

“Yup,” I said, smiling now too. “You got me.”

Ryan talked about school, a bike race he was training for, college plans for next year. He was decidedly normal, despite his preoccupation with death. Kind of like me.

We hurried through a packed parking lot and made it into church five minutes before the service started. Inside, the air was thick with musky incense. And warm. Bodies filled nearly every row all the way to the railing between them and the raised altar backed by a wall of gold-leaf icons.

I felt a hundred eyes on me as we walked down the aisle, slipping into the first empty space about halfway down.

The ceremony started, voices drifting solemnly through the church, priests in heavy robes chanting as they walked slow, measured steps, swinging a golden ball that leaked perfumed smoke as they went.

I'd read about this in Ryan's books the night before. The incense symbolized prayers rising to God. Lots of prayers, it seemed. Greek Orthodoxy is a branch of the Catholic church, with many of the same beliefs and sacraments. There are small differences like the incense, use of icons instead of statues, and, more significant, the absence of purgatory. It's either straight to heaven or hell for the Greeks.

The part I was
really
interested in, of course, was how the shift from gods and goddesses to a single God happened; one myth traded for another. Sixteen hundred years ago, the emperor declared the Greeks' religion—what we call mythology—illegal, I'd read, punishable by fines, imprisonment, and death.

It'd be like me telling Ryan the sky was red, and if he didn't believe it, I'd kill him. He'd probably agree it was red, even pass it on to his children so they'd be safe. His children would repeat it to theirs and so on until one day everyone in the world believed the sky was red.

Doesn't mean it is. Just like it doesn't mean the myths weren't true.

I scanned the crowd around me, people chanting in unison. Whatever their history, they definitely seemed to believe the sky was red now.

And then I saw him, across the church, two rows behind, alone, not chanting, and staring right at me.

Definitely not a look-alike. Zander.

He winked.

I turned my head, quickly enough that Ryan looked over. “You okay?” he whispered.

I nodded, feeling my face burn, and fixed my eyes on the prayer book, though it was impossible to focus on the words or the service. I'd been avoiding Zander at school in a passive-aggressive sort of way: forcing myself not to look toward his locker, but still walking past that hall. Purposely facing the other way at lunch, aware of him behind me the whole time. We hadn't spoken since that night outside the theater and I knew I needed to concentrate on Demetria and figuring out the mark, but I was having a hard time erasing the memory of us standing inches apart, my hair tangled around his fingers the way he seemed twisted throughout my thoughts. He was everywhere I was, even when—as at Vauxhall—he really wasn't. I didn't want to want him. But I did. I couldn't help it.

I was on edge the rest of the service, not allowing myself to look back at Zander and overly aware of Ryan beside me. I still didn't know exactly what I thought of Ryan, but I knew I didn't want to face Zander with him there.

We filed out of the church at the end way too slowly. I kept waiting for Zander's approach, willing myself invisible. Ryan noticed.

“Why so jumpy?”

“I'm not jumpy,” I said, glancing to the left.

“No?”

When we reached the foyer, Ryan turned up his collar against the cold and decided to let it be. “C'mon,” he said, tugging gently on my sleeve, ready to weave through the final press of people. “We've gotta hurry or we'll be stuck in this parking lot forever.”

chapter 13

I finally got up the nerve to approach Nick Altos on Tuesday. After days of watching him slink through the halls, I walked into the library and saw him alone at one of the tables in back. It was kismet.

I pretended to look at the volumes shelved behind him, mostly on the human body, which I'd seen quite enough of at work. Nick was reading a magazine, something about electronics, pinching at his lips from time to time, deep in thought. His dark hair was shaggy, but his jeans and gray long-sleeved tee were clean and neat. I felt a small relief that he looked more or less normal, holding it together pretty well.

I grabbed a book and slid into the chair across from him. “Okay if I sit here?”

He looked up and his eyes showed what his clothes masked: a deep, hooded melancholy. Nick shrugged, returning to his magazine, but his concentration was broken. I decided not to let him get it back.

“Nick?”

He looked up, surprised.

“I just wanted to say I heard about your dad and I'm really sorry.”

He frowned. “What do you care? You didn't know him, don't know me.”

I nodded, trying not to be bruised by his anger. “My grandmother died last year,” I said. “I lived with her after my parents passed away when I was little. You're right, I don't know you, but I remember how hard it was for me right after.” Nick was looking down and I couldn't tell at all how he was feeling. “Anyway, I just wanted to say I'm sorry. And I think you're brave to be back here so soon.”

I held my breath, hoping he wouldn't freak out on me.

“Where else would I be?” he muttered. “Not much good sitting around the house.”

It was a small opening. “Yeah, that's kind of the conclusion I came to also,” I said carefully.

His head still bent, Nick reached up and wiped angrily at his eyes.

“Were you close to him?” I all but whispered it. Partly because we were in the library, but more because I was afraid I was way overstepping my bounds. I wasn't even sure Nick knew my name.

He didn't respond. I was pretty sure he'd heard me, but when a minute passed and still nothing, I wondered if I was wrong. “Nick …”

His head snapped up and he glared at me. “I heard you.”

I winced. “Sorry, I just …” I had no idea what to say. I was afraid I'd blown it.

Nick's eyes cut away from me as the librarian walked past, her arms loaded with books for reshelving. When he turned back, his expression was blank. “I hung up on him the last time he called,” he said bluntly.

I waited.

“I'm sure you've heard. He was a deadbeat. A druggie, thief, no-good bastard. That's what my mom's said for years.” Nick looked down, quiet for a few seconds, then quickly wiped a sleeve across his face.

“But he was still your dad,” I said.

He looked back at me, his eyes teary. “Yeah.” Nick took a ragged breath. “He was still my dad.”

“Someone said he'd gone through rehab …”

Nick snorted. “About seven times.”

“It never stuck?”

“Nope,” Nick said, adding softly, “never will now.” He paused, studying his hands as he said, “I used to daydream about what it would be like if he'd ever, you know, stayed clean.” He shook his head. “Not sure what the point of that was.”

“Maybe just thinking good things about him?”

Nick's face smoothed a little. “Yeah.” He nodded. “Maybe.”

“What was he like?”

“When he was clean? Great. Fun. When he was off the wagon? Not so much,” Nick said flatly.

“Did you ever feel … I don't know … like there was anything different this time? That the rehab might stick?” I asked it fast, hoping he wouldn't think too hard about why I was probing the way no normal person would. But I could tell his thoughts were somewhere else.

Nick bit his lip self-consciously before answering. “My mom says I'm hopelessly hopeful about him. It's okay, as long as I don't kid myself about what he did to us.” I could almost hear his mom's voice, harsh, no longer the sunny-faced woman in Jackson Kennit's bedside photo. “But I don't know. There
was
something different this time. He was working. Not just for a week or two, but for months. He had an apartment …” Nick trailed off.

I thought about that tidy apartment, the way Jackson Kennit had gone home, gone to bed, gone to work. A responsible, ordinary life. Probably not so ordinary for a former addict. I wanted to tell Nick that and how his dad had held the bus for the lady and her son coming across the street, maybe thinking about his own son. But, of course, I couldn't.

“My mom was probably right,” he said dismissively.

I looked across the table, the pain so clear on Nick's face, and had to blink to keep my own tears back. I had made him feel this way. I let his dad die. And for what? Some crazy idea that if I saved him a little boy might die in his place?

“This might not help much,” I started, straining to keep my voice steady. I needed to offer him something, some small atonement. “But I think it's okay to believe the best about people, especially after they're gone. I didn't know your dad, but I bet he loved you and, however your last conversation with him went, I bet he knew you loved him, too.”

Nick was silent and I winced, sure he was going to ream me out for going off like I was some kind of authority on his feelings or his dad's. A minute that felt like a hundred passed quietly and I finally hazarded a glance up.

He was biting his lip again and looking down at the table.

I stood, collecting my things as quickly and smoothly as I could, my face burning with shame and guilt.

I had taken only a step, on tiptoes, wishing for an invisibility cloak, when Nick said, “Hey.”

He reached out and his hand brushed my arm so lightly I saw rather than felt his touch whisper across the sleeve of my sweater. His eyes held mine for just the second it took him to say “Thanks.”

I nodded and left him alone at the table, wishing I felt like I deserved it.

I trudged through the rest of the day in a funk, barely able to be glad when it was over. Liv found me at one point, bounding down the hall, positively giddy. TREND had just called—she'd gotten the job. I forced a smile and congrats. Fortunately, she was too excited to notice how weak both were.

I'd taken my cell out of my backpack after leaving Nick at the library, thinking I'd text Jack. It was purely instinct. I couldn't really tell him why I was upset, even if I felt desperately that he might be the one person whose reassurance could help me feel less like a monster. The delicate weight of the phone pulled on my pocket now as I stood by my locker after last bell, mindlessly wrapping a scarf around my neck. I didn't even notice Zander standing two feet away until the kid next to me, some freshman with shiny braces, slammed his door shut and clomped off.

“Hey,” Zander said, leaning casually against the wall of lockers.

My heart could hardly muster an extra
thump-thump.
He was hot as ever, but the weight of what I'd done to Nick sapped me of the patience for boy-girl games. “Hey.” I shrugged on my wool coat and nudged the locker door closed.

“I saw you at church with your boyfriend.”

I looked up at him and frowned. This was exactly the kind of b.s. I wasn't in the mood for. “He's not my boyfriend.”

“No?” A small smile teased the corners of Zander's lips.

“No,” I answered firmly. “We work together. He's a friend.”

“Hmm,” Zander said, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully, looking smug and superior. “I wonder if he'd say the same thing.”

I didn't answer. This was a pointless conversation that I wasn't going to prolong. I turned my back on him and started walking.

“So,” he said, trailing me down the hall. “What were you doing at my church?”

“The same thing as you,” I said, not looking at him. “Singing, praying, kneeling. You know, worshipping God and all.”

“Yes. I saw that,” he said, taking two long strides and stepping in front of me, so that I almost bumped into him. “What I meant is: why? You don't go to my church.”

I crossed my arms, staring up at him and hating the way my pulse raced even though he was appallingly arrogant. “How do you know? Maybe you've just never seen me there before.”

“Oh, my mistake. So do you go to my church?”

“No.” I flushed slightly. “But I
am
Greek. It
is
the kind of church I'd go to. You don't own the rights to it, you know.”

I started walking again, maneuvering around Zander, who neatly stepped to the side and matched my pace. He walked uncomfortably close. Or maybe too comfortably close. “Didja like it?”

I shot him a quick, wary look, but it seemed like a genuine question. “It was interesting,” I said, electing a genuine answer. “I didn't notice anyone with you. Do you go alone?”

“Sometimes,” Zander answered vaguely. “How was it interesting?”

“Well …” I didn't know much about Zander, but people are touchy about their beliefs, even people you'd never expect to care. “There was a good feeling,” I told him carefully, realizing only as I spoke how true it was. “In the group, the community, I guess. It felt … comfortable, like I belonged, kind of.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I've never spent much time with Greeks. Back in Pennsylvania, you know, it was just me and my grandmother. She didn't go to church …” I was rambling. Like an idiot. “Anyway,” I said, more decisively, “that part was nice.”

“But …?”

“Well, some of the ceremony and the outfits and the church itself, the … decorations or whatever you call it …”

“The icons? The gold? The crosses?”

“Yeah, all of that. It's a bit much.”

“You think?” He smiled impishly and I couldn't help but smile back. His grin made me feel warm and a little light-headed, the way I'd always felt around Jack, except that there was something protective about Jack. Zander felt nearly the opposite of safe.

“Do you go every week?” I asked, waving as we passed Erin at her locker. She stared at us, her eyebrows raised.

“No,” Zander said. “Only when I feel like it.”

“Isn't that a sin?” The Orthodox, like the Catholics, were strict about the rituals.

“I suppose it is,” he said, smirking devilishly. “Certainly not my first.”

I couldn't tell if it was just me or if everything he said was laced with innuendo, but my face felt too hot again. We'd reached the doors at the end of the hall that led to the rear exit of the school. I heard them rattle, felt the chilled air through the crack, and tightened my coat around me. “Well,” I said, giving Zander a quick smile. “I'll see you.”

“Let me give you a ride home.”

“Oh, that's okay,” I said way more casually than I felt. “Thanks, though.” I took a step toward the door, already knowing he wasn't going to let me go.

“What? Are you afraid of me?”

There was a playfulness in his voice, but something else underneath. Something that told me maybe I
should
be afraid. Of the way people talked about him, the things they called him. Demetria flashed, unwarranted, in my thoughts. “Should I be?” I faced him, folding my arms across my chest.

His eyes were locked on mine and, though he was smiling, it seemed false, his real feelings and thoughts kept somewhere deeper, where I suspected very few people were allowed. “What would you be afraid of ?” he asked softly.

It struck me as a bigger question, as if he meant in the totality of the universe, not fears about him, but about life.

Before I could answer, Zander said, “C'mon.” He walked past me, turning to wait at the door. “It's freezing out. Way too cold to walk.”

I hesitated for one more second, Demetria caught in my mind, not because I thought he was involved with her, but because it had just occurred to me that maybe he knew her. For real. From church or something. And if he did, he could tell me things about her that might help. That was all the excuse I really needed.

“Okay.” I shrugged, following him to the door and forgetting to ask how he knew that I walked to school.