True Intentions (6 page)

I trot down the dirt drive, taking in the forest. The gravel feels strange under my feet. Back in Chicago, I ran on pavement. Gravel feels completely different, as different as walking on a treadmill versus walking outdoors. As I finish my warm up, a sudden realization hits me. I forgot to grab my iPod. I never go running without it. No worries.

My surroundings have enough going on to keep me entertained. Layers of mature trees clumped together along the entire driveway. I stroll along, picking up my pace to a steady, comfortable level. The driveway curves slightly to the right until it hits the road.

I turn east to maximize the light coming from the sunrise.

I jog for about half a mile or so, then approach another jogger heading my direction. From this distance I can tell the jogger is male, wearing black basketball shorts and a dark gray or black, hooded sweatshirt with the hood up. The sweatshirt covers most of his face. He is on the opposite side of the road and moving at a significantly greater speed than I am. As the distance between us grows shorter, I start to feel uncomfortable, although I'm not quite sure why.

Maybe it's the Unabomber-look this stranger has going on?

Chills go down my spine as I get a weird feeling he's been watching me.

When did he take notice of me?

I'm apprehensive contemplating these thoughts, and then my uneasiness grows.

He abruptly switches over to running on my side of the road. We're almost at the point of reaching each other; maybe six yards remain between us. Even more bizarre, he stops directly in front of me, obstructing my way. My eyes grow wide in horror, and my lips tremble uncontrollably. A small drop of sweat rolls down the back of my neck. I'm getting awfully close to crapping my pants.

I wish I had taken the self-defense classes offered back in Chicago. They may come in handy right about now.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. His voice is cold. He stands motionless, demanding an answer.

I look up at his covered face and feel weak in the knees when I see teal eyes!

It's him, my mysterious classmate from yesterday . . . .
Is this some sick dream?

"Excuse me?" My mind spins.

He's actually talking to me!

"I said . . . . What
are
you doing here?" he repeats more slowly, like he was speaking to someone learning disabled. His impatience leaks out in his tone.

What
right
does he have to be angry at me for jogging? Does he own this road or something?

"I heard you," I bark back, confused why his attitude is getting me worked up. I purse my lips tightly together as my face flushes to a beet red.

"Listen . . . ." His voice still sounds angry, but then he turns to look over his shoulder. His voice drops a few octaves as he continues. "You need to head back home.

It's not safe for you to be out here . . . .
Alone,
I mean."

"How do you know what's safe for me?" I question, not taking his advice seriously. After all, this place has to be safer than running in Chicago for Pete's sake.

Okay, now I'm sounding like my grandfather.

"Can you just trust me?" he pleads. "Just give me the benefit of the doubt."

He glances over his shoulder as if he's hurrying. There's a seriousness in his narrowed eyes that makes me gulp the lump sitting in my throat. He takes a step back from me, his jaw suddenly clenching.

I want to press the issue—ask more questions. But I stop before any words leave my mouth. I nod grudgingly and back away from him.

He turns slowly, but maintains eye contact with me for another moment, and then takes off running east. As his silhouette disappears, I turn the rest of the way around and sprint back to my grandparent's log cabin. The terror is excruciating. My heart is beating like it will rip out of my chest.

Why was he so avid to keep me from continuing on my path?

Why was he dressed so conspicuously?

What is going on?

Did I interrupt something?

I feel nauseated like I did when I first saw him yesterday. Maybe it's from hyperventilating. He didn't even seem to notice my existence yesterday in English class, but today he's yelling at me to go home like we're old buddies.

It doesn't make sense.

I make it to the house in record speed. Sweat rolls down my backside. I run inside, slamming the door behind me. My shoes, extremely wet from the morning dew, are cold and irritating. I struggle to get them off, unsure if it's the cold shoes or my nerves causing me to quiver uncontrollably. I kick them along the side of the door, then I rip off the parka with the full, unopened water bottle in the zipped pocket, and toss it on the hardwood floor. I walk briskly upstairs to grab some clean clothes, and then dart back downstairs to jump in the shower.

Even before the water has a chance to warm up, I'm inside and closing the shower curtain. I stare blankly at the tile, trying to make sense of what happened. The water feels cool, yet refreshing. Typically, I hate cold water. I turn the hot water as high as I can tolerate, hot enough it feels as though my skin is falling off. I lather up, wishing I had pried more instead of just shutting up. I should have demanded he explain his reason for all this. But once again, I just headed home, never questioning his intentions.

I'm such a wimp. Just like yesterday when I couldn't muster up the courage to ask him his stupid name.

Maybe he isn't so out of line to talk to me like I'm mentally disabled.

I finish washing my hair, quickly turn off the water, and jump out. I dry off and head to my bedroom, desperate to find something cute to wear to school today. It has to be something attractive, just in case he decides to do some explaining after all.

After taking an eternity to pick an outfit, I rush downstairs for breakfast.

"Hey there, Pea," my grandpa slurps out, in between two short sips of coffee.

He's reading the morning paper's classified section, helping my mom with her house hunt. The classified section in Lake Arrowhead's newspaper is much smaller than back home.

I stare blankly at the back of his paper until something on the front page catches my attention.

My eyes widen in disbelief. The article "Hiker Reports Sexual Assault in Local Woods Monday" is in big, bold letters. My heart nearly stops.

I try to not reach up and grab the paper out of his hands, but force myself to take a few slow, deep breaths and ask, "Grandpa, would I be able to look at the paper when you're finished?"

"What section do you want, Pea?"

"I can start with section A," I say nonchalantly Once again my act is priceless.

"Sure thing," he says, and hands me the first section with the front-page article on the assault. It reads:

A local 22-year-old female Lake Arrowhead resident reported to Police that she was
sexually assaulted by a man, described to be a white male, between 18-35 years old on Monday
morning. This attack occurred between the hours of 5:00 a.m. and 7:00 a.m. on a running path
behind Three Dog Bakery on Highway 189. The victim, whose name has not been released by
authorities, stated her assailant grabbed her from behind as she walked with her Golden
Retriever. Lake Arrowhead Police are looking for witnesses or anyone with additional
information.

Once again, my heart almost stops.

Is my mysterious classmate a rapist?

Chapter Six - Overwhelmed

A lump sits in the back of my throat. I want to puke. Could he really be a rapist?

I didn't want to think of him that way. After all, he could practically get any girl to have sex with him.

Why would he, of all people, need to rape?

And if he is the rapist the police are looking for, then why did he send me away and not assault me?

Was I close to becoming an eyewitness, or was I just not his "type"?

Nothing makes sense, and now I may know too much.

That brings up another question—as if I don't have enough already.

Am I in any danger?

I put down the paper. I've read enough.

A thought about emailing Mallory and giving her the latest update on this morning's events to get a second opinion enters my mind, but I decide to wait until after school today.
After
I've had a chance to get Mr. Mysterious alone and see what he is willing to tell me. I really need to hear from him first.

* * * * *

The ride to school seems to take longer than yesterday. There isn't any added traffic or anything out of the ordinary, but I feel paranoid as if I might be followed down these winding roads of the mountain community. The idea of being all alone where no one could hear me scream puts a chill down my spine. I feel a strange yet unexplainable, eerie sense of danger, although I'm not sure why.

I pull into a parking space in the back of the lot. All of the good parking spaces are already taken. I do a quick glance around. My engine sputters to a stop, and I leap out. I hastily grab my green backpack and lock the Jeep's door. I'm wearing my tall, chestnut, Sherpa boots over my skinny jeans and sporting a tight, pale green and tan, striped sweater. My mousy, brown hair is resting past my shoulders, instead of my typical ponytail.

I walk as swiftly as humanly possible across the lot and turn the corner past an extended-cab, white Suburban. I stop mid-stride and stare at the male figure standing in front of me.

"Hey Christmas," Jack exclaims, stepping out from behind the Suburban, practically causing me to crap in my pants.

"Asshole" I curse under my breath. I glare with narrowed eyes, "You nearly scared the crap out of me. Don't you ever sneak up on me like that again,
ever!
"

Jack starts to laugh. "What's wrong? Did you think I was a grizzly or something?"

He snorts between breaths from laughing.

"Actually, I thought you were the ugliest girl I've ever seen. That is why I was so scared," I say, trying to keep the mood light. Maybe then, he won't wonder why I am so paranoid today.

"Ouch . . . that hurt, Christmas"

I giggle then smile sheepishly. "So, why are you sneaking up on me to begin with?"

"I thought you may want to sit with me and my friends at lunch. You can bring your friend, Sara," he offers in a cautious voice, almost anticipating my rejection.

"Lunch . . . uh sure, that will work." I answer with the assumption Sara is willing to have lunch with me to begin with. I worry if she'll even be comfortable sitting with Jack and his group of guys. Especially since she drools so intensely over Jack.

I walk with him toward the front doors of the school while wondering what Sara will think about the lunch invitation.

"Cool. See you then," he says, waving bye. His demeanor is different. He's overly confident. He smiles at me one last time before running up ahead to the group of guys waiting by the doors.

As I watch him, I try to regain focus.

Oh . . . it finally hit me like being smacked with a two-by-four
.

It's obvious to me now. Jack may like me in the "more than a friend" kind of way.

I go through all the signs in my mind and can't believe I'd never thought of it before. I believed he was just being nice. Now I worry I may have given the wrong impression.

Great . . . . How am I going to get out of this one?!

I sound like an arrogant, stuck-up, California Barbie girl—the same type of girl I have no desire to resemble.

Have I taken time to consider maybe Jack is just a nice guy with no hidden agenda?

As I contemplate theories on Jack's true intentions, I feel guilty for being so presumptuous about his feelings. Lake Arrowhead is already rubbing off on my personality. At this rate, I'll end up getting highlights in my hair by the end of this first week.

I find my way to Sociology without incident, without crashing into anyone or getting lost in this rat maze of a high school. I go to the back of the class where I find an empty chair. Ginger is gossiping to some other girl, but I can't remember the girl's name from the class introductions yesterday. But I recognize the topic of interest—the victim who was sexually assaulted in the woods Monday morning.

"It was Jessica Albert, a waitress at the lodge," Ginger whispers. "I heard she actually went to work yesterday after the assault. Can you believe it?"

The other girl flips her hair over her shoulder after nodding in disgust, and then Ms. Gingritch starts her Sociology lecture, abruptly stopping their conversation. I try to focus on the lecture, but my mind keeps racing to what I will say to
him
when I get to English class. I rehearse the situation in vivid detail in my mind—over and over—while Ms. Gingritch talks about American social classes and educational influences. The bell rings loudly, and butterflies once again appear in my empty stomach.

I walk to English, my heart racing in anticipation. I can feel my own heartbeat pulsing strongly in my ears. The closer I get to the classroom, the more my hand trembles. When I pull open the wood door, I see him sitting in his usual seat, looking out the window rather than in his English book.

I approach slowly, trying to maintain my composure.

Breathe, Ava, breathe.

I sit in the seat in front of him and look at him for a reaction or acknowledgement of my existence.

Nothing . . . .

He doesn't move his eyes from whatever is so intriguing outside. In my world, he is what I find to be captivating. I don't care what's outside this classroom.

"Hi," I whisper, my voice cracking uncontrollably. "I'm Ava O'Brian; I don't think we have officially met yet."

He turns his jaw ever so slightly, and his amazing, teal blue eyes instantly meet mine. His response shocks me. I didn't prepare myself for this.

"I know who you are!" he growls, and then turns back to looking out the window.

Is he serious? Is he going to be a complete jerk to me?

This is bullshit!

I feel my already racing heart kick it up a notch or two.