Wander Dust (13 page)

::19::
First Time

I take in the faces of my new friends, registering their trepidation. The room darkens around us like a storm cloud has moved overhead. That’s when a strong hand clenches my shoulder. I pinch it up to my ear and look up, squinting through one eye. Terease towers over me, smiling. I cringe. My friends sit silenced by her presence.

“Sera, do you remember Sam?” She jerks the girl into view. Sam stumbles over her feet.

“Uh—yeah.” I fling Terease’s hand from my shoulder like an annoying bug. The table of students gasp behind me. Instantly, I realize that may have been a poor move on my part. Terease’s eyes narrow, but instead of burning me into cinders, she turns to Sam. “Sam,” she says sternly. Then she points between Macey and myself. “Sit!”

With her arms crossed, Sam shoves her way between us, making a place for herself.

Terease only smiles her evil smile and saunters away. She struts down the aisle. The darkness follows her, trailing like a shadowy cape. She surveys the students like the queen of a castle. Her arrogance makes me dislike her even more.

“What are you, a dog? You sit on command?” Agnes tries to joke with Sam.

Sam tenses. “Yes, very funny,” she replies formally.

Macey’s eyes meet mine, and then she goes in for more questioning. “So, Sam,” she says nonchalantly, twirling a curl around her finger, “what’s with Medusa?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sam says evasively. She grabs a menu, opens it, and engrosses herself in the choices.

“I know she’s the Harvester and all, but is she also a Seer, like you?” I ask.

Sam slowly rolls her head toward me. “Ah, no. An incorrect assumption on your part. How surprising.” She looks back at her menu but continues to talk. “She’s special, in a category all of her own.” It seems she only answers me because she can’t believe my stupidity.

Macey and I look at each other and shrug. We grab our own menus and let the subject drop. It’s easy to see that Sam isn’t going to talk.

Maybe Terease wants teams to sit together. At the thought, I scan the room for Bishop. He isn’t anywhere to be found. I sigh, knowing if he were here, he’d probably be sitting with Goldie Locks. I look over at her again. She stares at me with her cold, steel blue eyes and purses her lips.

Averting my own eyes, I ignore her and focus on my entrée choices.

In the dining room, food is served restaurant style. The choices are unlimited from home style cooking to sushi. I decide on dessert for dinner. My nerves are still unsettled from all the excitement, robbing me of my hunger. Blowing some calories on chocolate cake seems like a comforting idea.

Our group lingers, talking after our meals are finished. Even Sam lets down her guard, slightly, to chat here and there. After some time, the dining room empties except for a few staff.

I learn that Scarlett is a Wanderer and Agnes is her Seer, but they don’t have their Protector yet. They seem to be drawn to a boy at the west school. They feel he will be their Protector, but won’t be completely sure until Terease harvests him.

I guess that’s how Bishop knew to help me along. He and Sam must have seen me, felt a connection, and known that I would be joining them before I did. They knew before me. This fact annoys me because all this time I believed I was crazy.

Then there’s Stu. He also has the gift of wandering. His group includes Jessica, his Seer, and Perpetua, his Protector. Perpetua is the steely-eyed blonde with the attitude. And according to Macey, she dates Bishop. This also annoys me.

We take our small party to Macey’s apartment, two doors down from mine. I had unknowingly peeked into it earlier.
The main living room, similar to my own, has a large sectional sofa that surrounds a wall sized TV. Here, the colors are sage greens and cream.

“When was your first time?” Macey asks Xavier as she plops down on the sofa. I realize that if you hear the question out of context, you might not know she’s asking about his first time wandering.

“Actually, it’s kind of funny,” he sniffs. “I was at home, running down a hall into the kitchen. I ran to answer the house phone while I had scissors in my hand.” He laughs again. “Get it? I was running with scissors!” He snorts.

“Yeah, we get it,” Macey rolls her eyes. “Then what?”

“Then, out of nowhere, I was tumbling through a huge colorful wormhole with scissors,” he reminds us, acting out the tumbling as he rolls himself across the sofa next to Macey. “Then, I ended up at my Grandma’s house about a year before.”

“Why?” I ask.

“I suppose I was thinking of her at the moment I ran down the hall. Those thoughts acted as the keyword in my mind, sending me to her. It was kinda an overwhelming surprise to see her because she had just passed away. The scissors were hers and had migrated to our house with a lot of her stuff.”

“The best thing was,” he continues, “she wasn’t shocked to see me. She was a Wanderer herself. She sat me down and explained everything, and then she sent me back home. She said I could visit whenever I wanted!” Xavier says excitedly.

“You’re not supposed to wander until you’ve been trained,” Sam grumbles. I look over at her, shocked that she’s stuck around. She acts as though it’s torture to hang out with us.

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I can’t wait to start school. She made me promise that I wouldn’t visit again until I was better at it,” he says.

“Did you tell her that she died?” Agnes asks.

“Nah,” Xavier responds, trying to act cool. “It didn’t seem right to ruin the moment, ya know?”

“And it would have been illegal,” Sam quickly reminds him, citing a specific code from the Society of Wanderers handbook. I bet she has the entire thing memorized. I haven’t even seen one yet.

I’m a little jealous of Xavier, knowing he’s been to see someone he loves, someone who’s gone. I try to think positively, letting his story give me hope for what may lie ahead for myself.

Perpetua and Jessica strut through the open door of the apartment. “Stewie,” Perpetua says in a sappy, baby voice. “We’ve been looking for you!” They smile and drop down on the floor like they own the place. They look like twins with their matching silk blonde hair and blue eyes.

I exchange a look with Macey. Everyone seems shocked that the pair is gracing us with their presence because there’s an instant awkwardness. Everyone stops talking.

Stu rolls his eyes in annoyance and leans into me. “What about you, Sera?” he continues, breaking the silence. “When was your first time?”

He’s asking the same question, but there are sexual undertones. So I smack him hard on the knee. He recoils. “God, Sera, you know what I meant!” he says, whining like a baby.

“Well,” I say, “I wandered here, to the Academy, about twenty years ago or something.” I shrug and play with my shoelace.

“Twenty years? No way!” Stu says.

“Yeah, as far as I can tell from my surroundings.”

“I mean, it’s unheard of to wander that far back when you’re new,” Stu says. He tugs out his notebook and starts scribbling. Apparently, the idea is somehow noteworthy.

“Well, whatever. That’s what happened,” I say.

“How in the world did you end up here?” Macey seems intrigued.

“My Aunt Mona sent me a bracelet that belonged to my mother. I was running to class while trying to put it on and—
wham!
I landed out front, in the Academy courtyard,” I explain.

“So, your mother was there?” Perpetua asks tartly.

“Yeah—I mean, she went to school here also. She was a Wanderer.”

“You saw her?” Perpetua presses and crosses her arms as though she doesn’t believe me.

“Well, no. I just assume that’s why. I was thinking about her when I fell through the wormhole, and I was wearing her bracelet.” I’m getting angry.
Why would I lie, and why would she even care? I’ve never even talked to the girl!

“Did you ever ask her if she saw you that day? Or go back to see her?” she continues with an evil smirk.

“No, I didn’t. I mean—I couldn’t. I lost the bracelet after that, and she’s been dead for a long time.”

There. I’ve said it out loud. Now everyone knows. I’ve had to talk about Mom’s death twice now in just two days to people I’ve never met. A knot forms in my throat. I’m fighting my emotions, hoping they aren’t plastered across my face, but I know they are.

When I look at Perpetua, she’s smiling, nodding her head as though she knew all along, but asked regardless. Somehow she knew it would hurt me to think about my mom, to admit out loud that she’s gone.

When this registers, I stare at Perpetua with the same look she’s been giving me for the last two days
—s
tone cold witch.

Perpetua ignores me. She now looks pleased with herself as she stands up. Somehow, although I don’t know how, she seems to have won some kind of game against me. A game I didn’t know I was in. Without saying a single word, she spins, whipping her blonde hair behind her, leaves the apartment, and slams the front door.

“What was that about?” Macey asks. Everyone is staring at me, surely wanting to know the same thing.

I shrug, attempting to act indifferent.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Scarlett says in her soft, elfin voice. The rest of the group concurs with nodding heads and grunts.

After everyone returns to their video games and chatting, I slip out of the group. I’m still too upset by the confrontation. I need to be stronger. She’s nobody to me. Why are people so mean?

I know if I try to go to sleep now, upset, I’ll just toss for hours. So I take a stroll to the main atrium.

Gas lamps flicker orange hues on the marble walls. I drift in front of several colossal murals, finally letting go of what happened.

I wish I had paid attention to Gabe earlier when he explained the paintings’ meanings. They appear to be Baroque and Italian, from what I learned while living in Italy. Some remind me of the artist, Caravaggio, but I can’t be certain, as there are no plaques to label them.

I find myself lost in the expressions of the painted figures. My eyes slip toward the stairs. I jump back, startled by a human shadow leaning against a nearby wall, watching me.

::20::
Angels

The shadow moves toward me at a measured pace. My heart stops. For a moment, I wonder if any place is safe.

A flicker of light crosses his face. His cheeks raise slightly, revealing a dimple and accentuating his square chin. Then he smiles, less with his mouth and more with his eyes. They squint, forming up-side-down smiles. The perfect green eyes I’ve dreamed about disappear into a nest of thick lashes.

“Did I scare you?” his accented voice breaks the silence.

I shrug, trying to control my heart. “A little.” I feel flustered. My lips roll into a flat line.

“What are you doing out here so late?” he asks.

“I could ask you the same,” I say. Although it’s obvious Bishop has just come home. His cheeks are flushed pink from the cold weather. He slips off his coat and unwraps his scarf as he walks closer.

“I was out with my mum. I don’t get to see her often,” he says.

“Yeah, I know how that is.”

“Do you?” He acts surprised.

“Well, yeah—I mean, my dad actually. He’s always been there, but not really. He travels a lot. We moved a lot.” I’m not sure why I’m divulging this information. It’s like my mouth won’t shut up.

He nods, understanding.

“So, you’re being nice to me now?” I ask, but I quickly look down, instantly embarrassed.
Has he really been mean to me?

He looks around in an unsure manner. The moment is awkward because I can’t find the words to apologize, to thank him for saving me from the Grungy Gang, and for trying to tell me I’m a Wanderer.

He digs his hands into his pockets. He says nothing. I say nothing. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I be normal around him?

My gaze returns to the mural as I try to hide my feelings. I’m certain he will leave.

Bishop hesitates behind me, silent for several moments, as though he’s in contemplation, making a decision. The air pressure around me changes. Somehow, now it’s thicker, sweeter, something to be craved. I wrap my arms around myself and inhale.

After a moment, he speaks again, “I’m sorry about Sam.”

“What about her?” I ask. I stare at the painting. I won’t look at him. I won’t let him affect me.

“I know how she’s been with you. I mean, I can guess. She’s young, so I think being an overbearing know-it-all is her way of trying to fit in with the older kids. Sometimes she overcompensates, but it’s just her way of coping.”

“That’s pretty much how she’s acting.” I shrug. It must be hard to be so young in high school.

He clears his throat. “This is a Michelangelo Caravaggio.” He steps forward, gesturing toward the painting I stand nearest.

“That’s what I thought,” I respond too quickly. There’s an unexplained sense of competition between us. Maybe I have a little of what Sam has also.

“He was a master of painting chiaroscuro, the modeling of images with light and dark,” he explains.

“This painting is the scene from our beginnings. Do you know the story?” he asks.

I want to say no, so he will linger longer and tell me, but I don’t. I can’t let him think that he knows more than me. “Yeah,” I nod. “I heard it yesterday.”

I assumed the painting and the story were one in the same. A golden obelisk stands in a field of grain. The Nile water flows nearby. A King stands front and center. Two field workers at his feet, kneel with harvest baskets. Geometric sunrays beat down from a cloudless sky. The painting, so large, so real, makes me want to walk right into it. Maybe one day, I will. I fathom the thought.

I look away, and Bishop’s eyes meet mine. A physical reaction occurs within me. It urges me toward him. I shiver and try to hold my ground. I wrap my arms tighter around myself as though they will anchor me to my spot.

“What about this one? Do you know the story here?” he asks, pointing to another painting.

“No.” I shake my head, telling the truth.

“Well then,” he says with a timid smile, “we’ll have to remedy that.” He steps behind me and places his hand on my shoulders. In an instant, warmth circulates at the point of contact. With the floodgates open, energy surges between us like an electrical field. He navigates me back against the marble railing, positioning us at the center of the mural, farthest away for the best view.

With the entire scene before me, in the silence and delicate, flickering light, he speaks softly.

“This oil was painted by Leonardo Da Vinci,” he says.

“What does it mean?” I ask, inspecting it.

“I saw the Lord sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up; and His train filled the temple. Above Him stood the seraphim; each had six wings: with two he covered his face, and with two he covered his feet, and with two he flew.”

I look back at him, confused.

“It’s a passage from the Bible, Isaiah 6:1–3,” he says.

“Oh.”

“The seraphim angel pictured here is of the highest guard of angels. Her volition is to protect God and His kingdom.”

I look again at the angel with dark flowing hair and three sets of wings. Her flawless skin glows soft like alabaster. Black words scroll across each set of wings, along with simple symbols. The symbols are like tattoos, if wings could have them. A gleaming kingdom sits in the background. Green earth wraps convexly below her wing covered feet.

“Our people descended from many cultures, and therefore, we are depicted in various folklore and religions,” he says.

“You’re saying we might be time traveling angels? I laugh a little. “Are you going to tell me we’re aliens too?” I ask.

“Well that painting is around the corner, but it’s not nearly as interesting.”

I look back over my shoulder at him, raising my eyebrows. He smiles, but I think he’s serious. I look forward, searching the painting for answers.

“What are the symbols there on each wing?” I point.

“Each set of wings represents one of the God given gifts. The middle set represents the Wanderer. Here you can see the Wandering symbol.” He waves his hand toward the tattoo. “A set of wings.” It’s a simplified pictograph.

“The top set of wings represents the Seer. Their symbol is there.” He points over my shoulder to a symbol of an open eye, reminding me of an Egyptian hieroglyph.

“And lastly, of course, is the Protector. Our symbol is a coiled scorpion,” he points, his arm grazing mine.

“If this is true, what happened to our wings?” I ask.

“The remnants are still with you,” he whispers. His fingertip slips down my shoulder and slowly traces the large bone on my upper back. I shiver. I pray he didn’t feel it, but I’m sure he did. Behind me, I think I hear his lips crack into a smile.

“The scapula bone, it’s shaped like a wing. That’s where our wings were attached before God stripped them from us.”

“Why would he do that?” I ask quietly.

“The short story is that we needed to be punished for sharing our secrets with the Normals.” There’s a pause as his finger lingers on my back.

“She’s quite a special angel.” His thoughts return to the painting. “She bears all three gifts.”

“Is that possible?”

“I believe that anything is possible.” I turn to look at him. His eyes search mine silently, asking me something I can’t decipher. I blush, face hot, and turn forward again.

“We’re learning more about ourselves every day and evolving in new ways,” he says.

He walks from behind me. His footsteps echo in the atrium. Then he stops and faces me. We stand, eyes locked on each other for several seconds. Finally he reaches down to brush his hand to my face, letting his fingers drift to the beauty marks on my cheek. He touches each one delicately, as though he might accidentally move one.

“This painting could have been your portrait,” he muses, letting his gaze roll across my features.

He leans down to my ear. My heart lurches out of my chest. His cheek grazes mine, and he whispers. His warm breath radiates around my neck, sending tingles racing down my back. All I want to do is reach out and hold him.

“And the painting—it bears your name,” he says my name slowly, gently, letting it roll from his lips, while annunciating each syllable. “Se-ra-phi-na.”

It’s as though I have never heard my own name before. The sound, so beautiful, so sweet, makes me close my eyes to hear it again in my mind. I inhale, holding my breath at the top of my chest. Being so close to him is like being under water. Submerged with the current pulling me deeper, farther out, and uncontrolled.

My eyes flutter open, and he’s gone.