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  At some point in the evening, Jamie gets Tex and me into the car. I'm able to walk straight, but I'm so tired my eyes can barely stay open. I think I remember Tex yelling something about not breaking her shoes, but it's hard to tell. Her voice is all slurry and she's mumbling. She always mumbles when she drinks.

  Jamie drives me home, and I'm so tired I nearly fall asleep in the truck.

  “How was the party?” My mother's curled up on the couch when I get home. I'm surprised to see her awake. Of course I knock over her purse and spill everything out on the floor in my attempt to be quiet.

  “What are you doing up?” I say, picking up a tube of lipstick and a wad of tissues.

  “Couldn't sleep. I'm watching Ever After.” She has a bowl of popcorn on the couch with her, as if she's been waiting for me. I'm sweaty and exhausted and I want to go to bed, but I sit down next to her.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  She pauses the movie and then starts it from the beginning. I stink of alcohol and cigarettes, but I snuggle under her arm. She kisses the top of my head.

  “Did you have a good time?”

  “Not as good as Tex.” Her fingers tangle themselves in my hair.

  “That girl needs to slow down.”

  “I tell her that every time. She doesn't listen.”

  When Tex and I started going to parties when we hit high school, Mom smiled and told me to call her if I ever needed a ride. She's an odd mix of overprotective for some things and lax on others. Partying is one thing she's never seemed to mind, like it’s one of those rights of passage. She trusts me enough to let me make my own decisions because I'll never do something that will make her ashamed of me. I've never come home wasted.

  I only make it through a few minutes before I fall asleep with her stroking my hair and humming in my ear.

  I wake in the middle of the night, my alcohol buzz gone. The buzz in my head isn't, thoughts flying around so fast I can't keep up with them. The only thing they hold on to is that memory of looking into those eyes. I can't say what color they are. It doesn't matter. I want to see him again. He'd had another chance to do whatever it was they were going to do last time, and he hadn't.

  So, um, that means I can go back and see if he's there, right? I can't stop thinking about him, like a song I can't get out of my head I need to listen to him on repeat to break the spell. If he's not there, then I can stop thinking about him. I have to get it out of my system, one way or another.

  The drive takes longer, because I'm too busy telling myself how insane this is to focus on my driving. It's unlikely it is that this weird guy has been camped out in a cemetery for several days, waiting to see if I'll come back. The chances are slim.

  ~^*^~

  This time I bring a flashlight, using it like a search beam to scan the cemetery. I think I'm alone until something appears.

  “You're still here,” I say, nearly falling down as my flashlight beam bounces over him. He turns around at the sound of my voice.

  It's a cold night and I can see my breath in the beam of the flashlight, like smoke. I have to wrap my arms around myself to stop from shaking, I'm so freaking cold.

  “I am,” he says. “So are you.” The light jumps in my shaking hand. So much for being confident. Keeping the beam on his dirty feet is the best I can do to minimize my freak out.

  “I guess I have no self-preservation instincts.” I want to sit down, because standing is awkward, but I don't want to be the one sitting when he's standing. So I just continue to fidget awkwardly. “I thought you were going to... um...” I can't say kill yourself.

  “Yes. But I did not.”

  There's a pause as I question all the ways this is a bad life decision.

  “What changed your mind?” That's it, I'm officially insane. I'm standing in a cemetery, discussing suicide in the middle of the night with some guy who kind of saved me from his creepy brother who might have tried to rape or kill me.

  “It was not the right time.”

  “So what is the right time? Not that I think you should, but...” Open mouth, insert feet and hands, Ava.

  “I will know.”

  “It can't be that bad.” I know nothing about this guy. “What's your name?” It's my attempt to talk him off the proverbial ledge. All the cops do it on TV.

  “Peter.”

  “Peter, what?”

  “Hart.”

  “It's nice to meet you, Peter, I'm Ava.” I stick my hand out, like this is some sort of meet-and-greet. He stares at my hand. I yank it back. I must have come on too strong. Go me. “So, what, have you just been camping out here, waiting for unsuspecting girls to wander near your mausoleum?” I sound like a lunatic.

  “No.”

  “Where's your brother?”

  “You mean Ivan. He is not here.” Glory hallelujah. I should throw a party, with confetti.

  “You're not very good at conversation, are you?” He turns his head to the side. I like it when he does that. Wait, what? I pull my eyes away from him.

  “No, I am not. But you continue to try.”

  “Call me Saint Jude,” I say with a sigh. It comes out kind of trembly, since I'm so cold. I hope he doesn't notice, but I'm sure he does.

  “Do you consider me a lost or hopeless cause?” That catches me off guard. Only Tex or Jamie or my mother or someone familiar with saints would understand that little quip.

  “Well I don't know you, so I couldn't say. What would you consider yourself?” I look up at him, trying to be as confident as I sound. Clearly, he's something. I just don't know what that is. I move the beam back up to his eyes, which are hidden behind that hair. They sparkle like gems under water.

  “I am nothing.” His voice goes quiet. The first change in volume, which tells me something. I just don't know what that is. I'm still shaking and I can't feel any of my extremities.

  “You're... something.” I can't say what I'm thinking, that I don't think he's a normal guy. I try not to look at his eyes again, but now that I've done it once, they're all I can see when I close my eyes. My heart kicks into high gear. Why are my palms sweating? “I just can't figure you out.” He's still standing. “You don't want me to, though.” I meet his eyes for a second.

  “I would prefer it.”

  I'm shivering so bad I can barely talk.

  “Well, thank you anyway. For not letting Ivan do, whatever it was he wanted to do, and for not killing yourself.” I cringe inwardly at how ungrateful a thanks it is.

  He studies me for a second before answering. “You are welcome, Ava.” It's the first time he says my name.

  “So, um, good-bye.” As much as I'd like to stay and chat with him, my nose is going to freeze and fall off if I don't leave. He is unaffected by the cold. Come to think of it, I haven't seen his breath in the air. I haven't seen him breathe at all. I should probably just stop thinking.

  “Goodnight, Ava.”

  I stare at his chest, looking for some kind of breathing movement. Of course, it's really hard to see in the dark. I drag my eyes back up to his face, which is calm as ever.

  Of course I have to stop and say, “Will you be here tomorrow?” in a hopeful, pleading kind of voice.

  He answers my question with one of his own. “Will you?”

  I bite my lip before I answer, considering if I should lie or tell the truth. “Probably.”

  I go with the truth. Even with the fact that I've just embarrassed myself irreparably, I know I'll be back. Sometimes you just know things. My mother would scoff at my certainty and say something about fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice... I don't remember the rest.

  I give a lame little wave as I turn around.

  “Will you?” I ask again.

  “Perhaps.” Neither of us wants to make a commitment. That would make this something more, and I'm still not sure if it's anything or nothing. I want it to be nothing, but it's probably something.

  Peter

  Ava. Such a symmetrical name. I liked symmetrica
l things. Books on a shelf, rows of flowers, roads. I wondered if it was the chaos in me that secretly longs for order, for things to be in their place.

  I told her my name. It felt strange on my lips, like a forgotten language. I had not shared it with a living person in a long time.

  She held the light she brought like a torch, as if it would illuminate every dark corner, help her to see what is hidden. Light could not hurt me, contrary to legend, but she did not know that. I didn't tell her.

  Her eyes blinked over and over. I watched the emotions on her face, like waves carving sand. I was used to watching faces as they die. They went so still, froze in a mask that was impossible to change. She paged through so many feelings: fear, anger, frustration, amusement. My face was still. I'd forgotten how to make my face move like a mortal. It unnerved your prey when they could not read what you were thinking on your face.

  She had so many questions. I didn't feel like answering them, so I didn't. She couldn't understand anything about me. I thought she wanted to try.

  I focused on her smell, which was as strong as any human. They had no idea how much they gave off. Sweat, dirt, blood, skin, cologne and deodorant, soap residue, food, and smoke. Everywhere they'd been rubbed off on them, so I could tell what they'd done that day, and sometimes the day before. It clung to their skin, even when they tried to wash it away. The scents layered and gave each person a signature.

  She was a little scared of me and she smelled of sleep, smoke, alcohol, and sweat. Soap that smelled of artificial coconut. She must have had chocolate earlier and cooked vegetables. Meat was a strong smell, but I didn't smell it on her. There was a residue of her house there as well. Paint and fabrics and wood and plastic. The people she lived with were on her. A woman with flowery perfume. A man as well. Men and women smell so different. Pheromones. Science hadn't discovered them yet when I was alive.

  Underlying it all was her blood. So warm and active, being pushed and pulled through her veins. I wanted to take it away from her.

  Her eyes were green. They widened as she made contact with mine. I didn't mean to, but I tried to hold the contact for a few seconds. She broke it and I saw she was scared. Not enough to run.

  She knew that I was different, not human. Those eyes asked the question that her voice didn't. What was I?

  I didn't answer.

  The want to kill her stayed with me, like a word whispered in my ear. A kiss that promised of something else. Something better. If only I would give in. I didn't.

  We said good-bye to each other. She used my name. Such a simple word, good-bye.

  Eight

  “We need to talk.” Dad accosts me in the kitchen the next afternoon when I go for an apple. I've been camped in the living room doing massive amounts of homework, but I need some sustenance. It's the first time in six days Dad's really talked to me. Mostly he's talked at me, and only when my mother is around. She's out in her garden. He glances out the window to make sure.

  I wait for him to start. I'm not initiating this, because I know where this is going before he says a word. He's easier to read than one of those Dick and Jane books from first grade. See Dad. See Dad talk. See Dad yell and wave his arms. I fiddle with the sticker from my apple so I don't have to look at him. His face is doing that thing where he tries to look all superior. It makes me want to scream.

  “You need to help your mother out more. She's taken on so much and you need to contribute more. It isn't right for her to work so hard when she should be resting.”

  What he's not saying is that soon she's not going to be around, so someone needs to pick up the slack. Someone named Ava. Not that he'll say any of that out loud. I'm supposed to be smart enough to understand that it's implied. Lucky for him, I'm not a moron.

  “I will.” I'm not the only one who hears the whiny teenage edge to my voice. I could have controlled it, but I chose not to. Now I'm going to pay. He opens the fridge to get some cream for his coffee, like he needs to take a second before exploding on me.

  “No, don't say that you will. Just do it. This is a hard time for all of us, and we need to make it easier on her,” he says, shutting the fridge with so much force the ketchup and salad dressing bottles rattle against each other.

  “I know.” Does he think I don't know? That I'm trying to be difficult? That I want to make my mother's life harder? Yeah, I'm just that cruel and self-centered.

  “Ava, you're not listening.” He's the one who's not. “I don't want her upset. I want to do everything I can to make sure that nothing like that happens.” He's about as subtle as a hurricane.

  “I know,” I say again as he comes around the counter. I try not to flinch as he touches my shoulder, like he's going to hug me. Instead, he pulls his hand away, as if I bit him. I pretend not to notice and take a bite of my apple, hoping he's done, but knowing he's not.

  “I want to make this a peaceful time for her, which means if she asks you to do something, you do it.” Why does he keep telling me this?

  Whenever she needs something, I get it. I'm always bringing her coffee and baking her favorite cookies and offering to do the dishes and making sure she's not cold or hot or uncomfortable. She hates asking for things, but I know her so well she doesn't have to. His way is to pester her constantly, until she makes something up she doesn't really need just to make him happy, like giving an overactive child a useless chore to keep them busy.

  We're too busy glaring at each other to hear her coming in. I'm surprised when she doesn't slam into the wall of tension Dad and I just put up. Either of us would need a sledgehammer to break it down. She just walks right through it.

  “Everything okay in here?” She brings with her the whiff of fresh dirt. It's all over her clothes and there are leaves in her hair. She has a smudge on her nose and a glowing smile on her face. She looks better than she has in days.

  “Just talking about the camping trip,” I say, putting on a smile. The lies seem to come easier and easier. Dad puts on his smile and hers widens. She gathers us both in her dirt-covered arms.

  “I love you both.”

  I don't look at Dad as we hug. Anyone looking into our house would see a lovely family moment. How wrong they would be.

  Avoiding Dad is my goal for the rest of the day. I spend it wrapped in a blanket on the couch, my face stuck as far into a book as I can get it without crossing my eyes, but my effort is futile. I end up reading the same sentence over and over and not remembering which chapter I'm on or what the love interest of the main character's name is.

  My mother senses the tension and suggests in a soft voice that she has a hankering to take a walk. Dad jumps right to concern mode, asking if that's such a good idea. She kisses his cheek and tells him not to worry so much. Good luck with that. Of course he acquiesces and she says they'll be back later as they head out the door. I go back to my book, trying not to feel nervous about being alone.

  They come back hours later with pizza and we spend the rest of the evening planning our camping trip, sans tension. Dad seems a little calmer, and I can talk to him without wanting to roll my eyes or scream.

  I am not a big fan of sleeping on the ground, being eaten alive by mosquitoes and going to the bathroom in the woods, but my mother loves it, the whole shebang, so we're doing it. If she wants to picnic on the moon, we'll find a way. Buy space suits and learn how to moonwalk.

  “It's been so long since we've gone. I hope I can find all of our gear.” She picks an olive off her pizza and pops it in her mouth. She always gets extra olives. I can't stand them, but I've eaten three slices covered in them. Don't rock the boat, I say.

  “Don't worry about it. Ava and I will take care of it. You can plan out our hikes and make the menu.” Dad kisses her on the nose, making her giggle. My smile is almost painful, my cheeks cracking under the pressure.

  “This trip is just for you to relax,” I say. She holds her spare arm out and I climb under it.

  “You guys spoil me.”

  “You deserve
to be spoiled,” Dad says, putting his arm around both of us.

  Two family hugs in one day. Not since I was little have we hugged so much. Dad and I aren't huggers by nature. It's natural for her, like calling me by silly nicknames and being so good with children.

  Tex interrupts the Kodak moment via my new phone, causing Dad to give me another glare as I answer it. How dare I spoil the perfect moment?

  “Hey, you've been MIA. What's up with you?”

  “Nothing, just busy,” I say, mouthing her name to tell them who I'm on the phone with. Mom nods and makes a shooing motion with her hands. Dad keeps his glare on. I follow her directions and ignore him.

  “Doing what?”

  “Homework.” It's true that I have a ton of reading for my AP English class, but I'd done it already. She doesn't need to know that, though. I stub my toe on one of the steps and bite back a curse.

  “You are such a dork.”

  “Yeah, says the girl who's in AP history.” Using my foot to shut the door, I breathe a sigh of relief that I can talk without having Dad glare at me, which he's probably doing through the floor.

  “It's not my fault I have a freakish memory for dates.”

  “D-Day,” I fire at her.

  “June 6, 1944.” She says it through a mouthful of something without even thinking about it. “Give me something that's a challenge.” At least I think that's what she says. It's hard to tell.

  “I can't believe you got out of working this week,” she says with more crunching.

  “It helps to know people.”

  “Yeah, right. So, I am totally making a pilgrimage to Portland next weekend to go shopping. I thought we could make a day of it.” My heart sinks as she says it. I would love to go shopping with Tex and spend an afternoon just walking around the mall, talking, eating giant pretzels and staring at cute boys like we used to. I miss it. How could I not have realized I miss it?