Right now, you are listening to Charlie Daniels Band (I mean come on. Be proud to be a rebel, 'cause the South's gonna do it again.). A minute ago, it was La Roux, and before that, Justin Bieber -- whom you just decided you like last night, and now your sister won't talk to you even though she loves Lil Wayne. You are a complicated soul, your room is always a mess (you're supposed to be cleaning it right now, and instead you're writing a letter to your older self -- in case you didn't know already, you're a huge procrastinator), laundry tends to pile up, and you're way too loud most of the time. You're trying to write a novel in thirty days, which is going pretty well, all things considered (it's actually kind of interesting so far, if I do say so myself). You're working forty hour weeks chasing 18-24-month old kids around all day, keeping them out of trouble, changing their diapers, cleaning up after them, reading them stories. You love it and even though you haven't found your niche with your coworkers yet, you're doing better -- cut yourself some slack, it hasn't even been 2 months of knowing them, and them knowing you. Your list of friends is small, but you know you could call any one of them at the drop of a hat with a problem or a need or even just news, and they would be there for you and you would do the same for them, because that's what real friendship is.

You don't talk to God enough, which there's no real excuse for, but you do still thank Him for what you have, and you know where good things in your life come from -- and it isn't your own hands. You're just starting to learn how to let go of selfishness, especially with money (because of worrying you won't have enough if you open up your clenched fists and share it), which is a daunting lesson to tackle. You haven't been obsessing (much) about the fact that you're still very single, even being surrounded by kids all week, which is something that I'm proud of you for. And even though it's hard and weird, you're starting to develop this little thing called your own life. It's good for you, and everyone who loves you will understand and make room for it; but that doesn't mean you need to be fully selfish and ignore everyone else's needs (so, in the recycled words of Ethan Tremblay, 'check yourself, before you wreck yourself').

You love saving pictures from the internet (especially Tumblr) like a high school girl; you love collages made out of magazine cuttings and said internet pictures (you have a book with Klare, Abbi and Danika just for that, and have talked about getting one with Tiffany); your love for Lynyrd Skynyrd has everything to do with your adoration of the South and nothing to do with a taste for whiskey (which you've never tried) -- and has even leaked into your current novel; your taste in music cannot be nailed down to one word (now it's Vampire Weekend... go figure); you enjoy video games that have to do with shooting zombies (Left 4 Dead 2 is your favorite and this love even inspired ridiculous fanfiction, but the adoration started with Call of Duty's original Nazi Zombies level); you love the first 3 Twilight books and even though you're team Jacob and even though Edward and Bella finally get married in the fourth one you think it's kind of like bad fanfiction instead of a real book but respect Stephenie's right to do whatever she wants with her characters because they are HERS; you collect & save change and get excited when you cash it in at the bank because it's such an accomplishment; you wish you journaled more but can't seem to make the time; your walls are covered in so much random (cork squares with pictures and quotes, bulletin boards with collages, records held up with push pins that match the labels, art, Star Wars and Left 4 Dead 2 posters, drawings, song lyrics and Pokemon drawn on with washable markers, coloring pages) it looks kind of like a really sweet college dorm even though you didn't make it to a four-year college -- life had other plans; you love movies like Princess and the Frog & Enchanted without shame; you love graphic novels, comic books and the superheroes that dwell within -- mainly Batman and X-Men (cough, Wolverine, cough); you still eat like a child - chicken nuggets and fries are your favorite meal in the world and your best dishes you cook are grilled chicken and grilled cheese; you try to be an intellectual and read classic Literature but other than Little Women and Pride and Prejudice, you get kind of bored and feel stupid because of it; you love your Beetle (Chewie!) that you've had since you were sixteen because it's amazing on gas, and freaking adorable, even when it costs you money for parts to fix it; your dad and you still dream about hitting the lotto and starting a huge crazy ministry because that's really your hearts; you love everything about the South and can't wait to move to Tennessee someday, but are trying to love where you are in the meantime...

Your little sister is really more like your best friend -- you need to work to keep it that way, because she is amazing, and you guys have way too much in common besides just your bloodline; your little brother is growing up too fast and you adore him but you two fight a lot because you're both mouthy jerks sometimes; your twin lives too far away and you miss each other but you guys mail random crap between Indiana and Pennsylvania because that's just how you are; your best friend (the one you never thought you'd keep from high school, who turned out to be a sister to you, whom you could not replace) treats you to Starbucks without letting you get a word in and you guys always say you're gonna hang out for like an hour and end up talking (or hitting Sheetz and McDonald's with her crazy-ass husband) all night because there is so much to be saidyour dad is awesome and helps you save a trillion dollars because he's like a freaking mechanic/handyman/contractor and can fix anything: do not ever freaking forget that, you owe him so much that he won't let you repay (and this includes living in his house rent-free); your mom is another on your very short list of best friends and you treasure her, though I don't think that will really change when you ever get to move out - I think it can only get better because you're honest with each other and know each other better than anyone else, down to what she likes on her corn on the cob; you're doing better keeping your jealousy in check, which is allowing you to have a better relationship with your brother's girlfriend of almost four years whom you adore (and love her sister, too, because they are both amazing people) -- you can't ever listen to "Sexy Chick" without thinking about her because it is the soundtrack of your Christmas shopping tradition together; you're weird and hard to get but the people who do wouldn't have you any other way.

I'm sure there is a lot more I haven't written down. That's okay. You'll probably remember, I just want you to have a tangible glimpse of who you are, right now, at twenty-one.

I don't know what you're doing right now with your life as you're reading this. And to be perfectly frank, I don't give a damn. That's up to us. Each day is another step on the path of life, and that's all that it is. You're in your Father's hands. You're growing up, and things are going to change. Let it happen. Be yourself, do the work it takes to repair your apathetic relationship with your savior, work hard, and make amazing memories. Take more pictures: even the little things you love now will make you smile down the road. Recover your love for taking video and editing it -- you'll want that for life now, and your life in the future. Let go of others' opinion of you, something that tends to choke you. Become who you are, who you were made to be. Just LIVE. You're coming out of hiding, and stretching out your wings, and that's a huge step. Don't forget to congratulate yourself. Tiffany is so proud of you (and addicted to your story) that she treated you to Starbucks just because you're sticking to your writing commitments. I mean, that's gotta mean something, right?

Love the life you have. Stop worrying about what you don't. Chances are, you don't really need it.

Your lips, my biggest weakness:
shouldn't have let you know 
I'm always gonna do what they say.
♥

“You look like you just spoke face-to-face with the harbinger of death,” Charlotte is lying upside-down on my bed, writing a list of party items in charcoal pencil. There are glamorous miniature doodles all over the borders of the page. “Spill, please.”

I sink down into the closest giant beanbag and hook my fingers in my thick, dark brown hair. “I just slapped Lucas Browning across the face.”

“What?” Charlotte jumps up and falls backward onto the floor, throwing her usual grace out the window to make way for surprise. She scrambles to her knees. “Why on earth would you feel the need to slap that beautiful, perfect, chocolate-dipped jaw?”

I screw up my face. “First of all, that’s a really gross euphemism for stubble, please don’t use it around me anymore. Second of all, it’s because he interrupted my first freaking kiss…”

“HOLD IT RIGHT THERE,” Charlotte holds up a hand, walking on her knees over to where I had fallen. “Your what? With who?”

“Whom,” I correct automatically. “And, my first kiss. With Ellis.”

“Ellis Hill? The mailboy?” Charlotte’s face is a mixture of impressed and mocking – something only she could pull off, ever. “My, my, Georgia Lynn Freebird, what dirty little fantasies you have. Okay, go on, so you’re about to suck face with our mailman, when…”

“Did I not emphasize the ‘first kiss’ part enough? I don’t know how much face sucking there would have been with someone as inexperienced as myself,” I muse.

“Yeah, yeah, moving on, kiss virgin! I want gory details, and I want ‘em now,” Charlotte pulls up the other huge purple beanbag and is now resting her tiny, fragile-looking frame in it.

“Do you want me to start from the beginning?”

“Not really,” Charlotte shakes her head. “Just get to the good stuff.”

“Okay,” I sigh. “So, Ellis hooks my hair behind my ear, and we’re leaning closer and closer to each other, and I can smell the coffee on his breath, when all of a sudden Lucas Browning butts in, and he’s all, ‘hey guys, is there any mail for me? I’m waiting for this super important – completely nonexistent! – letter from my folks and it’s supposed to come today.’ And Ellis leaves and I’m like, ‘What the heck is your problem, you’ve got some serious balls,’ and he’s like ‘yeah, I do, actually…’”

Charlotte interrupts me with her snorting laughter. “Oh my God, Georgia Lynn, you did not tell a man he has serious balls.”

My face turns instantly red. “I did! I didn’t mean it like that, and he knows it. Anyway, he’s all like, you don’t really wanna be kissing that guy. And I’m like, it’s none of your damn business who I wanna be kissing, you arrogant son-of-a-bitch. And he’s like, fine, screw up your life, you condescending little know-it-all. And then I smacked his face. And then I ran up here to talk to you. The end.”

“You guys are like, Jerry Springer drinking beer in his backyard,” Charlotte is still laughing. “And my God, the passion it takes to hit somebody you barely know. You guys have a serious spark. It’d do you some good to explore that, ya kiss virgin.”

I reach out and smack her leg. “Stop mocking my kiss virginity. I used to be really proud of it, because it was a lifestyle choice. Now it’s just starting to piss me off.”

Charlotte snorts. “I’d be pissed off too if I had just hit that, instead of hitting that – if you catch my drift.”

“Yeah, ya big ho, I catch your drift. You wanna know the worst part?” I cringe.

Charlotte gives me a look. “Does George Michael like boys?”

“Yes,” I nod, and get her meaning. “The worst part is that the whole time he’s making my blood boil from being such a total dick, he’s making my stomach tie itself in knots just because he’s talking to me. Like, I just wanted to jump up and throw my arms around his neck and be all, ‘take me now, sailor!’ …makes me feel like a slut.”

“You aren’t a slut, Georgia. You’re attracted to a man. That isn’t a mortal sin. It’s perfectly natural, and a really awesome thing when handled properly,” Charlotte smiles sideways, like a proud mother. “I’m kind of excited about this. I’m used to being the only one with man-crushes. But you got yourself a perfect specimen for us to dish about now and that makes me really, really proud. I seriously can’t wait until you start asking me really embarrassing questions about tongues and hands and…”

I interrupt her. “Charlotte.”

Charlotte grins and stands up, patting me on the head as she starts to walk out of the room. “Okay, sorry, my darling little KV. I’ll keep those to myself until the time is ripe. Just know, your kissing expert is right here waiting for you when you need those vital answers.”

“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind, Charlotte Reese,” I mock her as she disappears from the doorway.

Left alone for a rare moment of peace, I release a heavy sigh and try to let my mind settle as each of the puzzle pieces of the day wriggle into place.

One, I am starting to believe that I should just label myself a counselor and just be okay with that. It makes sense logically, and I want to take that on, but for some reason, it doesn’t sit right in my guts. I wish it would – things might be a little less complicated.

Two, Regina Ward is coming here, here – to Autumn Creek Lodge, to speak with Lydia about something important which she cannot name for whatever reason. I don’t know what to think about that, other than to worry, so I push that piece aside.

Three, I almost got my first kiss this morning, from my morning mail friend Ellis, and my mind is still reeling over that in itself. What on earth possesses a man to just lean forward over a stack of envelopes and try to kiss her? Did I invite him to press his lips to mine? Is my body speaking in a come-get-it sort of language that I don’t realize it’s speaking?

And four, Lucas Browning interrupting my first kiss for God only knows what reason, and then I smack him in the face – something I have always secretly wanted to do to someone, I don’t know why – and then he just walks away and lets it go, at least for the time being, and I still can’t get his blazing hazel eyes out of my head. He stares at me whenever my eyelids cover my vision. And the more he does, the more I want him to be the one to teach me how to kiss a man. These thoughts are so unwarranted, it makes me feel completely foreign in my own skin, and I wonder for a brief moment if he is a projector like the Baxter boys. (Those little brats need someone to just take a switch to their behinds, if you ask me. Thirteen year old terrors, those! I don’t enjoy being under the same roof with such a creepy gift. But I guess you could say that about Nadia, so I should keep my mouth shut about it.)

What is Lucas Browning’s gift? I hear he’s a reader, but I still have no real idea about him, and yet I want to chase him down and ask him a million questions.

I am beginning to question my own sanity.

Especially since I am now standing up and running for the hallway, so I can chase down the man whom I just slapped across the face and ask him my million questions.

 

“Nadia, have you seen Lucas anywhere?” I ask her as I pass her in the long hall to the library.

Nadia looks at my disheveled breathlessness and raises her eyebrows. “No, Georgia, I haven’t. Lydia may know where he is. Or you could just… y’know, keep looking for him.”

“Gee, thanks, you’re a gigantic help. I’m so glad I asked you,” I say, snide and short.

She frowns. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m sorry, Nadia. I’m just feeling really impatient. I need to talk to him, and I can’t find him, and it’s making me mad. It isn’t your fault.”

Nadia smiles knowingly. “It’s alright. I can tell you’re frazzled. And you might wanna rein in the frustration – your worries are like a home movie rolling in my brain right now. You really hit him in the face?”

“I’ll explain later,” I squeeze her hand and continue seeking out the source of my most recent bout of insanity.

 

I feel more and more like a huge idiot as I run down hallways and open doors. I decide when I hit the lobby for the third time that I am heading outside to enjoy the cooling down of the afternoon, praying it gets as cold as it was this morning and just run into Lucas Browning whenever it happens naturally. Chasing him down is the stupidest idea I’ve had in a while, so, I stop trying, slinging my white scarf that is covered in rainbow colored polka dots around my neck, and push open the front doors just as someone is trying to pull them from the exterior. I hit said person quite hard with the door, and apologies instantly begin falling from my chapped lips.

“Oh my goodness I am so sorry, I didn’t know you were there—“ I stop short as I register who I just plowed over carelessly.

“At least it was an accident this time,” Lucas Browning says. His tone is light and my heart is in my throat.

“I—“ My voice catches in my throat, hitting into my heart, causing a ten-car-pile-up in my windpipe.

“Hold on a minute. I think I need to go first, if that’s alright…” Lucas Browning steps away from the door and gestures with a sweep of his arm. “Would you mind taking a walk with me?”

I swallow hard, and force myself to say, “No, I don’t mind. I was headed out here anyway.”

“Shall we?” He holds the door open for me and waits patiently until I step out onto the small patio before the huge staircase. I look down at the paved structure so that I do not trip over my own two feet, and quietly thank him for holding the door.

We walk down the steps in silence, the tension in my gut is not pleasant, and just as I wish for him to start the inevitably awkward conversation, he parts his perfect boy lips and does just that.

“I wanted to apologize for my rude behavior earlier. It was uncalled for, especially since I am neither your father, brother, nor your best friend. It was unfair of me to assume that you would welcome my clumsy attempt at chivalry. It’s difficult for me not to be protective of you…because you remind me so much of my younger sister, Kylie. And if some guy were blatantly playing on her naïve, trusting heart – like that… mail carrier was doing to you, there is no way I’d be able to stay out of it,” he explains.

He sighs and runs his fingers through his way-too-perfect milk chocolate brown hair. I realize then that I am developing a tiny ulcer in my mouth from biting the inside my cheeks so frequently.

“Can you please forgive my impulse? Such unwarranted involvement will not interrupt your life ever again,” Lucas Browning promises, turning the full disarming arsenal of his face to me, his hazel eyes wide and his lips in a straight line with earnest contrition.

“It was unwarranted in my eyes, but not unwelcome in the future – if you promise to be honest with me about what prompted your brother bear tendencies,” I offer.

His crooked smile reappears, wrinkling his lovely face in the best possible way, and I try very hard to protect my thoughts – just in case.

“I heard both your voices and had a vision of him taking…something of yours that does not belong to him, which turned you into a total zombie – depression, reclusion, solid white-gray eyes – afterward. I knew that if you kissed him, it would lead to a huge list of regrets you couldn’t take back,” he tells me, his tone honest and gentle. And even as he regaled of poor decisions and lack of proper judgment on my part, I found his voice beyond alluring.

“And I wouldn’t be able to forget, either. Not even as time passed,” I sigh, tugging at a loose thread along the bottom of my black long-sleeved t-shirt.

“Yeah, I definitely beat myself up over things way too long after they happen,” Lucas Browning admits in what he believes is agreement, pulling on his left earlobe thoughtfully.

“No. I mean, I can’t forget anything. It’s part of my…curse, gift, whatever you want to call it. My memory is flawless. I can’t remove anything from it,” I explain.

“So that argument we just had today…” he asks.

“I can’t ever say, ‘it’s already forgotten’, because it isn’t the truth,” I shrug.

Lucas Browning cringes.

“Don’t worry about it, Lucas Browning. I’ll try not to hold it against you, since I’m pretty sure your intentions were good,” I smile, and I can feel that the expression is a little cocky.

“You can call me Luke, you know.” His voice lowers just barely, and takes on the slightest hint of flirtation. “I mean, everybody else does.”

“Well, I’m not like everybody else,” I say.

“I’ve noticed,” he agrees.

I smile and look down, because I’m grateful that he sees me, at least a portion of how clearly I see him.

Lucas Browning lets out a breathy chuckle. “So, you can’t lie. You have a perfect memory. You kiss mail boys. What else should I know about you?”

“My eyes change color,” I shrug.

“What? You mean like when you wear different colored shirts?”

“No, I mean, like, all the time. They change color of their own volition. Usually with my mood, though,” I clarify.

“So, you have mood rings for irises.”

“Basically.”

“That’s…”

“Bizarre? Off-putting? Creepy?”

“I was going to say that it’s kind of amazing, but, whatever works,” Lucas Browning’s eyes scintillate a bit.

I give him a sideways glance. “You’re a bit of a flirt, aren’t you?”

He smiles. “I have been accused of being charming, yes. But that’s not an OG or anything – that’s just my personality. Mama says I get that from my daddy.”

“How nice,” I smirk. “I was beginning to believe that smooth-talking was an Outsider Gift. Thank you for clearing that up for me.”

“You’re welcome,” he offers.

“So, you know the basics about me – though, sadly, I’m way more complicated than that – but what should I know about you?” I force myself to look away from him to take in the fleeting beauty of autumn’s landscape.

“Well,” he sighs lightly. “I am a seer – in case you didn’t catch that earlier. And, I have a younger sister –“

“Kylie,” I remind him.

“Flawless memory, weren’t kidding, got it. And, I have an older brother, Heath. He’s twenty-seven, married to his high school sweetheart, Norah, and they have two boys – Matthew, who is six and named after my dad, and Arnold, who is three, and named after my mom’s father.”

“What’s your mom’s name?” I ask, filling in the blanks he missed.

“Anna,” he says softly.

I feel a wave of honor and respect come over me, and I realize he thinks very highly of her.

“You really love her,” I smile.

He smiles back down at me, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I do, indeed. I only wish I could talk to her again. I miss her voice. She always knew just what to say.”

“Oh, my gosh, Lucas, I am so sorry,” I say quietly, touching his arm instinctively.

He looks over at me and seems completely distracted by my cold fingertips brushing his skin. I know they must be freezing, because when I pull away I leave a trail of goose bumps behind.

He stares at me, and I wish with every living cell that I could read his mind. I know I am thinking about his warm, light tan skin – the color of my morning coffee, mixed with too much creamer – and wondering what his skilled hands would feel like linked with mine… or touching my skin. I lose the staring contest first, dropping my gaze to the grass as my cheeks turn pink.

His crooked half-smile creases his profile that I behold in my peripheral vision.

“She’s not dead, Georgia. You don’t need to apologize. But she is in a coma, and has been for several months. I visited her every day until I couldn’t take it another second. I heard about this place – Autumn Creek – one night in my own dreams, the night that Mom’s doctor came to Dad to find out if she had a living will. She doesn’t, and my dad is a Christian who believes with all of his good, honorable heart and soul that my mother is going to wake up from this.”

“And you?” I ask gently.

“I… am not so sure that God is listening.” Lucas looks upward.

“He always does,” I assure him, conviction adding depth and color to my words. “He just doesn’t always answer right away – or in the way we expect. I know this may sound trite, Lucas, but I’ve learned it from experience. Sometimes when someone needs healed, they don’t fully recover – they die, and they get their health and their freedom with the One they loved with their lives. For them, it’s a beautiful reunion. But for us, it’s a trip through hell while we’re stuck here in our weak bodies.”

Lucas Browning is silent, thoughtful and probably brooding as we walk along the grounds. I quietly pray for the strength to say (or be) whatever Lucas needs me to.

“You didn’t tell me where you were from,” Lucas points out softly.

“Oh.” I scratch my forearm. “I’m from a little hick town in Pennsylvania, close to Gettysburg.”

“Like, the battlefields? No kidding?”

I give him a wry look.

“Oh. Well. I wasn’t sure if you could joke or not. But you use sarcasm well enough,” he teases.

“My OG has weird loopholes,” I shrug.

“Ah. Well, I’m from Maryland, near Baltimore.”

“So your mom is probably at Johns Hopkins, then,” I offer and instantly regret my lack of forethought.

“Yes,” he says graciously without making me feel (more) guilty. “They’ve been taking good care of her. Though, they’re also taking a lot of my dad’s hard-earned money.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what does he do for a living?” I ask.

“He’s a lawyer,” Lucas informs me with a sardonic smirk.

“You know, that explains so much,” I smile up at him. I wonder absently if his father is also where he got his impossibly good looks, and then want to smack myself.

“Yeah,” he says and I start a bit – thinking he was answering my inner inquiry, much like Nadia always does. “He is a really good one, too. Really intelligent and knowledgeable, but one of the few good, honest men left in the world – let alone in his profession.”

“Do you want to be just like him when you grow up?” I smile up at him.

Lucas grins and shows his white teeth, deepening the crease he has where a dimple would normally be.

One of these times, I am going to taste blood from chewing the insides of my poor cheeks.

“Isn’t that what every little boy wants?” Lucas asks, half-teasing, doing that impossibly attractive thing with his voice again.

Oh, wait. He’s just talking.

“I would imagine so. Though, I only have a twin sister – Nadia, whom you’ve met – and neither of us are boys, so I don’t exactly know from experience… but I always wanted to be like my mom,” I laugh. “Well, ‘til I became a teenager and my honesty became a big problem between us when I’d call her out on things even when it wasn’t my place. Thennnn I just wanted to avoid her as much as possible.”

“Yeah, I think my teenage years were the most difficult, especially with my Outsiderness,” he chuckles.

Lost in conversation, we do not realize we’ve already come full circle and are back at the front steps at Autumn Creek.

“Well, this is my stop,” I joke, throwing a thumb over my shoulder at the huge wooden doors.

“Mine, too. Fancy that,” he grins.

We walk up the stairs slowly and quietly, lost in our own thoughts, and he opens the door for me, which makes my heart squeeze.

“It was very nice talking to you, Lucas Browning,” I say once we are in the foyer.

“It was entirely wonderful talking to you, as well, Georgia Freebird,” he smiles.

I turn to walk away and he leans close and says in my ear, “And, I just thought I would let you know, I have been told many times that I get my good looks from my father, in addition to my charm.”

I gasp a bit as the truth occurs to me.

“You mean you’re a—“

“I find your voice to be extraordinarily pleasant to my ears as well,” he says, his voice low and his tone far too casual, before he strolls away.

 

 

I AM GETTING AHEAD TONIGHT. SERIOUS.

“Mutants don’t even exist, Georgia,” Lydia laughs.

“I am aware,” I tell her, looking up and smiling like an idiot. “I just wish there was an easy explanation for…whatever it is I am.”

Lydia is nodding her understanding, but pulls out a piece of sage advice. “There is no easy explanation for anything in this life, you know that. Things too easily gained are regarded with the least amount of gratitude.”

“I think I could be very grateful for the gift of simplicity,” I assure her, and she shrugs.

We arrive back at the boarding house in comfortable silence, just as the mailman is trekking up the long staircase to the front doors.

“Ellis!” I call out, my voice full of glee at seeing the back of his head.

Ellis looks over his broad shoulder at me, a shy smile making its way across his familiar face. He’s young, maybe twenty-five, with big blue eyes and light brown hair and a dimple in his chin.

“Hello there, Miss Georgia,” he drawls. “How are you this lovely Wednesday?”

“Better, now that you’re here,” I say, blushing a little as the words come tumbling clumsily past my teeth. “What did you bring me today?”

“I think I have two of your magazines,” he says. “Mind if I come inside to sort all of this out, Miss Lydia?”

“No, I don’t mind. Come on in, and have some breakfast, Ellis,” Lydia offers.

“Oh, thank you kindly, ma’am, but I need to be continuing my route after this,” Ellis tips his hat and holds the door open for both of us to walk through, like a true Southern gentleman.

Truth is, I have had a crush on him since the first time I opened the door to let him inside. It goes like this: I swing open the door, he is standing there holding his little mailbag, and I blurt out: “Wow, you’re really cute.”

I do not know why he is still so nice to me, or how we have become such good friends, but he doesn’t visibly flinch when I greet him at the door – he usually just smiles.

“Your eyes look especially lovely today, Miss Georgia. I’ve never seen such a light brown before – you know, in someone’s eyes,” Ellis smiles, blushing a little bit.

I bite the inside of my cheek. He is so cute.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, pulling on a strand of my hair and twirling it nervously.

“You’re surely welcome,” he says as he sets his mailbag down on the solid wooden coffee table in the huge foyer.

“Can I help you with anything?” I ask politely, when I realize I’ve just been staring at him.

Ellis smiles crookedly, showing half of his teeth. “It’s a Federal offense for you to be touchin’ on this here U.S. Mail, darlin’. Only those approved and certified like myself can do the…touchin’.” His eyes glitter with mischief – as he obviously realizes how dirty his words must sound to my ears.

“It should be a Federal offense for you to be so obvious about flirting with me,” I purse my lips.

“Well, now, where’s the fun in that law?” Ellis’ smile is still crooked and impish.

“I said it should be against the law, but I, personally, am quite glad that it isn’t,” I look down at my feet, biting my lower lip as I smile.

“So am I,” Ellis agrees as he collects the huge stack of mail for this highly populated living place. “’Specially since I kept this route so I could have this address. My day would be so boring without you in it.”

I swallow, trying to fight the crazed butterflies with a flood of saliva. It’s strange how very alone we are in this usually busy place, in the very open foyer. It seems as though we’re in a tiny room with a lot less oxygen than is healthy. “I would definitely miss you if you ever decided there was more to life than the U.S. Postal Service.”

“Oh, there may be, but this job is much more wonderful because of pretty eyes like yours,” Ellis rests a hand on the stack of sorted mail and levels his gaze so it is in direct contact with my own. “In fact, I ain’t never seen a more beautiful set of eyes in all my life – and I’ve met a lot of people in my line of work.”

His admission makes me feel much more thankful for my unique irises.

“Really?” I ask, without thought, swallowing again.

“Really, truly,” his voice is lower, and he leans toward me on instinct.

I copy his movement, drawn like a magnet, our eyes locked, everything else becoming enveloped in a slow motion haze…

This is it, I think as my terrified heart pounds ferociously in my chest. My first kiss – finally! I’m not going to be an old, never-been-kissed lady. I don’t have to start liking stupid, creepy cats!

Ellis reaches up and tucks a loose bit of my hair behind my ear; the touch of his fingertips to my skin makes me feel like shivering. I am about to close my eyes as he moves to close the gap, when a silky baritone voice interjects,

“Anything for me?”

I jump in surprise, my forehead crashes into Ellis’ forehead, and we both mumble curse words, rubbing our offended skulls.

The voice continues, and sounds like fake contrition lacquered over genuine pleasure. “I’m sorry, I really hope I didn’t interrupt an important conversation, I’m just expecting an urgent letter from home and I was hoping it had shown up today.”

I look up into Lucas Browning’s hazel eyes – the ones filled with total amusement – and I want to sink my short, glitter-covered fingernails into the light skin of his neck as I strangle him. The upward curve of his lips cannot be seen by Ellis, who is currently fixing his USPS hat.

“Name, sir?” Ellis’ voice is low and rough, and the tiny hint of malice in it surprises me.

“Lucas Browning,” he says smoothly in response.

Even when I’m angry with him, Lucas’ voice is like warm honey for the ears. The thought pisses me off, so I push it away quickly. The corner of his lips lifts again quickly, as if he heard me audibly, so quickly I swear I must’ve imagined it.

“I don’t have anything here for that name,” Ellis’ voice is calm and gentle again, but not sweet like it is whenever he talks to me.

“Well, damn. Maybe tomorrow then, huh? Thanks for looking, man, I really do appreciate it.” Even with his underlying sarcasm, Lucas is still very charming – and difficult to ignore. I chew on the insides of my cheeks in frustration.

Lucas winks at me, behind Ellis’ back.

My anger melts to attraction in a matter of milliseconds, which drives me absolutely nuts. I don’t understand how this kid has a hold on me like this, so quickly and so unwelcome.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ellis shrugs the mailbag back onto his shoulder. He still hasn’t looked away from my face. “See you tomorrow, Georgia.”

“I’ll be here,” I promise and wave as he walks out the door. As soon as he is halfway down the huge brick-paved steps, I whirl around, glaring at Lucas Browning with all my frustrated might.

“What the heck is your problem?” I demand, crossing my arms.

“You don’t wanna be kissing that guy,” Lucas warns condescendingly.

I blink, confused by his candor. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, you really don’t want to be kissing that guy,” he repeats slowly, as if I’m mentally incapable of comprehending his words at normal speed.

“Don’t treat me like I’m stupid. That’s what I thought you said. You’ve got some serious balls, you know that?”

“Yeah, I do, actually,” he smirks, and I realize the innuendo and instantly wish I could take my words and shove them back down my throat.

I grind my teeth, trying to get the words to come out right. “What I mean is, douchebag, is that you don’t have a right to tell me who I should or should not be kissing because it is absolutely none of your business. You don’t even know me.”

Lucas’ maddening calm makes my skin itch. “You’re not that hard to read, sweetheart. And that little puke had you eating out of the palm of his hand. Do you know how many other girls he says that to? The reason he has this route is because nobody else wants to walk up all those damn old stairs to deliver packages to the freak parade. Wake up, kid. I thought you were a counselor?”

I bristle at his casual use of labels. “I don’t know what I am yet – that’s why I’m here. My gifts are weird and don’t fit together. And I’m not a kid, I’ll be twenty-two in a few months, and I really don’t need your sass!”

“Oh, God forbid I sass you, in the process of doing you a huge favor!” Lucas raises his voice. “And no, I don’t know you that well yet, but I’d like to – too bad you’re much more interested in kissing pack mules in blue button-up shirts than getting to know someone who might actually understand where you’re coming from!”

“Doing me a huge favor? Ha! You don’t even know Ellis. I’ve talked to him every morning for the past eight and a half months, and he is one of the kindest men I have ever met in my life.” I growl, my hands trembling with my growing anger. “And again, allow me to make it very clear that it’s none of your damn business who I want to kiss, you arrogant son-of-a-bitch!”

Lucas’ jaw is set, his chin jutting forward, until he barks out, “Fine! You want to go ahead and spill your secrets to some devoid mail lackey, that’s your problem. It’s your life, so go ahead and screw it up. I’ll be sure and stay the hell out of it, you condescending little know-it-all!”

Before either of us can blink, I slap him right across his gorgeous, cocky face. The sound my open palm makes against his cheek echoes down the hall, and at first I feel intensely satisfied, but then, my stomach drops. His nostrils flare and his jaw sets tightly right as mine drops loosely in shock at my own actions.

I expect to be thrown down on my ass, or at least screamed at some more, so I brace myself for either (or both). Instead, Lucas Browning bunches his hands into fists, closes his big hazel eyes, exhales slowly through his nose, and loosens his hands before turning around and walking completely away from me.

I take my trembling limbs and run headlong for the stairs to my bedroom.

Less than two hundred words shy and I have to throw in the towel because I'm exhausted.

“What do you think she wants to talk to you about? It must be serious if she is coming all the way here,” I muse, my senses heightened with fear.

“She wouldn’t tell me anything specific,” Lydia’s forehead wrinkles a bit. “Just that it was important and it involves our shelter.”

“That’s…vague and disconcerting.” I scratch my cheek.

“I’m trying not to worry, but Ms. Ward is not exactly the most reassuring personality I’ve had the pleasure of knowing,” Lydia sighs.

“She struck me as very cold,” I admit.

“Well, she is very businesslike about everything, like her brain is always making all sorts of calculations. But she does care about Outsiders, to be sure. She has spent her entire adult life dedicated to the creation and upkeep of the Network.” Lydia continually seeks out (and usually finds) the good in people.

I am not so gracious.

“She’d better care, especially if she’s one of us,” I scowl. “We’re not a science experiment, and we’re not freaks. We need someone who understands working on our behalf, keeping us safe.”

“Safe from what, exactly?” Lydia half-smiles at my outburst.

I look at her seriously, inspecting her too-calm exterior. “Safe from whatever has you completely freaked out right now.”

Lydia’s smile fades, but the creases in her forehead smooth away as well. “So, what part of your childhood should we explore today?”

I still feel unsettled, but I obediently reply, “I was thinking my sixth birthday. I want to remember what flavor the cake was.”

“Well,” she ignores my sarcasm, “You tell me.”

“It was chocolate, kind of dry but still good because when you’re six you don’t really think about whether or not chocolate cake is moist – it’s like soft spongy candy you’re allowed to eat the whole day – and the frosting was pink butter cream. It was covered in Barbie paraphernalia because that was the year that Nadia and I decided we were Barbie doll collectors. This was also the year that Nadia first spoke to anyone outside of our immediate family,” I smile.

“Really? What did she say?” Lydia inquires casually, a tone I recognize as the one she uses to help draw my memories to the surface for recollection. I don’t know how she does it, but it certainly helps me.

“She said, ‘Aunt Janet, can you please stop picturing my Daddy naked around me? It’s not as creepy when Mommy does it.”

Lydia smiles, deepening her dimples and wrinkling the skin around her eyes.

“My mother is horrified, she can’t even breathe. My father is choking on his bite of shrimp cocktail, my aunt Janet’s face is so red I don’t even recognize her, and my uncle Rick grabs his jacket and car keys and mutters, ‘I f---ing knew it,’ before striding right out of our front door.” I shake my head. “The irony is, my uncle never ever asked how Nadia knew Janet was picturing my dad in the nude, he just took it as confirmation that my mom’s sister really was a whore. And my dad had never been more than obligatorily polite to my aunt, because he was always so put off by how overtly flirtatious she was – especially toward him. My mom had always been the pure one. Needless to say, Mom and Janet haven’t spoken in 15 years, not even when uncle Rick divorced her sorry ass fourteen years ago.”

“That’s actually kind of a sad story,” Lydia says. “I’m glad I can keep my thoughts pure around you guys.”

“Just around us?” I joke. “All seriousness, Lydia, our family is better off. My aunt Janet has always been kind of…psycho. I don’t really miss her, or her really gross perfume she poured all over herself. Besides, I’m sure if Nadia hadn’t scared her off by now, my ruthless mouth would have.”

“You just don’t have the hindrance of polite discretion,” Lydia offers. “Most of us would love to be that honest, but fear of rejection usually stops us in the end.”

“I’m honestly – ha – surprised that I have any friends left at all,” I hook my hair behind my ear swiftly. “Most people are instantly put off by my wonderful superpower.”

“Most people may be, but I respect you for talking at all.”

“What do you mean?” I scrunch up my face.

“I mean, a lot of people with your gift would just go into hiding to keep from causing any unwanted awkwardness,” Lydia points out.

“That sounds like the smarter option,” I laugh.

“More like the coward’s way out,” Lydia pokes me in the shoulder. “You are so much stronger and more honorable than you give yourself credit for. I, for one, am very proud of how much you’ve grown in less than a year here.”

“Thank you,” I say shyly. “I know you’re right.”

“And it would serve you well to remember that fact,” Lydia gently chastises. “You are dear to my heart, and I want to se you become the whole person you can while you are under this roof. Work as hard as you can while you have the time and a safe place to fall. Those who are less than understanding will be found all over God’s earth. You have to find those who are worth keeping, and hold on with both hands.”

I realize as we are walking back through the trees toward the huge boarding house that it is unseasonably warm out for November. Granted, I am used to the chill in the air of the battlefields of Pennsylvania, but I suddenly long for my breath to be stolen and my cheeks to be kissed by cold winds.

“I will keep that in mind,  for your sake and mine,” I tell her, kicking a dead, brown leaf out of my path.

“Good. Speaking of people who are worth it… have you spoken to our newest roomie yet?” Lydia’s eyes take on the light of a teenager who has a juicy secret.

“Do you mean Lucas?” I ask, scrunching up my eyebrows.

“Of course I mean Lucas,” Lydia smirks. “We don’t have any other new roomies.”

“Oh. Well, then, yes. I have spoken with him, briefly.” I shrug.

“He is a very nice young man. I am quite impressed by him.” Lydia’s upbringing in a wealthy family, high in society, often comes out in her prim and proper use of the English language when she speaks, which always makes me smile.

“He is very nice,” I nod my head in agreement. “Handsome, too.”

“Is he?” Lydia says with a squeak in her voice and a smirk still in place. “I hadn’t really noticed.”

“Sure you hadn’t. I mean, yeah, he’s basically gorgeous. But he’s a prophet, which is really dangerous.” I shudder.

“Why are prophets dangerous?” Lydia raises a curious eyebrow.

I give her a look. “Because, unless their prophecies play out as proof of their words, there’s no way of knowing what they’re saying is true and no way of really trusting them.”

“You’re referring to Jazmin Santos,” Lydia’s voice takes on an understanding tone.

I shake my head in disgust. “She was such a skillful liar. I don’t know why I didn’t trust my senses about that. Either way, she didn’t get away with much, and for that I can be grateful.”

“It’s not your fault you’re kind of naïve,” Lydia smiles. “It’s a good thing – it helps you keep your innocence. It also is part of your gift. So be grateful.”

I pout a little bit. “I’m not grateful. I hate it. I wish I could just be all jaded and cynical like everyone else.”

“I know you do, sweetheart,” Lydia pinches my cheek. “But you wouldn’t be your amazing self if you were.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I roll my eyes. “You’re just saying that because you’re practically my mother.”

“I am not,” Lydia frowns. “Your mother is a wonderful woman. She just couldn’t help you grow like I can. She doesn’t understand how you think like the people who live here, because she can only sympathize – not empathize. Seriously, talk to some of the elders – they’ve got horror stories to share. But your mom is a devoid, and you can’t help that any more than she can.”

“I wonder why Nadia and I are so special, then? As far as I know, my dad is a devoid, too, yet we are Outsiders. How does that even happen?”

“You know as well as I do that there is no explanation for Outsiders, Georgia,” Lydia bites her cheek. “Scientists have been trying to figure us out in secret for decades. But we aren’t X-Men, there is no mutated gene in us that gives us abilities.”

“I know,” I sigh, “we just use a higher percentage of our brain. But no one knows how or why it happens. I wish there was just a super simple explanation. Like, I could carry my Mutant card and think of myself as a superhero. Instead, I’m a weirdo who can’t forget anything.”

 

“Come on, now, that isn’t fair,” Charlotte scolds, flopping down into a nearby beanbag chair. “He’ll make some desperate girl a fine little whipping post one day.”

“He really is kind,” I say, “he’s just so creepy. I don’t understand it.”

I crouch down to retrieve a large, transparent pink plastic bin from underneath my bed while Lottie watches curiously. I remove the lid and pull out a dark pink binder with a collage-plastered cover and hold it up proudly.

“Behold: ideas,” I exclaim, and she claps.

“See, I know about your artsy collage habit since we’re roomies. And I knew you’d be good at this whole planning thing,” Charlotte says, jumping up out of the beanbag seat and landing on my bottom bunk gracefully.

“So, you just want to use my creativity?” I peer at her sideways.

“Basically,” she shrugs.

I find that it’s much easier to get honesty in return from your friends when truth is all that you can successfully give away.

“Fair enough,” I shrug it off and sit down beside her.

She is eager like a little girl when I turn to my fantasy pages – foil stars and pictures of twinkle lights in pure white cover them, with model-thin women in incredibly exquisite dresses toting impossibly gorgeous men dancing across the bottoms of the sheets of lined paper. When I get to my interpretation of a black and white affair, we both gasp in awe of the loveliness.

“That’s the one,” Charlotte points a small finger at the stark contrast laid out before us.

“I agree,” I breathe, running my hand over more silver stars. “Lydia will be in charge of the music, Jonathan and Zahari will handle the food, you and I will definitely need some helpful volunteers for the decorating… but this could work. We should do it on New Year’s Eve – it’s a perfect excuse to have a big party. Lydia will be over the moon, I think, but I’ll run it past her at our meeting later…” I run off the mental checklist, but Charlotte is still just staring at all of the grayscale glory.

“What’s up? You are really quiet and distracted and it’s starting to freak me out,” I wave a hand in front of her too-serious face.

“Did you go to prom, Georgia?” she asks me, but her tone is distant.

“No, because Nadia and I were homeschooled,” I sigh. “It was always something I wanted to do, though.”

Charlotte’s eyes were far away and haunted as she stared off into space.

“I never made it to mine,” she begins.

I swallow, afraid of where this is going.

“My boyfriend Max was driving us to junior prom, and on the way there a man who was very, very drunk ran a red light to the left of us at seventy-two miles an hour. Max and I were both thrown from the car, and Max died on impact. The paramedics said I should have died too and technically, I did, but on the way to the hospital, in the ambulance, my heart started beating again on its own.”

I was struck dumb, and she swallows to compose herself, to continue.

“I remember the doctors were freaked out by my parents’ calmness when they found me. My mother couldn’t look at me, but my father told them he would take me home – that I could recover from this. The doctor in charge of my case insisted that I stay, at least for the night. In the end, I was simply in a deep sleep for a few days, but my broken bones healed without complication or scars. When I woke up, looking at me, it was like nothing had ever happened.”

Charlotte runs a hand through her short, messy layers of blonde hair and sighs. “That’s why I want to have this stupid dance. That’s why I’m reckless, and why I live my life without fear of consequences. I should have been dead, Georgia, and I survived. I loved Max very much, and he loved me back – my mother told me the first night I tried to kill myself that Max would want me to be as alive and free as I could.” Charlotte looks down at her little white hands and I see her brown eyes flooding with tears.

“Lottie, I’m sorry,” I squeeze her hand. I know there is nothing else I can say. She leans her head on my shoulder and I feel tears hitting my thin black shirt.

“Here I always thought you healers were just cocky like that because y’all can cheat death, and become fancy doctors without expensive degrees,” I tease her, even though I did think that about her at first. “But you actually have a legit reason to act crazy.”

“You’re really mean,” Charlotte laughs through her tears, “but I still love you.”

“Of course you do,” I snort. “Bitch, I’m awesome.”

“You speak the truth,” Charlotte smiles and wipes her eyes.

“All day, every day,” I roll my eyes.

“So, seriously, what’s it like feeling what other people feel? Do you suddenly feel like you had your heart cut out of you at sixteen which is why you can act like a total fool without feeling guilty?”

“Not quite. Most of the time, it’s really vague,” I admit. “Like, I feel your sadness, but I wouldn’t have known what it was about until you told me – wait.”

“What?” she asks. She closes up the binder with a loud whap.

My brow wrinkles in concentration. “I just had this same conversation, in reverse.”

“With whom?”

“Jonathan.”

“Isn’t Jonathan a Counselor?” Charlotte raises her eyebrows.

“Yes.”

“Okayyy,” she prompts. “I thought you didn’t know what you were?”

I scratch my scalp above my right ear – a habit I’ve had since I was nine. “I didn’t – I don’t. But my gift is really sporadic, and I usually have to know the person before I get anything substantial from them.”

“Ohhh, so you didn’t notice the super sex vibes from Luke Browning, then?” Charlottle interjects coyly.

“Lucas Browning,” I correct as my face folds into a scowl. “I’m not really sure what ‘super sex vibes’ even are, so I’d have to say no, I did not notice them.”

“Girl, that boy is sixteen kinds of delicious. So, if you don’t want him, I will certainly take him off your hands.” Charlotte’s smile is absolute evil.

“He isn’t ‘on my hands’, Charlotte Reese,” I mock her with use of the middle name she hates.

“Do you want him to be?” Charlotte baits me.

“I don’t even know what you’re insinuating. But I find him very attractive, yes, and if he wanted me – well, I definitely wouldn’t turn him down. But if he doesn’t, which I’m fairly sure is or will be the case, you may have your evil, corrupting way with him.” The sarcasm and mockery flow freely.

“Yessss,” Charlotte pumps her fist in the air, punching the bunk above us at full speed, and then cradles the offended appendage to her chest, hissing through her teeth.

I am fully amused by her come-uppance. “Douche.”

Her fiery retort is interrupted by a rap on our doorframe.

“Georgia Lynn, you got a minute?” Lydia’s blazing red hair catches my eye as she pokes her head inside of the room.

“Yeah, I’m free. I thought we had a meeting later, though?” I get up from my seat on the mattress and Charlotte punches me right in the butt cheek. I grit my teeth and close one eye; her tiny fists are more effectual then you would believe.

Lydia smiles, all freckles and dimples. “We do, but I want to talk to you now, if that’s alright. I have something going on tonight, so I just figured if you weren’t busy, we’d up your meeting time.”

“Fine by me,” I say, but turn around to look at Charlotte. “You gonna be alright planning our crazy shindig for an hour or so?”

Charlotte smiles up at me like a grateful little sister. “Yes, Mama, I’ll be just fine while you go and have a big grown-up talk.” Her tiny, pale white legs dangle over the edge of the pillow-top mattress, a stark contrast from my pinkish-red sheets and the black bunk bed frame.

“Okay, but don’t use the oven or light any candles while I’m gone, dear. You remember what happened last time,” I tease.

“I won’t,” she calls after me as I follow Lydia out the door.

“So, what shindig is she planning?” Lydia asks as she links our arms together comfortably. We are very much like a big family, us Outsiders. And Lydia is like our crazy yet soft-spoken, red-headed mama.

“We want to have a big black and white formal to celebrate New Year’s Eve,” I explain, though I’m curious as to what she wanted to move our meeting for.

“Sounds like a wonderful idea to me,” Lydia says, obviously pleased. “I’ll help in any way I can, for sure.”

“Thank you,” I said sincerely.

“I know you’re probably wondering why I am not just talking to you in sifting class like we planned…” Lydia sighs. “But we can’t have our usual class because I have a very, very unexpected visitor coming.”

“Really? Who is it?” I ask, my pulse spiking at her words.

“Regina,” she says quietly.

I swallow. “Regina, as in… Regina? Like, head leader of all things Outsider Alliance, Regina?”

All I remember of my first and only meeting with that woman is her very black hair, her light gray eyes, and her scarlet lipstick. She did not acknowledge me for more than two seconds when she was here last, and I was fresh off of my airplane. All I remember is being extremely intimidated.

Lydia turns her usually serene pale blue eyes to me, and they are full of something I can’t pinpoint. “Yes, Regina Ward, founder of the Outsider Alliance. She’s coming here because she has something important she has to discuss with me.”

i made it through the first week!
(...i wonder if anyone but my sister tiffany is reading this...)

haha. 

In my head, I half-smile at his transparency and say, “Now, wouldn’t you like to know?”

In reality, it comes out like this: “Definitely not. He and my best friend sort of have something going on between them, and there’s no way I’d get in the middle of that. I’m not that kind of girl.”

Lucas raises his dark eyebrows and smiles slightly. I can’t tell if he’s impressed or taken aback by my honesty, but either way, it doesn’t affect the outcome.

“Are you always so honest?”

I look up to the ceiling, blowing up my bangs as I exhale upward. “It’s a curse. You ask me a direct question, you get an honest answer. Period. It’s not something I enjoy, but I can’t exactly help it.”

What I can only interpret as amusement lights his big hazel eyes. “What happens if you try to lie? Does your nose grow?”

“I am not Pinocchio,” I say, deadpan.

“I know,” he smiles. “But everybody can lie. It’s human nature.”

I make a frustrated sound in my throat. “I wish I were able to perform any sort of deceit, even just the slightest blurring of the truth to keep my dignity intact. However, I physically cannot lie. A lie, even if it forms in my head, will never come out of my mouth. It’s been that way since I was born. The words will literally not come out. Okay?”

“Okay.” His smile is still in place as I turn around. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Please don’t,” I discourage him as I am walking away.

His quiet chuckle behind me tugs gently on a thread from the protective sweater I’ve knitted around the outside of my heart.

 

“Jonathan,” I call out, and he looks up quickly from the dough he is kneading to catch my gaze.

“Yes, mon ami,” he responds, dropping his eyes back to his work, though I know he is listening.

I sit down at a stool at the huge kitchen island where he is creating edible art, and put my dirty dish on the granite in front of me. “I brought you my plate.”

Jonathan looks up at me quickly. “You did not come in this kitchen just for that.”

“No,” I sigh. “I didn’t.”

He smiles and drops his eyes again. “So tell me what it is you came to tell me. Is it about Zahari?”

The way he says her name makes me smile. “No, Jonathan. It’s about me. Try not to sound disappointed.”

Jonathan chuckles, but it does nothing to my stomach. “Georgia, I adore you. You are a treasure of a friend to me, and I care about what you have to say. But that woman, she makes me… crazy.”

“I know. She’s beautiful, right?” I coax him.

He looks up and cocks an eyebrow. “You think so?”

“Yes, but not like that,” I burst out laughing. “I am definitely heterosexual, sweetheart. That’s what I came to talk to you about.”

“You came in here to discuss your sexual orientation with me?” he teases.

“Absolutely not,” I shake my head. “More like… the object of said orientation.”

“Ah,” he smiles. “Why don’t you talk to your sister about this?”

“Because, she probably already knows how he feels. And that just takes the fun out of it for me, you know?” I frown.

“You women are so complicated,” he shakes his head, laughing. “You say you wish you could know what we are thinking, but when you have a direct link to our thoughts, you shy away because you realize that you really do not want to know.”

 “Basically,” I smile ruefully, resting my chin in my hands.

Jonathan is gentle with his words now. “I understand, though. I would hate to be in other people’s heads all the time. I’m grateful to be a counselor instead.”

“What does your gift entail? Are you just this good at talking to everyone?” I ask, looking at him quizzically.

“Yes, but I also can figure out the underlying cause beneath anger or sadness,” he explains. “A trauma in your childhood, a broken relationship: these sorts of things are all easily revealed to me.”

“Isn’t that kind of like being in people’s heads?” I scrunch up my face, confused.

“Not quite,” he smiles. “It is more like empathy, or an understanding. And it is very vague. I will not know the exact event or the details of the problem until I ask you. But usually that knowing helps me to ask the right questions to get to the issue at hand.”

“That’s very helpful, I think,” I smile back at him. “You should be a psychologist when you leave here. You’d be so rich and famous, and I’d be able to say, ‘I knew him when he was at freak school, making beignets to woo his gorgeous wife’.”

Jonathan’s eyes wrinkle at my insinuation. “Wife, hm?”

“I can totally see it,” I tell him. “You two are perfect for each other.”

He hesitates, and I know he is trying to respect the details of my gift – or curse, whatever you want to call it – by not asking a direct question.

“Just ask me,” I sigh.

“Do you think… she can see it, too?” he asks, and his voice is the most unsure I’ve ever heard.

“Yes,” I smile broadly as I hop down from the stool. “I do think so.”

“Really?” he grins.

“Really truly,” I assure him.

“Hmm,” he says, and I know I am losing him to thoughts of her.

“You could ask Nadia to be sure, and if I’m wrong, you’ll just have to marry me,” I plant a tiny kiss on his milk chocolate cheek and skip out of the kitchen.

“Don’t tempt me like that,” he calls after me, and my laugh echoes down the hall.

 

Nadia, I think to myself. Where the heck are you?

“In here,” she says as I am passing the door to the library.

I smile and remind myself that sometimes, having a telepathic sister is not really all that bad.

“Why am I not surprised to find you in here?” I say as I plop into the giant old leather chair next to hers.

“Because both of our noses live in books,” Nadia shrugs.

“You’d think we’d enjoy our bizarre version of reality,” I muse, “instead, we love to escape it just like anyone else.”

Nadia smiles. “Sometimes, I’d kill for boring normalcy… like, a house on a hill and a big hairy dog, and no one’s thoughts but my own.”

“You know, if you had all that, you’d just want something crazy like telepathy or the ability to fly,” I point out.

She laughs. “You’re probably right.”

“Nadia, I know I’ve asked you this before, but what does it feel like to hear all those thoughts at once? Like, describe it for me.”

“Well…” Nadia stretches her legs out in front of her and closes her eyes. “I imagine it’s what life for a football team would be like if all of their fans’ simultaneous screams could rush through the TV’s airwaves and hit their ears. If they weren’t used to it, they’d lose the game. But as they practiced sorting the slew of voices, they could learn to pick out the encouraging words from fans who love them and want them to succeed, and could shut out all the rest.”

“That’s a freaking awesome take on it,” I declare. “I can picture a certain quarterback taking my words of love and support very seriously… maybe responding with a marriage proposal right there on the spot.” I lift my shoulders upward, squeezing them toward my face.

Nadia laughs. “Trust me; there are a lot of encouraging words that I get that I wish I’d never heard.”

“I don’t know how I’d handle that,” I admit.

She shrugs again. “You get used to it. But I don’t know how I’d feel about having the truth pouring out of me at every turn. I mean, not that I’m a compulsive liar or anything, I just keep some things to myself.”

“It’d be nice to have that option, I think,” I tell her. “But like you said, you get used to it.”

“I could get used to those gorgeous eyes of yours,” Nadia smiles at me. “They’re currently hazel. Is there any particular reason for that?”

She plays dumb, which would make me mad if I didn’t already want to tell her. I know she’s trying to give me privacy inside of my head, even though I want her to know.

“It’s probably because I was thinking about my conversation Lucas,” I shrug.

“And?” she nudges.

I frown. “And, he’s very attractive. So what?”

Nadia gives me a ‘duh, stupid’ look. “So, he asked you out on a date during your first conversation.”

“He did not,” I argue.

Nadia beams. “Yes, he did. He wants to take you to see Lynyrd Skynyrd.”

“Oh, please, Nadia. People say crap like that all the time when they find out they have something in common. It doesn’t mean he actually wants to go anywhere with me. Besides, he doesn’t even know me,” I swat a dismissive hand at her.

“Maybe not, but he wants to,” Nadia says coyly.

I give her a look. “Is that a fact, or speculation?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“What do you think?”

There is no possible way that attractive man wants me in any way, shape or form. So, I really don’t want to know if it was a date or not – better to not get my hopes up and oh my God please tell me it was a date please, please, please--

She takes a deep breath, deciding. “I think you want to know.”

I open my mouth to argue, and can’t.

“He has been watching you since he first got here, since you two first locked eyes.”

“We only ‘locked eyes’” —I make quotation marks with my fingers, mocking her—“for like, two seconds when Lydia introduced us, which was only because Zahari and I were walking by when they came into the lobby from outside.”

“Wasn’t there something completely magical in those two frozen seconds?” Nadia prods unfairly.

I choke on my choice of words, before the realest ones come out. “I thought about his face for hours when I tried to go to sleep. It was very cliché, and very stupid, and I don’t want to harp on it anymore.”

“Okay,” Nadia holds her hands up, like a white flag. “I won’t nag you about it. But we both know that Louise will, so keep your guard up around her.”

“I always do,” I promise.

“Then how did she see you naked this morning?” Nadia raises her eyebrows.

“I picture awkward things on purpose.” I grin. “That’s the fun of having friends who read minds.”

“You’re evil,” Nadia laughs.

I’m about to make a really good sarcastic comment when Charlotte dances stylishly into the door, cutting me off right away.

“Georgiaaa,” Charlotte sings, grabbing both of my hands and pulling me out of my chair. “We have a formal dance to plaaan.”

“How did I get roped into this?” I laugh as I stand on my own two feet.

Charlotte is still dancing as she stands in front of us. “Because, you’re my roomie, which means you have to go along with my craziness.”

“In that case, I think you need to move,” I raise my eyebrows.

“Don’t be mean,” Charlotte frowns, still swinging her hips. “You know I make you play along because you’re the closest thing to a sister I have. If you reject me, I’m going to have to ask Zahari, and you know we’re just gonna fight the whole time.”

I sigh, accepting defeat. “Is Lydia still playing rap music upstairs?”

“It’s Black Eyed Peas now,” Charlotte nods to a beat in her head, to the affirmative. “She has such good taste.”

“Indeed she does,” I agree. “Now let’s go plan a party.”

“Did somebody say ‘party’?” a voice from the nearby bookshelves interjects.

All three of us turn our heads, startled.

A boy about my height walks out with a thick graphic novel clutched in his hands. “What kind of party are we talking about? Because, I’m ready to get down with my bad self.” He snorts a laugh, and his hand twitches at his side as if he’s getting ready for a high five.

Lenny.

Leonard Clifton (the Third) is the sweetest boy you will ever meet, but I just get the feeling that he has pulled a Helga Pataki and made a full size statue of my body out of my used gum.

Yeah, I chew a lot of gum. And this kid has got a lot of crazy.

I swallow hard, trying to make my honesty monster behave itself.

“A formal dance,” Charlotte speaks up for me. “Nothing is official yet, so keep it on the down low, if you please, Leonardo.”

Lenny pushes his thin silver glasses frames further up on the bridge of his nose, and chuckles nervously. “Sometimes when you talk, you sound like a rap song, Charlotte.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” Charlotte beams a saccharine smile his way, twisting and pushing me out of the door in one sinuous motion. “See you around, Lenny.”

“See you,” he says, and his tone is wistful.

“Oh my goodness, you and your lyrical voice, Charlotte,” I am laughing as she pushes me up the stairs toward our room.  “He is so in love with you.”

“You’re in denial, gorgeous,” Charlotte snorts. “You’re the one he’s made a shrine to in his bedroom closet.”

“That is just a nasty rumor that Louise started, and you know it,” I wave a finger at her.

“I started that one.” She laughs out loud. “You go ahead and keep on telling yourself that, Georgia.”

“I will keep telling myself that, Charlotte Reese Braxton,” I say, “otherwise I will jump into the shower after each time he looks in my general direction from feeling so creeped out.”

“Thank God you don’t say this stuff in front of him,” Charlotte laughs. “He would never ask a girl out as long as he lives.”

I sigh and scratch my arm. “Maybe I’d be doing the female gender a gigantic favor.”

(Feel free to comment if you like what you read!
See my November 1st entry to start at part one. <3)

“Jonathan LeBlanc, if every man cooked as well as you do, I’d be one happy polygamist,” Zahari says as he hands her a plate of beignets that smell beyond amazing.

“Sugar, you best not tell a man these things,” Jonathan narrows his big chocolate brown eyes and the corner of his full lips curls up in a flirtatious smile. “It gets him to thinkin’. And you know what happens when a man gets to thinkin’, don’t you?”

Z rewards him with childish, snarky wit. “His butt cheeks fall off?”

“Oh, cher,” he says, slapping his forehead. My limited knowledge of French all comes from conversations with Jonathan himself, and I know he’s calling Z ‘dear’. Jonathan’s thick New Orleans accent is alluring, especially paired with his mixture of French and English, and his deep voice. “I s’pose you guessed it.”

“I suppose I did,” Z hooks her nearly black hair behind one ear and gives him a slight smile. The spark between them is palpable, even to a naïve child like myself.

“I do hope you enjoy those beignets, though, cher. I used my grandmother’s recipe – see if you notice a difference from any you’ve ever tasted. I know you will – my Tante Josephine swears by it.” Jonathan wipes a bit of flour from his long black apron. He towers over the two of us, yet I’m not intimidated by him – he has a lovely heart.

“Baby doll, these are the first beignets that will ever touch my lips, and I know without a single doubt that they will be the greatest,” Z lifts one of the powdered-sugar-covered pastries and brings it to her lips.

Jonathan watches intently as she takes the first bite, his big, gorgeous eyes alight with fascinated anticipation. Once again, I am surprisingly grateful that I am not in everyone’s head like my sister and Louise both have to be. This time, I really just want to hear what they want to say out loud, not what they want kept hidden inside.

Zahari closes her eyes and chews slowly, savoring the classic bit of New Orleans culture, and probably enjoying the torture she is inflicting on Jonathan’s psyche at the same time. (She can be evil when she wants to be.)

“Well?” he says, his voice betraying his impatience.

“Well, Johnny boy, I’d have to say that this here beignet is very close to culinary perfection,” Z admits, smiling. She licks a bit of powdered sugar from the corner of her lip and I nearly laugh out loud at the deliberate flirtation.

“Very close to?” Jonathan smirks.

“Well, nothing is perfect, you know,” Zahari explains, “Mostly because I don’t want to know how many calories I just ingested with that one mouthful.”

“Oh, cher, do not worry about that,” Jonathan waves a flour-dusted hand at her. “You are what I consider to be very close to perfection.”

I bite the inside of my cheek in amusement, looking back and forth between them. Zahari lifts only one corner of her mouth, and I know she is very pleased but trying not to show Jonathan just how much he has flattered her.

“Very close to?” she echoes coyly.

“It is as you say,” he shrugs, feigning nonchalance, “Nothing is without flaw. However, if I could call you mon cher, then perhaps I could also consider you to be absolute perfection.”

“Well then.” Zahari says, keeping her cards close to her chest. “So, only things that are yours can be considered perfect?”

“You misunderstand,” he fires back, placing both hands on the table and leaning closer to her, “Others may achieve success on their own, but some can only reach true perfection at another’s side.”

Zahari looks up into his gorgeous face and her expression is taken aback; she opens her mouth to speak but nothing is released. This never happens to Z; she is seriously the wittiest woman I have ever met in my twenty-one years on Earth, and this is the first time in the three years that I have known her that I’ve seen her speechless.

Jonathan winks at her and leaves the table, heading back toward the kitchen from whence he came.

“Oh, my goodness,” I breathe for her. “That got pretty freakin’ intense.”

Zahari shakes her head, and I notice that her cheeks are pink.

“What are you thinking right now?” I ask my best friend, smiling broadly because I have a pretty good idea already.

“That I want to have his babies,” Zahari breathes, hiding her face in her hands.

I burst out laughing. “Right now?”

“Yeah, girl. Right here on the table,” she rolls her eyes, “On his perfect beignets.”

“See, now you gotta go and make beignets sound so dirty,” I scold her, taking one from her plate and taking a bite.

“Damn,” I say, my mouth full. “You are nuts, girl. These are perfect.”

Z gives me a look, and I grin at her with crushed, soggy beignet in my teeth.

“Zahari Elise Oliver!” Charlotte exclaims as she plops down across from us at the table, a plate of maple syrup soaked pancakes clutched in her little white hands. “That is one fine hunk of man you were just talking to. When are you gonna take care of that?”

“She was just talking about having his babies,” I inform her, turning my attention back to my bagel that is loaded with a wonderful mixture of eggs, cheese and bacon in the middle. “So, she’s way ahead of you.”

Z gives me an indignant look, but I know she still loves me.

“Way to go, Zahari,” Charlotte waggles her eyebrows suggestively, and holds her hand way up for a high-five.

Zahari ignores her, and goes back to eating her beignets, so I reach out and slap Charlotte’s waiting hand without looking up from my breakfast.

“So, what are we getting into today?” Lottie asks, cutting into her short stack of fluffy yet drenched buttermilk pancakes.

“Well, I have a meeting with Lydia, but that’s not until seven. And seven-thirty is my memory-sorting class. But other than that, Wednesdays are pretty boring for me, as you know,” I inform her. “I was thinking maybe we could take a drive, check out all the freaking gorgeous trees – maybe bring my camera along to get some autumn shots before all of the leaves fall.”

Charlotte is pretending to snore loudly, her mouth hanging open and her head leaned all the way back, and I scowl at her.

Mockingly, I interrupt her phony sleep,  my tone biting and impatient. “Why, Lottie, what’s your remarkable idea for us to do today? Bungee jumping? Cliff diving?”

“Actually, I was thinkinnnng,” Charlotte draws the word out obnoxiously long, and Z mutters, “that’s never good,” under her breath.

Charlotte rolls her eyes and continues, “I was thinking we should organize some sort of formal dance. I mean, we’re all supposed to be at this super prestigious private college, right? So if we never have picture proof of collegiate events for our Facebook pages, how is anyone supposed to believe us?”

“Nobody I know expects pictures from me,” I tell her. “I was in a psych ward for the first three years of my expected college experience. You don’t take pictures in there. Everybody looks like a bunch of drugged-up monsters.”

“That is not true,” Charlotte argues, mocking me. “I bet you looked very cute with bags under your eyes, talking to yourself, with your loose-fitting clothing and plastic sporks at lunchtime.”

“You’re so cruel,” I laugh despite myself. “But you paint a beautiful picture.”

“Thanks, it’s a gift,” Charlotte shrugs.

“It wasn’t really like that,” Z pipes up finally, snapping out of her Louisiana trance. “I was in there with her, remember? It was just a safe place for us to fall. Although, in the end, they couldn’t ‘cure’ us, which is how we got shipped here. Thank God for Lydia being so in tune with our kind. I swear, I owe her my life.”

“Same here,” I admit. “I am grateful for her involvement at Quiet Creek every single day that I don’t have to be at Quiet Creek anymore.”

“The QC was a cruel mistress,” Z sighs. “I wonder how Carol-Ann is doing.”

“Carol-Ann was a girl in our wing who was constantly on suicide watch,” I answer the question on Charlotte’s pancake-eating face. “She was labeled bipolar schizophrenic, with a side of dissociative identity disorder.”

Charlotte swallows. “Dissociative what?”

“It used to be known as having multiple personality disorder,” I explain. “Her childhood trauma was so bad that her mind split up into like twenty different people.”

“I always liked Felicia,” Z admits. “She was freaking hilarious.”

“Felicia was the mean one,” I roll my eyes. “She was the one that got a kick out of calling us fat.”

“Well, whatever. She was funny anyway. And besides, we ain’t fat,” Z says confidently. “We’re dead sexy.”

“Damn straight,” I agree, high-fiving her.

“Yeah, yeah, curvy girls rule, skinny girls drool; you could use me as a toothpick; why have a twig when you can have the whole tree; eat a cheeseburger – I’ve heard it all,” Charlotte waves off our declaration of chubby girl pride. “Now tell me if this Carol-Ann girl was an Outsider like us.”

“No, Carol-Ann wasn’t an Outsider,” I shake my head. “She was just nuts.”

“She wasn’t nuts, Georgia Lynn,” Z corrects in Carol-Ann’s defense. “She was completely traumatized. Wrecked for life. Her stepfather was a cruel, sadistic bastard who did unspeakable things to her and her younger brother. I’d be nuts, too, if I went through what she had gone through.”

“What happened to her brother?” Charlotte asks, her face wrinkled with concern.

“He shot himself,” I state; the words come out before I can soften them.

“Oh, my God, I didn’t want to know that,” Charlotte blanches. “You couldn’t have shielded me from that ugliness?”

I give her a wry look. “Did you ask me a direct question?”

“Yeah, but…” Understanding lights her face. “Ohhhhh. Right. I’m sorry about that.”

“I forgive you,” I chuckle softly. “It’s easy for others to forget that truth comes out of me like projectile vomit against my will.”

“That’s just gross, Georgia,” Charlotte laughs. “Mm, now let me dig in to these gorgeous, soggy pancakes.”

“That’s what she said,” Z blurts, and we both burst out laughing.

“Sick!” Charlotte chokes. “You guys are sick!”

When the laughter dies down, and I wipe my eyes, I turn to face Charlotte again. “So are you serious about this whole formal dance thing, Lottie? It sounds a little tame for it to be your idea.”

“I resemble that remark,” Charlotte jokes. “But yeah, I am serious about it. I think it would be really fun. We could make it all, magical and whatnot. I was always a loner in high school, so I missed out on all that crap. But I think it’d be fun for us freaks to get all dolled up and dance around all night.”

“Should it have a theme? Like, a masquerade ball?” Z asks, her eyes lighting up with enthusiasm and ideas.

“Yeah, and we should all speak in confusing period English, and go out and marry perfect strangers from rival families against our parents’ wishes,” Charlotte says, all Shakespearean sarcasm.

“Better have an apothecary on speed dial for that idea,” I joke, and Z scowls at me.

“You are both jerks,” she declares disapprovingly.

“And using classic literature to be jerks, no less,” Charlotte holds up a finger, pleased with herself.

“That’s what classic literature was meant for,” a male voice interjects from behind me. Charlotte’s golden brown eyes are wide for unknown reasons and I wonder at whom she’s staring.

“I mean, being a jerk is entertainment, right? And that’s what Will Shakespeare was all about – I’m pretty sure he was a total smartass,” the voice continues as it pulls out a chair right beside me and its owner plops down in it.

“I’d have to agree,” Z speaks up, and I can see she is hiding a huge grin from me. “You read a lot of Shakespeare in your spare time, Mr. Browning?”

My heart seizes at that name, and I’m ticked off at its unwelcome violent reaction.

“I do enjoy the Bard, yes,” Lucas Browning tells my best friend in a voice that’s nearly as smooth as a Frank Sinatra ballad. “I prefer to hear poetry in the form of lyrics, though.”

I swallow, hard.

He’s a musician? Come on, now, that just isn’t fair.

Nadia sits down beside Charlotte out of nowhere, and grins at my most recent thought.

Jerk, I think at her fumingly. You invited him over here just to torture me.

Her lips are still twisted in a smug grin, but she says nothing.

“How about you – Georgia, is it?” Lucas turns his attention on me, and I bite the inside of my cheeks.

“Georgia Freebird,” I hold my hand out to him, refusing to turn my head.

“Freebird, like the Skynyrd song? That’s incredible,” Lucas takes my hand and squeezes it, but I shake his, trying to ignore how warm and scratchy his palm is as it presses against mine.

“Our dad is an absolute superfan of Lynyrd Skynyrd,” Nadia tells him, her musical voice tinged with amusement as I pull my hand away. “He got his last name changed legally to Freebird the day he turned eighteen.”

“That is most likely the greatest thing I’ve ever heard,” Lucas laughs, and the sound is so pleasant to my ears that it makes my stomach twist. “Did you guys ever get to see them play?”

“Dad has, at least ten times,” I speak up, trying to be friendly despite the discomfort I feel. Plus, I have no choice, knowing the question is probably directed at me. “I love them but I was young when he and my mom went to their more recent concerts, and the other times it was before I was born.”

“If you like them at all, you have to see them live,” Lucas tells me, waving his hands for emphasis. “It’s pretty much a redneck festival, but there is nothing in the world like Free Bird live.”

“I know, just the recording I’ve heard of it live is better than anything,” I admit. “I can’t listen to the shorter studio version – it isn’t the same.”

“I know!” he exclaims, squeezing my elbow.

The contact of his calloused fingertips with my bare skin forces me to look over at him, even though after I do, I wish I hadn’t.

His eyes are lit with excitement at our conversation, and are the greenest I’ve ever seen in my life, with just the slightest hint of brown; his hair is medium-dark brown and almost as perfect as Patrick Dempsey’s, and the matching thick stubble all over his perfectly angled jaw makes my stomach flip back to its original place in my guts. And when I realize that the girls have left us completely alone, it twists right back inside out again.

“We should go see them when they come on tour near here,” he is saying eagerly, and I’m trying not to watch his perfect boy lips as they move. “Even if it means we gotta take a road trip. I know hearing Free Bird pouring from those giant speakers for fifteen straight minutes will change your life, because it definitely changed mine.”

His speaking voice is so lovely to my ears, it’s like Michael Buble, John Mayer, and Frank Sinatra had some sort of freaky alien lovechild and he was sitting right beside me going on and on about one of my favorite songs in the universe. It makes my heart pound ridiculously fast, and I wonder what his singing sounds like.

“Do you sing?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

My cheeks burn, and I realize I have let my mouth get ahead of me yet again. “What I mean is, I do, which is why I love music so much, and often if people are music lovers, they tend to be musicians too because they can appreciate it…”

“Yes,” he smiles at me, which is just cruelty to my pulse. “I do sing. Do you?”

“I just said I do, didn’t I?” I tease.

“I didn’t hear it in all the gibberish,” he teases back. “Do you play?”

“No,” I shake my head, surprised by his calling me out. “I wish I did. For now, I can only strum the vocal chords.”

“Sometimes that’s more beautiful than any manmade instrument anyway,” Lucas shrugs.

“Do you play?” I ask, toying with my napkin.

“Yes.” This time, his smile is just a half-lifting of the corner of his lips, crooked and gorgeous, and I swallow hard so that I don’t say anything stupid.

“What?”

“What, what?” he cocks an eyebrow, still smirking at me like I’m a dork.

Which, I am.

“What do you play?” I concentrate very hard on my words so that nothing unnecessary falls out of my mouth.

“Piano, and guitar,” he shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I started piano when I was four, thanks to my father being a piano teacher, and went through my rebellious phase at age thirteen when I first picked up an acoustic. My dad was mortified, but my mother paid for lessons because she didn’t want me living in his shadow.”

“That was a nice life story answer to my question,” I tease.

“Well, it was a loaded question,” he jokes back. “For me, anyway. Music has always been my life. So, in my ears, it sounded like you wanted to hear my life story.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say to him, getting up from the table with my dirty plate and glass in hand.

“Where are you going?” he asks, looking up at me with imploring eyes.

“To put my dishes in the kitchen,” I tell him, which is the simplest version of the truth. “I need to talk to Jonathan – one of the cooks – about something.”

“He your boyfriend?” Lucas asks, too casually.

I half-smile at his transparency. “Now, wouldn’t you like to know?”

 

you're already the voice inside my head.
(i miss you, i miss you.) 

tonight is the kind of night where i want to drink a venti white mocha to make up for the horrible one that i had on my break, dye my hair either bright red or very dark brown and cut it all off (i'm sick of this in between, trying to grow it out, it seriously ain't workin' for me), and then drive until my car dies while blaring blink 182, taylor swift, and the almost. i need to channel this indecisive mess into my writing somehow, so i don't do anything rash, come daylight. though, i guess there are worse things i could want to do. like, 'hey, i think i'll wake up and go find & try some meth'. cutting and dying my hair seems remarkably less...insane. ha.

it's so weird being busy. and i love my job so much that i do not understand what the hell i was doing for all those wasted months just sitting at home being depressed. i guess timing is everything, and i guess i had to go through that boredom to really appreciate what i have now, but i really wonder if i actually needed to experience that or if i just got really scared and lazy.

i think it's the latter.

 

where are you? and i'm so sorry.
i cannot sleep, i cannot dream tonight. 

“Hellooo, Earth to Georgia Lynn,” Louise waves her hand, palm out, in my face, in the present. “What’s going on in there? Did you hear a word I said?”

I smile, taking a moment to pull the most recent recording from the files of my brain. “He had the tree lit with fake candles so it wouldn’t catch on fire, got down on one knee, and said – “

“—please do me the unfathomable honor of showing the rest of the world how incredibly blessed I am to have found and captivated the other half of my wanderer’s heart. I want to marry you, and spend the rest of my life surrounded by your love and matchless splendor,” Wyatt appears at our door with a hand full of picked mums in warm hues, and a brilliant smile on his handsome face.

I blink, and throw a dramatic hand to my chest. “Oh, Wyatt, this is so sudden! But that was an overwhelmingly beautiful and romantic speech. I will definitely marry you.” I hold out my bare left hand and he kisses it, laughing.

“All seriousness, Wyatt, that was incredible,” I tell him.

“Thank you,” he says, taking Louise into his arms. “I’d like to tell you ladies that it was completely spur of the moment, poetry from the heart, but I had practiced it in private for weeks until I got it right.”

Louise looks up at him with incomparable bliss lighting her model gorgeous features, but her eyes take on a teasing glint. “I caught him once, a few days ago. I came into his room to surprise him and heard him – mentally, and verbally – declaring passionate love for himself into his bathroom mirror, and when I walked in… boy, did he ever throw up the mental blocks to keep me away! I tried so hard to get through, but he held his ground so well.”

“When you have a mother who is a reader, you learn a few things about deception and self protection,” Wyatt teases, tapping her button nose with the tip of his index finger.

I smile at the pair, who is as close to perfection as is possible for inconsistent humanity, and excuse myself, for it suddenly feels as if all the air has been sucked from the room and I feel impossible pressure on my lungs.

Charlotte follows me out the door, into the hallway. I can feel that she wants to mutter something sarcastic in my general direction, but the slight pause in continual noise is swallowed up by “jock jams” type synthesizers and more ridiculous throbbing bass beats coming from the surround sound speaker system above our heads.

“Sweet mother of all things precious and sacred, Lydia really needs to get her head examined,” Charlotte scowls. “This is pretty much a dormitory, not a freakin’ skeeze club.”

“I still can’t believe I actually fell for that stupid lie about your age,” I roll my eyes. “You are definitely still a teenager.”

“Seriously, Georgia, get over yourself with that whole thing! I just had to try that epic speech out on someone, and Eleanor told me you were totally gullible,” Charlotte shrugs, unapologetic as usual. “It really wasn’t personal. I would’ve tried it on Nadia, but she’s an elite-class reader. There was no effing way in this whole wide world that I was getting anything past that girl.”

I sigh and huff simultaneously, frustrated that I’m being reminded of all of my insecurities and jealousies in the span of a single hour.

“What?” Charlotte is moving her graceful dancer’s body absentmindedly, like some kind of a music-controlled automaton, to the beat.

“Eleanor is a straight bitch,” I display my true colors once more as they pour out of my angry mouth. “And yeah, Nadia’s awesome, whatever. I’m not in the mood for hearing about all of my flaws and all of the amazing things I lack today.”

Charlotte’s face is befuddled. “Georgia, I didn’t mean anything…”

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration. “I know you didn’t. Just let me be miserable and don’t hate me, okay? I’ll be fine. I think I just need to…”

“—DANCE IT OUT?” Lydia appears out of nowhere and bounces up and down as she ruffles my absurdly thick ponytail. Her enthusiasm is unshakeable.

“Yes, Lydia Grace Noble, I do believe this marshmallow needs to dance this shit out,” I decide on a dime, something that is usually very difficult for me to do. Lydia’s crazy energy fills my limbs with the desire to let myself be carried away by the song.

“Let’s do it then, ho!” Lydia grabs my hand and forces me to move.

Pretty soon Charlotte, Lydia and I are all doing our own interpretation of proper choreography down the hall and toward the dining room, and as I am galloping like a cowgirl on meth – including embarrassing butt slapping, hair swinging, and less than suitable gyrating for mixed company -  I feel a pair of eyes on me. I stop dancing, and I am laughing and panting as I lift my head up to inconspicuously search the room for my stalker, but Lydia breaks my concentration as she shakes her body wildly past me. Charlotte is doing cartwheels, and I join the dance once more, throwing my arm up and pointing to the ceiling as I belt out the chorus. Ample hips attack me during a violent version of the Bump, and I keep singing even as I crack up and recognize the curvature assaulting my personal space.

“Baby girl, you should be arrested for those sexy swingin’ hips,” my new dance partner scolds me playfully.

“I’d say don’t be jealous, but I think we’d be thrown in jail together, sweet cheeks,” I tell her. “Good morning to you, too, Z.”

Zahari smiles at me sincerely. “Every morning where I see your face is a good one, G. What’s with dancin’ it out all skank style? You need to tell me something?”

“No,” I assure her. “They are just the same old complaints – nothing you haven’t heard before.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t hear them again,” Z links our arms and leads me toward the glorious smell of breakfast that’s wafting from the room beyond the epic archway before us.

“I’d rather just drown my sorrows in a bacon, egg and cheese bagel,” I tell her.

She bursts out laughing. “Carbohydrate therapy. You’re speaking my language, baby.” Z lowers her voice as she leans closer to my ear. “By the way, Lucas Browning is staring at you, as usual.”

I try to argue with her, but I look behind her, across her shoulders, to a tall drink of water leaning against the staircase. Before I can turn my mortified head, Lucas Browning tosses a sexy wink my way.

 

It makes me wonder what sort of future he’s seen. 

 

I hear Nadia gasp beside me as we run, though the wind is rushing in and out of my ear canals and mercilessly rustling the leaves on the seemingly endless trees.

“Thank God you can hear him,” Louise sighs over her shoulder, “I was beginning to think I was a complete and total loon.”

“Not this time,” Nadia jokes, running a bit faster to keep in step with Louise.

I know we are getting closer because Lou is holding her head as she runs, as if she’s trying to keep her brain from falling out of her skull. She cries out without any warning, and I drop to the ground.

When I open my eyes again, three wide, concerned pairs of eyes search my face frantically. I wipe my palm across my forehead and let out a groan. My head is throbbing and my chest feels like someone has punched a hole right through the center of it. I am not prepared at all for that kind of unadulterated ache; it is as if I clutched a stripped wire with all my might in my bare, wet hand, letting the current overtake all of my nerve endings. It takes me a minute to remember to breathe.

“What the hay-ull jus’ happened?” Louise’s accent is thicker in her distress, and I smile despite the pain. “One second you were keeping up, and the next, yer on yer back.”

“Did any of you feel that?” I ask, though my tongue feels thick and my lips feel drier than discarded bone lying in desert sand.

“Feel what, Georgia Lynn? We need to keep going, this is serious,” Louise is pacing as Charlotte and Nadia help me to my feet.

“I know you know something, because you screamed right as I dropped,” I tell her, rubbing the back of my head, searching for any blood from my fall.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Louise searches my eyes, probably thinking I’m insane. In that moment, I would kill to be a reader.

“You didn’t yell anything just now?” I ask, massaging my temples.

“Why would I be out here in the middle of the forest screamin’?” Louise’s face is scrunched up in confusion.

My eyes widen. “It was him, then.”

“You heard him screaming?” Nadia asks, searching my face.

“I don’t know,” I frown, “I think I may have felt him… I guess it may have seemed audible – this has never happened to me before. If this is our guy, he’s in some serious pain, though I don’t know if it’s physical. We need to find him. I’m just going to have to grit my teeth.”

The readers pick up their sprint once more, but Charlotte lags farther behind with me, where I am avoiding experiencing that invading sensation again too quickly.

“He’s powerful, Georgia,” she whispers. “If he is tapping into gifts you’ve never used before, or even knew about until tonight, he is formidable. If he’s unfriendly, we need to remember that.”

“Oh, my, gosh; listen to yourself, Lottie – you sound like a comic book character. We’re not superheroes. We don’t have archenemies,” I roll my eyes, though her words sink in and twist my stomach into a hard knot.

“Or do we?” I ask, suddenly uncertain.

“I have no idea,” Charlotte shrugs. “I assume it’s like any other advantage. Money, power, beauty, strength, charisma – all of these things can be abused. Whatever we have – be it supernatural, superhuman, or otherwise, do you think people would hesitate for one second to use these abilities for selfish, personal gain?”

“Maybe for a second,” I say, sarcasm dripping down my chin like juice from a peach – it’s only natural.

“My point exactly,” Charlotte swings her hand about to emphasize her words. “While my gift is rather selfless, don’t think I haven’t done stupid things with it in my time.”

“In your time…? Girl, you make it sound like you’ve been around forever,” I laugh, swatting and scoffing at her solemnity.

But Charlotte remains serious.

“You have been around forever?” I ask her, my voice just above a whisper.

“Not quite,” she smirks.

“How long are we talkin’?” I pry. “Was your mama named Eve?”

Charlotte snickers. “I’ve been around for less than a century, sweetheart; not exactly the several millennia you would require to make your theory plausible. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Well, how freakin’ old are you, then?” I demand, but feel a blush creep on my cheeks. Thank God for the dark. “I mean, no disrespect, or anything. You are my elder and all.”

“Indeed I am, since I will be seventy-three in June,” Charlotte grins.

“Good grief,” I gasp. “So the comment about us girls being plenty old enough to call our own shots…”

“Well, it certainly applies to me,” she jokes. “But on a serious note, Georgia, it is not something I talk about with others. That is to say, it is not common knowledge. People believe that I am only nineteen, and I would really like to keep it that way. It makes it easier to blend in, if I should ever have the need to do so.”

“Okay,” I offer, and we pick up our pace once again to catch up with the readers.

Nadia turns to me, her eyes wide. I can see the question etched on her pupils, simply because I know her so well.

We’ll talk about it later, I think in her general direction. Right now, let’s find this guy before he removes all rational thought from my capabilities.

She nods once, and squeezes my hand. “We’re getting close,” she says softly.

“How are you holding up, Lou?” I ask gently.

Louise looks at me over her shoulder and suddenly I feel this dire need to get to the voice, to reach this man I do not know, to fix whatever is causing him pain. I swallow hard against this new feeling, as its invasion of my privacy is unwarranted and unexpected.

Is this crazy intense empathy my new gift? Why is it happening all of a sudden? Am I finally going all the way insane, instead of just part of the way? I think to myself, rhetorical and bewildered.

Nadia shrugs, automatically. She always answers my innermost thoughts with some sort of external gesture without even meaning to – it’s just a strange habit we have formed over the years.

“There,” Louise breathes out, pointing with her left hand, gripping the upper left side of her chest. Anyone else would assume that this is merely a sign of over-exerting the human heart, but Louise’s loyal hunting party understands what this clutching motion means.

Louise is gesturing toward an ancient oak with a hollowed trunk that looks eerily like the cave in which Yoda lives in Star Wars, Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back. I smirk as I picture a tiny, long-eared, green-skinned creature waddling out to greet us and thank us for our concern. Nadia swats my arm, and I blink in surprise, receiving her motherly scowl with as much grace and maturity as I could muster.

I am about to make a joke despite my carefully crafted adult façade, when a disturbing, guttural groan pours from the hollow tree and reaches our ears as it reverberates through the forest walls.

Each muscle in my body is tense, and I grip Charlotte and Nadia’s hands, hoping to find some comfort from the fear that is gripping me.

Without thought, Louise takes off like a meteorite toward the sound, and Nadia gasps as I follow suit. The tree trunk’s inhabitant is drawing Lou and is drawing me, too, and I cannot resist the urge to help whoever – whatever – waits inside. Whether it’s by proxy from Louise, or originating from the darkness before us, my feet move forward as if they have their own free will to do so, and I have no strength left to fight them. Nadia tries to keep hold of my hand but I pull away, disappearing into the gutted heart of the ancient oak.

Once inside, I smell the damp, earthy scent of the tree’s flesh, and see a faint glow casting our shadows to the dirty ground. The pain flash-burns my insides once more and I close my eyes to try and keep my focus. Another miserable groan hits my ears, much closer and louder this time, and Louise struggles momentarily for breath as her foot hits something large directly in front of us. I force my eyes open, so I can take in whatever happens and commit it to my elephant’s memory.

Louise drops to her knees, her hands instantly pressing gently down on the chest of the man lying on his back before us. His eyes open very slowly, and a large, light hand rests heavily on Louise’s long, slender fingers. He squeezes them tenderly, and the horrifying pain that has my lungs burning suddenly subsides, and is replaced by the pleasant warmth of a fireplace on Christmas morning, with the hint of a whisper of cool, fresh air. My jaw slackens at the contrast, and Louise inhales a sharp breath.

“You came for me,” the man speaks. His voice is quite deep, and unfathomably warm. The tone of it is pure relief, bathed with the heady fragrance of purpose and plan.

Louise nods, stunned into silence by the untainted, innocent pleasure and sweet surprise in his voice.

“I wasn’t sure you would ever hear me,” he says gently. “I have been calling for you since I was born, I think. I can’t remember when I began. I just know I’ve always known you existed.”

“What…” Louise swallows, trying to compose herself. “What do you mean? What’s so special about me?”

“If I am not mistaken,” the man says patiently, “I do believe that you, my dear, are my other half.”

My heart searches his intentions without any forethought on my part, and I find them to be completely wholesome. This empathy, this deep knowing in my gut, feels second nature, as if it’s something I’ve done my entire life. I am flooded with joy at the realization that I probably always have.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the man sits up and keeps her hands within the warmth of his own. “My name is Wyatt Landon Livingston.”

“Sarah Louisiana Nelson,” Louise whispers.

Wyatt kisses her hands. “Beautiful.”