The Other Me Part 16

"Thanks for... before." For rescuing me For rescuing me would sound like I can't handle some hubbly, which I can't because I'm an alien, but there's no way I'm telling him that. would sound like I can't handle some hubbly, which I can't because I'm an alien, but there's no way I'm telling him that.

"If I'd known there was weed-"

"It's okay." I cut him off. It's not, really, and how very not okay it is, is only just starting to sink in. Getting stoned at a party with total strangers is moronic. Even Jordan would agree. "You smoke it a lot?" I hold my breath, waiting for his answer.

"Not anymore. It causes memory loss, and that sucks for me."

"Because you'll forget how to karate chop?"

"Because I'll have a memory lapse in the middle of a sonata."

"You don't look like a typical pianist." Boys who play the piano are usually nerdy and skinny and wear gla.s.ses. They don't listen to heavy metal, paint their nails black, and do karate.

"You don't look like an alien." He gives me that secret smile. My study of his face is interrupted by my cognizance of the word "alien."

"What?"

"When you were high, you said you were an alien." He grins and gives me a wink that turns my blood to syrup and sp.a.w.ns a weyr of dragons in my belly.

"Oh my G.o.d." Another reason why drugs are super dangerous for someone like me. I should've known better. There was an episode of Project Blue Book Project Blue Book last season where Resa got drunk, and his powers got all confused, and he ended up spontaneously changing hair color and almost blew his cover. last season where Resa got drunk, and his powers got all confused, and he ended up spontaneously changing hair color and almost blew his cover.

"Your secret's safe with me." He stretches across the bed and pa.s.ses me my Alice band. "Hungry?"

I nod, unable to speak. He helps me to my feet, and I let my hand linger in his. d.a.m.n, he's gorgeous. He's lean and muscular, with a six-pack and those tapering V muscles that disappear teasingly beneath the band of his shorts.

"I saved you a plate of food." Gabriel leads the way out of the bedroom, which I presume is Dirk's, naked elf maiden and all, and downstairs into the kitchen. It's dark outside, and only a couple of people are still sitting at the pool. Karla is not among them, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

Gabriel walks with his shoulders back and head high, his muscles rippling beneath his tanned skin, his shorts hanging perfectly on his hips just below those two awesome dimples in his lower back on either side of his spine. He looks so content in his skin, and I'm envious.

"What's the time?" I ask as he hands me a plate of potato salad and a boerewors roll.

"Around seven."

"Sleeping Beauty's awake." Dirk strolls into the kitchen. "Those sosaties you brought were lekker lekker."

"Glad you enjoyed them." I stare at the ketchup-smeared sausage on my plate, dreaming of honey-drizzled chicken kebabs.

"I tried saving you one, but these guys are pigs." Gabriel leans onto the counter, hair falling into his eyes. Dirk pretends to punch Gabriel. Gabriel reacts and has him in a headlock in seconds. Watching them laugh and wrestle, I wish I were a boy.

GABRIEL BORROWS BORROWS Dirk's car and drives me home. He puts on Metallica, and I roll down the window, letting the cool night air breeze through my hair. Dirk's car and drives me home. He puts on Metallica, and I roll down the window, letting the cool night air breeze through my hair.

"You should put the window up," he says and slows to a crawl as we approach a red robot.

"Does this car have aircon?"

"No, it's just...." He scans the road, his gaze flicking left and right to the foliage flanking the pavement. The lights turn green and he accelerates, loosening his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel.

"You okay?"

"Fine," he says, although he clearly isn't. The scenario repeats itself every time we approach a red traffic light.

"Are you always this paranoid?" I ask as we roll toward the fifth intersection on red.

"It's the weed."

Somehow I don't believe him, but I don't argue.

We pull into my driveway a full fifteen minutes before curfew. He lowers the volume on Metallica screeching from the speakers and turns to look at me.

"I had a great time," I say.

"Despite getting drugged?"

"Wasn't so bad."

"My friends...." He bites his bottom lip. "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

He looks down and picks at the st.i.tching on the steering wheel cover. "Like that whole cuc.u.mber thing with Karla."

"Oh. That." I'm blus.h.i.+ng.

He flicks damp hair off his face. "We have a bit of a history."

"That much was obvious."

Gabriel gives me a long look, and I think he's not going to say anything more when he eventually starts talking. "We were sort of together for a while last year, and it didn't end well."

"I see."

"Sorry."

"It's okay. Not like I don't have a few exes in the closet either." Why am I lying?

"Really?" He looks curious.

"No, actually," I blurt, and thankfully Gabriel laughs, dispelling the tension.

"I only have two, and that's definitely two too many," he says.

He's only had two girlfriends? I'm not sure if I find it rea.s.suring that Gabriel isn't a slag, or intimidating that his standards are clearly so high he's only dated two girls. Although high standards wouldn't explain Karla. Is that the kind of girl he likes, pierced and safety-pin clad? Why did he go for me, then, and not Jordan?

"Treasa...." He bites his lip as if he's about to say something, then changes his mind. We share a look, and I'm pretty sure we're about to kiss when the kitchen light flicks on and there's a silhouette in the window. Probably Mom making sure I'm not being impregnated. Trust her to ruin this moment when I could've had fireworks and shooting stars and Gabriel's lips on mine.

"I should go." I crack open the door, but he leaps out and insists on holding it open for me.

"I'll SMS you." His voice is double-chocolate fudge. "And I'll see you Thursday for the piano lesson."

"Absolutely." Part of me is still worried he might cancel, like tonight is too good to be true.

He smiles and flicks hair out of his eyes. "Good night, Treasa."

"Night." On winged feet, I skip toward my front door feeling floaty and light-headed, only the world isn't hazy, it's limned in neon.

Gabriel waves to the figure in the kitchen window before reversing out of my driveway, taking a large chunk of my heart with him.

"You're late," Mom says when I walk into the house. From the sound of the juddering pipes, Dad must be in the shower.

"We've been in the driveway for fifteen minutes."

"Your curfew was 8:00 p.m."

I roll my eyes. The digital clock on the microwave reads 20:06.

"Treasa." Mom's about to go all Gorgon on me.

"I had a great time, thanks for asking." I stomp past her and head down the pa.s.sage to my bedroom. G.o.d, I hope she doesn't detect the marijuana in my bloodstream. She follows me, stepping across the threshold before I can close the door.

"I want to talk to you, young lady."

"About what? How Gabriel is obviously going to get me pregnant? Come on, Mom. I'm almost sixteen. Can't I just be in love?"

"You're in love?" She looks horrified, like she might throw up, even.

"Is that so terrible?"

"Not at all." She sits on the edge of the bed, taking a minute to recover. Riker's fast asleep on my pillow. "I just want to know more about this boy, who he is, and who his family is."

"You're being stifling."

"I'm being a mother."

"I'm tired. Can we do this tomorrow?" I need some time to process the almost kiss before I start trying to explain things to my mom.

"Fine, but I want to meet this boy. I have a right to know who my daughter thinks she's in love with."

G.o.d, she can be so condescending. Of course I just think I'm in love because I'm just a teenager, and no one under the age of forty-five could possibly understand their emotions well enough to know what they're feeling is love! I'm fuming, even though I smile and promise to tell her everything tomorrow so she'll leave me alone. She kisses me on the forehead and says good night. An hour later, I'm showered and in pajamas. Dad says good night, and I turn off my lights, shove the cat off my pillow, burrow under the duvet, and wait for Gabriel's SMS.

Gabriel

DIRK DROPS DROPS me off before midnight. The house slumps at the end of a potholed driveway, dilapidated and unloved. Mom loved this house and spent her weekends tending flowerbeds, filling bird feeders, or making clay figurines for the garden. The gnomes she made, and which I helped her place in the flowerbeds along the driveway, are caked in bird s.h.i.+t. One of them lies in ceramic shards where Jean-Pierre reversed over it at Christmas. Only I seemed to care. me off before midnight. The house slumps at the end of a potholed driveway, dilapidated and unloved. Mom loved this house and spent her weekends tending flowerbeds, filling bird feeders, or making clay figurines for the garden. The gnomes she made, and which I helped her place in the flowerbeds along the driveway, are caked in bird s.h.i.+t. One of them lies in ceramic shards where Jean-Pierre reversed over it at Christmas. Only I seemed to care.

Lights flicker through the lounge window. My father must still be awake or pa.s.sed out in front of the television. I stalk around back, through the darkness-drenched garden to the kitchen door. From there, maybe I can sneak up to my room.

My father's in the kitchen making a sandwich, and I'm caught like soon-to-be-roadkill in headlights. "There a problem with the front door?" he asks, and pops a slice of polony into his mouth.

"No."

"Good party?" he asks as if he cares, smearing Mrs. b.a.l.l.s across the bread.

"Ja, I guess."

"You been drinking?" He turns to face me.

"Why, have you?"

He takes three steps toward me and grabs my s.h.i.+rt, sniffing around my face.

"Jesus, I haven't been drinking." I shove him off me, and he grabs my wrist, inspecting the chipped varnish on my fingers.

"What the h.e.l.l is this?" He squeezes so hard it hurts.

"It's nothing." I try to pull away, but his grip is a vise. "Marlize did it, just for fun."

"Playing dress up with little girls now?"

What the h.e.l.l is this about? So I usually remember to soak my fingers in acetone before my father sees any trace of polish. I never thought he'd freak out like this.

"It's just nail polish. It doesn't mean anything," I say, still trying to wiggle free.

"No son of mine...." His favorite phrase these days.

"I wish I wasn't your son." Somewhere inside me, a dam breaks, and the words rush in a torrent I can't control. "You should've been in the car that night. It should've been you with a bullet in the head bleeding out on the side of the road. You should've died." I shove him away, but he's still got my wrist. Instinct kicks in, and I go through the motions of practiced defense movements.

Despite my father's extra weight, taking him down should be easy enough. Part of me registers the hard kitchen tiles and the damage they'll inflict if I use full force to pin him down. My hesitation results in a moment of imbalance. We go down together, and my father's flailing fist catches me square on the cheek. I squirm and roll away as he lies winded on the floor. My face throbs. Gingerly, I explore my cheek. It's going to leave one h.e.l.l of a bruise.

My father grunts as he rolls to his knees. He meets my gaze, and there's genuine surprise in his eyes. Guess he didn't expect so much fight from a moffie piano player. I peel myself off the floor and head to my room. I lock the door behind me, his shouts fading.

The reflection in the mirror has a lopsided face already swelling up on the right. I should put ice on it, but I want it to hurt. I need the pain. No matter how much I wish my father hadn't had one too many beers that night, no matter how much I wish it was him in the car attacked by hijackers, no matter how much I wish he could trade places with Mom, none of it matters because it's not my father's fault. It's mine.

I was a selfish and stupid kid, sneaking out to a party all the cool kids were going to. After a week of arguing with my parents, they still said no to me going to a party where there'd only be older sibling supervision. So I lied, told them I was going to Dirk's house for a sleepover, and instead I wrangled a lift from a friend's older brother to Claudia's birthday party. Claudia was my first real crush, and I wanted to prove to her that I wasn't the cla.s.s nerd, that I could be cool like the rest of the boys fawning over her. Truth is, the party was terrible. I spent most of it sitting in the corner wis.h.i.+ng the party would end. Claudia didn't even know I was there.

Apparently, I forgot my pajamas, and Mom called Dirk's mom and found out where I was. My father was over the legal limit and couldn't drive. My folks had an argument, and Mom ended up driving out to Claudia's house alone. There was no way I could've known three guys in balaclavas would be waiting at that deserted intersection for the lights to turn red, no way to know they'd shoot my mom for her car keys, only they did, and it was Dirk's mom who eventually came to pick me up. The rest of that night and the next few days are a blur I'm happier not remembering.

I quit pacing and rifle through my desk drawer for the Bic lighter I know I've got buried in there. The flame dances above the spark wheel, and I roll up my shorts, revealing a cl.u.s.ter of scars on my inner thigh. It's ironic they call these smileys.