| |
“Huh?” Ophelia lifted her gaze to see a very tall, thin boy holding open the door for her.
“I am Brandon Kelly.” His blue eyes were so familiar, and yet she’d never seen him before that she could remember.
At first, she took him for an albino with pale skin and very light blond hair. His hair was neatly combed back from his oval face and clipped shoulder-length, covering his ears. His eyes shone big in wonder, like he’d never seen a girl before.
“Hi.” Ophelia’s attention went to his clothes next, though her mind snagged on an accent in his voice, too. Cute accent.
Brandon did not wear a coat, or even a sweater, as though he could not feel the cold. He wore a brand new black, gray, and white plaid flannel shirt and black jeans. It was obvious they were new because a price tag dangled from his elbow and the jeans still had the sizing sticker down the leg. The shirt was tucked in and the belt had an enormous silver buckle.
He’s so cute; maybe it doesn’t matter if he can’t dress himself. Ophelia didn’t look back at Brandon as she walked into the school. “You must be a foreign exchange student. Isn’t it a little late in the school year for you to start?”
“You still do not realize?” He followed closely.
“Realize what?” Ophelia looked up at him as he fell into step with her. “Wait, have we met before?” She stopped him at the elbow and found it ice-cold. “You’re freezing. You really should put on a coat. This is Alaska, you know.”
“Oh.” Brandon looked at her hand on his elbow. “Yes. I am cold.” He wrapped his arms around himself. “Brr.”
“Did you say you’re from Wales?” She let go of his arm and tried to remember when he’d mentioned it before.
“Yes.”
Ophelia walked on. “I’d love to visit Wales.”
Brandon leaned over and studied her face as she turned aside to her locker. “I can escort you there. You will be safe.”
“It’s very sweet of you to offer.” Ophelia found no drawing inside her locker and swallowed the disappointment. Shoving in her messenger bag, she pulled out her calculus textbook. “I’m going to be an archaeologist. Brown University has a program where undergrads can work with real archeologists on digs in Europe during the summer. Have you ever visited Stonehenge?”
“No. I’m afraid not.” Brandon examined his locker next to hers from top to bottom. He pulled on the latch. “I’ve had a rather isolated existence.”
“Like this.” She slipped a finger under the latch and lifted up. “You’ll have to buy your own lock.”
The door opened, and Brandon appeared genuinely delighted. “Ah, thank you.”
“They don’t have lockers in Wales?”
“Not at my school.”
“Oh.” Ophelia pointed at the price tag dangling off his elbow. “You might want to take that off or people will tease you, the sticker on your leg, too.”
Brandon looked down at himself. “I do wish to be attired in keeping with this culture.”
“Okay.”
This guy was more than a little bit strange. Maybe English wasn’t his first language.
Ophelia had read that Welsh was a beautiful language, but she’d never heard anyone speak it, even in the movies. There were bound to be some mistranslations. She glanced around and ripped off both tags. “Now, untuck your shirt, mess up your hair a little and you’re good to go.”
Brandon yanked out the plaid, so it covered his ridiculous belt buckle. He raked long, pale fingers through his hair. “Better?”
“Much. Most guys around here wear sweatshirts or long-sleeved t-shirts. Only the old guys wear flannel or plaid.” Ophelia propped her books on her hip.
Brandon quickly unbuttoned his shirt, peeled it off to reveal a light gray long-sleeved t-shirt. “I am not old. Is this more suitable?”
“Yeah, and you should get rid of the belt buckle while you’re at it. Only guys with beer bellies wear those things.”
Brandon unfastened it and tossed it and the plaid shirt into his locker. “I do not drink beer. Am I acceptable now?”
Ophelia nodded and closed her locker. “Now, my sister won’t gag when she sees you. One time, I tried to wear a pocket protector for my Sharpie pens. Bianca yanked it out, hurled it to the floor, stomped on it, and threw it into the fireplace. She lost driving privileges for a month over all the cuss words she yelled at me. What’s your first class?”
“Calculus.” Brandon followed her.
“Mine too. I’ll show you the way.”
“Thank you.” Two steps with her and his attention snagged on something red and he turned to examine a fire alarm high on the wall. “Pretty.”
Ophelia caught his cold hand reaching for it. “Oh, Brandon, don’t touch.”
He gaped at her like a toddler being harshly told ‘no.’ “I’m sorry.”
“Mrs. Brynner will eat you alive if you set off the fire alarm. She absolutely hates it.” Ophelia let go of his hand. “We never have drills because of it and she gets away with that because her husband’s the only cop around.”
“The Brynners would not find me edible.”
“I just meant you’d get in trouble.”
“Of course, you are the Sweet. Please, forgive me.”
“The Sweet? Um, thanks, I guess.” Ophelia’s mind instantly cross-referenced to something Martin said. You are so sweet, and I am so hungry.
“I am at least as powerful as Martin.”
“You are?” She scrambled to register his words somewhere in her chaotic thoughts.
“You do not understand?”
“I’m sorry. I guess I don’t. I’m only fluent in Russian, Japanese, and Klingon. I’ve never even heard Welsh spoken before.” Ophelia led the way into the classroom and did not find Adrian there. Where is he?
“I do not know. You speak Russian?”
“Well, yes, the United States bought Alaska from Russia.” Ophelia proceeded to her desk in the back, searching for any trace of Adrian. “We have a huge Russian population and our state trades with Russia a lot. Japan, too.” She sat at her desk and eyed the clock. Mom and the Langdons ought to be at Hatchet Pass by now.
Brandon sat down in the desk beside her, the one usually occupied by Trevor.
“Uh, that’s...”
Trevor started down the aisle, saw Brandon, and stopped. He pointed at the desk on the other side. “Is Adrian coming?”
“Yes,” said Ophelia, quickly. “Brandon, that’s Trevor’s seat.”
“It’s okay.” Diverting his eyes, Trevor found another seat, like a deer sensing a predator in the trail heads down another path.
Is Trevor actually intimidated by Brandon? Ophelia studied her new friend’s big, eager eyes. Looks like a lost puppy to me. She shrugged a shoulder, opened her book, and read the next section.
You like puppies?
“Hmm?” Ophelia looked at Brandon again. “Oh, yes, we have lots of dog mushing families around here, even some Iditarod dogs. My dog is an Alaskan Husky named Kiska.”
“Yes, he is a good dog. I have always wanted a dog.”
The tardy bell rang.
She released a tense breath. She’d avoided Martin in the hall once more. But, where’s Adrian?
“Why are you unhappy?” Brandon leaned over his own book and studied her face.
“Oh, it’s nothing.” Ophelia took a deep breath and let it go. “My dad is missing, and now so is my boyfriend.”
“Your father is diabetic, as well?”
Ophelia fingered her medical alert bracelet. “Type 1 runs in my family.”
“I would find him for you, but my place is at your side.”
“It is?” Ophelia shrugged off his odd sentence as another mistranslation. “Yeah, you’d probably get detention if you skipped out on you first day of school.”
“Miss Dawson.” The teacher bent over his attendance sheet on his desk. “Will Adrian Grayer be joining us today?”
“I don’t know.” Okay, my relationship with Adrian is a given already.
“Thank you.” The teacher jotted down Adrian’s name. “Can you assist Mr. Kelly if he needs it? We really don’t have time to slow down for a new student at this point. I’ll catch him up after Christmas break.”
“Of course.” It struck Ophelia as odd that Brandon was in Calculus to begin with. She peered at him out of the corner of her eye. Looks barely old enough for pre-algebra. In any case, a boy who couldn’t figure out how to open his own locker surely wasn’t ready for higher math.
“Good. I know you’ve all been looking forward to this exam.” The teacher’s attempt at sarcasm solicited groans from most of the class. He stood up and turned around to write on the chalkboard.
Brandon took out a notebook and mechanical pencil.
Ophelia readied herself to provide him with an inordinate amount of help. Maybe his academic records were mistranslated. Maybe I should talk to Mr. Smith about it.
Brandon tapped the end of the pencil. Nothing happened. He tapped it again.
She reached over and held out her hand. “May I?”
“Please.” Brandon handed her the pencil.
“Like this.” Ophelia tapped the eraser end and a new lead popped out the writing end. “See?”
“Yes, thank you.” Brandon took the pencil and set about taking notes.
Time passed in an agonizing crawl after that, settling into a nauseating mass in her stomach. Her father, Adrian, the bruise on Katelyn’s face, the images crowded into a dark cloud in her mind.
At one point, Brandon’s handwriting drew her attention. His hand moved so fast it was practically a blur. He noticed her and stopped.
Ophelia leaned over and discovered he’d already worked out the problem scrawled on the chalkboard and his answer was perfect. An autistic savant?
Ripples passed through Ophelia’s field of vision. Oh, no. A massive pain rolled through her head, an almost audible scream. Wide awake, she saw a vision like something out of a dream, or a nightmare, her mother screaming, her screams escalating into shrieks.
A bear loomed large near her. In protectiveness. Not attack.
“Ophelia.” Brandon touched cold hand to her shoulder.
“Sorry. I’m getting a migraine.” I hope that’s all it is. I really do not want to go hypoglycemic today.
“No. It is not a headache. What do you see? What do you hear?”
Ophelia dropped her pencil and pressed her fingers to her forehead. Well, this is turning into the crappiest day of my life. She’d have to go home. She wanted to go home anyway. Now, I have to get the teacher’s attention and ask to be excused. Already his voice sounded like a broken trumpet in her head. She did not relish deliberately communicating with him.
She held out as long as she could, the ripples in her field of vision grew into a blur. She was going to pass out. She couldn’t tell how much time passed. She tried to raise her hand.
Someone knocked on the classroom door and a second later, Mrs. Cox walked in, face ashen and peasant skirt shaking around her ample hips.
Mr. Smith met her just inside and whispered.
Mrs. Cox and the teacher both looked at her.
And Ophelia knew. My dad is dead. Uncontrollable shakes seized her body and she cupped a hand over her mouth. She realized she had fallen out of her seat only when her butt hit the floor.
Mrs. Cox hugged her close. “Your father’s passed away.”
Why are you telling me? He’s dead. I know he’s dead.
“Oh, sweetie, I am so sorry. He was such a great dad and wonderful teacher. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for his kids.”
Someone said, “Oh, crap,” and another one of her classmates uttered, “Aw, geez.”
“Bi...anca.” She managed to squeeze out her restricted throat.
“Mrs. Langdon is taking care of her and your mother. Come on.” Mrs. Cox tried to help her stand.
“What happened?” Ophelia’s head whirled in blackness and gray which spread throughout her body.
“Ran off the road up Hatchet Pass.”
But, Ophelia couldn’t. She tried to stand up, but she just couldn’t.
“I can carry her,” said Brandon.
Suddenly, strong, but very cold arms gathered her into a cradle hold and lifted her against an equally cold chest.
“Brandon, you’re so cold.” Ophelia laid a hand against his chest.
“My husband keeps an extra coat in the car he can borrow.” Mrs. Cox hurried them down the aisle. “Come on. We need to get you home. Your mother needs you.”
Brandon carried her out behind Mrs. Cox.
Ophelia tried to swallow her grief, but it ripped out of her chest in a little cry just as Brandon set her in the back seat of Mrs. Cox’s station wagon.
“Oh, you poor thing.” Mrs. Cox elbowed past Brandon, reached into the very back and pulled a quilt over Ophelia. She pushed her into the middle of the back seat and fastened the safety belt. “There you go. Everything will be all right. The Langdons and my husband and I are going to take care of your family.” She wiped her face. “You’re such a good girl.” She backed out of the small space and stood beside the car. “Such a terrible tragedy to happen to such a wonderful family.”
“Ophelia is my friend,” said Brandon. “May I come along?”
“Of course, we may need your strong arms again, such a nice boy,” Mrs. Cox, patted his back as he slid into the car.
Brandon sat beside Ophelia.
Emotion curled up her nostrils. “Brandon.” Little sharp breaths seized her words. “Put your seatbelt on.”
“Okay.” He pulled it over his lap but couldn’t seem to find the buckle.
Ophelia reached out of the quilt and fastened it for him.
“Ah, like on the airplane. Thank you.”
The wheels screeched on the ice and slid a little as Mrs. Cox drove them through the neighborhood, toward home. “We all knew your father was ill, but we really thought we’d have him around a while longer.”
“My father was destroyed by Newbloods as well,” mumbled Brandon, staring out his window.
His words made little sense to Ophelia, but she saw grief in his eyes.
“Your father...” said Mrs. Cox in a low tone “...was a prince who regarded our kind as equals. It is our duty and an honor to look after you and your sister and mother now.” She glanced back. “We owe him so much.”
The strange words scarcely coalesced in Ophelia’s mind, mired down in thick waves of numbness or cold.
A second after they rounded the corner playground, Ophelia saw Bianca’s sewing machine crash through her bedroom window, sail over the yard, and smash on the street beyond.