Sometimes the more a person talks, the less you want to listen. Even when he speaks without making a sound.
“This legislation will lead to more jobs for the middle class—this country needs to move forward, not backward.” Pappa’s voice drones on and on, flowing from the surround sound system in our living room like the underground river in Altum. Slow. Deep. Never-ending.
I reach over and click the remote, and the image of his unnaturally young, unusually handsome face disappears from the big screen, the manufactured smile and slick speech replaced by soothing blackness and quiet.
“Why’d you do that?” Carter whips his head around to face me across the low table where we’re working together, surrounded by piles of books and trays of snacks prepared for us by Edda, my family’s chef.
I shrug, not taking my eyes from my laptop, continuing to peck away at the art history senior paper Carter should be working on as well. Instead, his eyes have been glued to the TV for the past ten minutes.
“It’s distracting,” I say. “And boring.”
“It’s not boring. It’s awesome your dad’s on TV all the time.”
Finally I look up. “It was awesome when I was thirteen. Now—it’s boring.”
Carter throws his hands up in an exaggerated pose of surrender. “Well excuse me for being impressed, Miss I-Have-Mansions-In-Two-States-And-Had-Dinner-At-The-White-House. Some of us country bumpkins could listen to him talk all day.”
I gesture toward the row of floor-to-ceiling windows that look out from the living room over our manicured suburban neighborhood. “Atlanta is hardly the country. And you’re not a bumpkin. And you wouldn’t be saying that if you actually lived with him in those two houses and had to listen to him talking all day.”
Carter shakes his head, the light blue of his eyes matching the color of his frayed button down. “No. He’s not like other dads.” Rolling his pen between his fingertips, he looks up at the soaring cathedral ceiling, obviously searching for words to explain the unexplainable. “Your dad’s so... so...”
I know it’s the glamour at work, and like all the other humans in our sphere, Carter can’t help himself, but still, his reaction to Pappa’s televised interview is bugging me. It makes me feel sorry for my new friend. It makes me feel guilty.
I lighten my tone a few degrees, adding a note of humor. “You’re kind of creeping me out here with the hero worship.”
Now his gaze comes back to me along with a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Not being weird. You know I want to go into politics, so to me, he is kind of a rock star. I guess to you he’s just ‘Dad.’”
“Exactly.”
Only he isn’t.
Pappa adopted me five years ago after my parents were killed in a small plane crash. He doesn’t feel quite like a father—I remember what a real father feels like—but I’m lucky to have him as a guardian. There aren’t many people (especially among our people) who’d take in a stray teen girl and raise her as their own.
“Anyway, you’re not getting any work done with the TV on. And we’ve only got a few days left to finish this. So get on it.” I lift my hand and flip it, making a cracking noise with my mouth to approximate a whip.
Carter flinches and laughs, places both palms on the table between us, and drops his face to his knuckles in a reverent bow. “Yes, master.”
I laugh along, but only weakly, as a sick twinge hits my stomach. I don’t like the sight of him bowing to me. It’s too close to what Pappa actually believes all the humans should be doing.
Of course, Carter has no way of knowing about that, and he can never know. I’m not even supposed to have friendships with humans, much less confide in them.
Pappa would probably flip if he knew Carter was even in our house right now. But he insists on my going to school with them—public school of course—man of the people and all that politician garbage—so he’ll just have to put up with it when I have a partner on a project. The school library where Carter and I have been working together closes at three-thirty, and I have no doubt Pappa would like me going over to a human boy’s house even less.
“They’re only interested in one thing, Vancia,” he’s constantly warned me. “And that’s the one thing you absolutely must not give them. You know the consequences.”
Oh, I know. Believe me, I know. How could I not, when it’s been preached to me so often? Our kind have one partner for life. Separation from that partner results in the mark—and a solitary life for eternity.
Though eighteen is the age of bonding for us, we all get The Talk in early childhood because even before our eighteenth birthdays, if we choose to bond ourselves with someone, that’s it. No take-backs. No oopses.
I glance up to check that he’s working and can’t help but smile at Carter’s concentration face as he scribbles in his notebook. The tip of his tongue is in the corner of his mouth, and his light brown hair is flopped to one side, revealing cute little frown lines across his tanned forehead.
A sweet warmth spreads through my chest, and I pull my gaze away, forcing it back to the screen in front of me where it belongs. No point in looking. A human—like Carter for instance, with his short human lifespan—would be a tragically bad oops.
* * *
I hear Pappa come in long before Carter does. Of course, he’s calling to me in the Elven way, so Carter can’t hear him at all.
Vancia? Are you home? Where are you?
In the living room, I answer without making a sound. And I have company.
Now he repeats his question, using his voice this time. “You home Vancia?”
I scoot further away from Carter as I hear Pappa’s quick footsteps echo through the marble foyer, hurrying toward the living room.
He steps into sight, surveying the wide open, sunlit space, his eyes dropping to me and Carter sitting on the carpeted floor at opposite ends of the low wooden coffee table, our shoes kicked off, our school papers intermingling. From the expression on his face, you’d think he caught us half-undressed in a lip lock.
Both Carter and I scramble to our feet, and my heart stops at the look Pappa directs toward him. It makes me feel like throwing myself in front of Carter—like I’m taking a bullet or something, but I hold my ground.
“Hi Pappa. I didn’t think you’d be home for a while. We saw you on the news.”
“That was recorded,” he growls, never taking his eyes from my project partner.
“Pappa this is—”
“Carter Fields.” Carter steps forward with his hand extended. He’s got stars in his eyes as big as our TV screen, but I’ll give him credit. Most humans who find themselves face-to-face with Davis Hart, Senior Georgia Senator and Science and Technology Committee Chairman, are speechless for a few minutes. Maybe Carter’s debate team experience is coming in handy. “It’s an honor to meet you sir,” he adds.
Pappa must be surprised as well because the frown drops momentarily, and he grips his hand and shakes it. At the appearance of Carter’s charming dimples, my father’s scowl returns.
A few monosyllabic answers later, my project partner apparently gets the No Trespassing message. “Well, I guess I’d better get going. My mom will have dinner ready soon. It was nice to meet you sir.”
Pappa nods, and I come quickly to Carter’s side, helping him gather his papers and books so he can stuff them into his backpack.
“I’ll walk you to the door.” Pulling Carter along with me, I speed-walk toward the foyer and open the front door to the view of a wide double staircase flanked by stately planters overflowing with blooms. At the bottom, in our circular drive, Carter’s old Jeep looks sorely out of place parked next to my convertible Mercedes and Pappa’s new Bentley.
“Sorry about the cold front back there,” I say as we step outside together.
He blows out a whistling breath and nods. “An ice storm is more like it. He’s different than he is on TV, huh? Does he always act like that when you have someone over?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never had anyone over before.” Great. That was stupid. Not only am I the weird art geek girl, now he knows I’m friendless as well.
Carter’s puzzled expression warms into a pleased grin. “So, I’m the first guy who’s been to your house then.”
Not the reaction I was expecting. His flirty tone makes me suddenly aware of the humid warmth of the evening air. What does it mean? Does he talk like that to all girls or is it actually something to be worried about?
We’ve been working together after school on our senior project for about two weeks now, and what started out as awkwardness has turned into a fun daily exchange of ideas and jokes... and sometimes long, loaded glances. Or maybe they’re only significant on my end.
I study his face, trying to calm my racing pulse and wishing I could read his thoughts. Unfortunately, that’s one thing we can’t do. Some of my kind can read emotions, which is pretty close, but I don’t have that glamour. Mine is artistic giftedness, which is almost laughably useless. Reclusive artists aren’t exactly the poster children for winning fans and influencing people.
I know Pappa would rather I had some really badass glamour like hypnotic musical ability, or acting or athletic prowess, so I could be groomed for celebrity and have a fan pod of my own, do my part to advance The Plan. I can almost feel his disappointment when he walks into my painting studio and looks around, as if he’s thinking What am I supposed to do with this?
Like all of my people, I have the Sway, but mine seems rather weak compared to the others I know. Or maybe I just haven’t tried very hard to convince people to think or do things they otherwise wouldn’t. Another disappointment to Pappa, who is the king of Sway. He could convince a cattle rancher convention to go vegan.
It might be worth it to use whatever Sway I do have on Carter now—nip this in the bud—if there even is a this. But when I open my mouth to do it, I find myself unwilling to influence him after all, so I try subtle redirection instead.
“Usually when I study with someone, I do it after school in the library, like we’ve been doing. We can work there tomorrow again—I think we got enough done today that we’ll wrap it up on time.”
“I don’t mind coming back here. Your old man doesn’t scare me.” Carter’s face breaks into a sunny smile, showing me that he knows how ridiculous his tough talk sounded.
What he doesn’t know is that he should be scared of Pappa. And he’d be terrified if he knew how old my “old man” really is.