Sleight (9 page)

:11:

A hidden connection is stronger than an obvious one.

—Heraclitus of Ephesus

When lunch arrived, I was ravenous. Again. Al this moving around between classes, coupled with my nerves on edge, and I was burning more calories than normal. Even though oatmeal was supposed to be one of those foods that, as Aunt Marlene would say, “sticks to your ribs,” my guts were growling. Henry materialized at my locker and asked me to join him in the cafeteria.

As Junie was nowhere to be found, and Henry didn’t seem to have a huge crowd folowing him around begging for his lunchtime company, I agreed.

“Aren’t your friends going to be annoyed that you’re totaly blowing them off?” I said. I didn’t want him to feel obligated to eat with me.

“Gemma, please—stop acting like a charity case. I don’t usualy eat lunch, so having an excuse to come in and chil for a while is nice. This is a selfish thing. It’s al about me, didn’t you know that?” I snickered. If he wanted to hang out with me, I took no responsibility for the damage to his reputation. Besides, at least with him leading the way, I wouldn’t sit down on someone else’s turf. I might risk attack by a pompom or knock-off Prada handbag.

As we stood in line for the sandwich bar, Ash skulked in and bought an apple and a Coke, and left as quickly as he’d appeared.

Likely headed for the smokers’ lounge. The heavy door hadn’t even clicked behind him when Summer Day and another girl, dressed in copycat emo attire, skip across the lunchroom and head out the same way. I laughed out loud.

“What’s so funny?” Henry said.

“Ash has admirers already. They just folowed him outside.”

“Let me guess—Summer Day and her devotee Ivy, no less?”

“Yeah. How’d you know? And Summer’s friend’s name is Ivy?

Doesn’t anyone give their kids normal names anymore?”

“Uh, Gemma, I don’t know. You tel me,” he said, teasing me with my own social commentary.

I leaned closer to Henry, resisting the urge to put my hand on his arm. “Is there gossip already about Ash and Summer?”

“No, I just saw her this morning at his locker. They were talking.

Ash even smiled at her, which is more than I’ve managed from him,” Henry said.

“I don’t think you’re Ash’s type. No boobs.”

“Oh, right.”

“She must be going out to bum a smoke and bask in his presence,” I said. “Interesting.”

“Jealous much?” Henry raised his eyebrow at me.

“Um, about smoking with Ash, or basking in his presence?”

“Either. Both.”

“First, I don’t smoke. Second, I’ve basked in the glory of Ash Thomassen long enough. Gave me a sunburn. Besides,” I said, “Ash is waayyy too ful of himself to take note of anyone else. It’s hard work being a death-defying trapeze flyer by day and self-obsessed Casanova by night.”

We proceeded with our trays to an open table. “Wel, it’s good for Summer to have someone to folow around, even if she does look like a lost puppy,” he said.

“What, you’re teling me the guys aren’t faling al over those tattooed knuckles and lip piercings?” I was starting to sound like Becca Bristol.

I surveyed the room while we ate, taking in the various cliques, wondering what it was that made people find each other and stick together. The clusters around the cafeteria weren’t so different from the cliques formed in the circus world—the geeks, musicians, drama nerds, popular kids. I saw Junie perched on the back of a chair, surrounded by a colection of very squeaky, very shiny girls, al of them flashing painted nails and coordinated outfits, giggling, oohing and ahhing over Junie’s story of her high-flying adventures. It made me smile to see her so happy.

Henry polished off the last bite of his sandwich and stacked our plates into the center of the table. He then gave the tabletop a swipe with a napkin before wadding it up and pushing the trays aside.

“You and Junie are like sisters, aren’t you,” he said, his eyes folowing what had captured my attention.

“Yeah, pretty much. But I’m glad to see she’s making new friends who want to share her enthusiasm for TeenBeat and pajama parties. It gets a little old being so frou-frou al the time. She’s such a girl.”

“What, are you a boy in disguise?”

“No, I’m just not…fluffy. Or pink.”

“Hmm,” he chuckled and leaned forward onto the table, his voice quieter. “Gemma, can I ask you a personal question?”

“You can try…”

“Where are your folks? Why do you live with the Cinzios?”

“That’s two,” I said. He smiled and looked down at the table. I didn’t mind sharing, as long as he didn’t nod off listening to my response. “My mom, Delia, she died on Christmas Eve.”

“Oh,” he said, “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. I’m dealing. Marlene and Ted have been my guardians for years, though. Since I was little. My mom was unwel.”

“So, the Cinzios are like family friends?”

“Yeah, sort of. Their son Jonah was Delia’s fiancé. He died a few weeks before they were supposed to get married.”

“Wow, that’s right. I think I remember hearing about Jonah,” Henry said, his brow crinkled. “How did he die?”

“He was working for another circus, and one of the riggings for the big top came loose during set-up and hit him, broke his neck.

My mom fel apart and spent some time in a hospital psych ward.

When they released her, said she was ‘cured,’ she had no place to go. Aunt Marlene and Uncle Ted totaly adored her—plus, she was the reminder of their lost son—so they took her in. I think Marlene sort of adopted my mom to heal the hole in her own heart left by her son’s death.”

Henry turned his chair so we were facing straight on. He crossed his legs and leaned forward on his arms, his face intent on mine.

While I appreciated his concentration on my story, it made me a little self-conscious that he wanted to hear about my life. It wasn’t as though I didn’t have my own basket of questions colecting about Henry, though.

“And your dad?”

“What’s to say other than I don’t know. No one’s ever realy been able to answer that question for me. My mom had a LOT of boyfriends, and apparently she begged off to Europe for six months after Jonah died. Came home pregnant. So my dad is some unknown mystery dude. Probably someone she met in a bar,” I said.

“How’d your mom die?”

I was a little thrown by al of his questions…especialy this one. I hadn’t talked about it, about Delia’s suicide, to anyone other than Marlene. And even then, the conversations had been limited.

I looked down and picked a fleck of dirt off my Converse. “You realy want to know?”

“If it’s too personal…I’m sorry. I don’t want to be rude.”

“No, it’s just sort of embarrassing, I guess.” I sat back and grabbed a clean napkin. “She, um, kiled herself. In the mental hospital. Where she was supposed to be safe. And monitored.” I folded the napkin into a flimsy paper airplane.

“Geeze…I’m so sorry, Gemma.” He looked crushed.

“Please, Henry…don’t, okay?”

“You’ve had a shitty few months. And I’m asking al these dumb questions, making you live it al over again,” he said.

“No, it’s fine. It’s good for me to talk about it. It gets easier every time I say it out loud.”

“And now al this, too…” He gestured at the lunchroom space.

“Yeah, this school thing has definitely made it weirder, but whatever. I just do what I’m told.”

“I know the feeling,” he laughed under his breath. “I’l bet you miss her.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I didn’t spend a lot of time with her, but she was stil my mom. She was cool in her own strange ways. She was an artist, loved to draw. She was realy talented. Mostly incomplete scribbles of the man she said was my father, but who knows. When she got realy sick, Aunt Marlene just took over. She put me in tutoring with the other kids and got me going on the violin. In hindsight, it was briliant of Marlene to keep me so busy. I didn’t have time to notice that my mother was unraveling.”

“I’m realy sorry for you. It must be hard to have grown up without your mother.”

I found his comment ironic; it was my understanding that his own mother was no longer alive. But now I wasn’t sure how to broach the subject—his essay had listed his mother as “late,” and yet Henry spoke of her as though she were stil very much alive. Was I missing something?

The bel rang. Lunch was over.

“Marlene is the best mom anyone could ever ask for,” I said.

“She seems great. I realy enjoyed talking with her last night,” Henry said. “And Irwin and Ted, too. They’re hilarious.”

“Ted? Hilarious?” I laughed.

“Yeah, he was funny. He had a few funny stories from way back, about Lucian being a troublemaker when they were in Europe.” Ted and Lucian had spent time in Europe?

“Reallly…I haven’t heard those.”

“Oops, I’ve been sworn to secrecy. But if you keep eating lunch with me, I’m sure the stories wil find their way out,” Henry said. He was looking me straight in the eye, just a smal smile curling the corner of his lips. Those lips…

I averted my eyes, my face red hot. “Wel, I wouldn’t want you to eat alone.” I looked back up at him. “And I need to hear these stories! You’re a tease, Henry.”

He winked.

“Never a tease, I promise,” he patted my knee with the butt of his closed fist. “Besides, you’re far more interesting than any of these people. I’ve been around them my whole life,” he sighed.

“And fresh is always better.”

“Now I’m fresh? Nice…” I said.

The second bel sounded, rendering us officialy late for fifth period. Neither one of us moved.

“So, I guess we should go,” I said.

“Probably.”

“Thanks for listening.”

“Anytime. It was fascinating,” he said. “I like hearing about other people’s drama. Makes me feel more normal.”

“Misery loves company, they say.” Oh, that was original, Gemma.

“They do say that, don’t they…?” he said. “But, realy, who are these ‘they’ people, and why do they make up such ridiculous sayings?”

I giggled at him. “Probably Republicans.”

“Probably,” he said.

“Hey, Henry—can I ask a favor of you? I just want to see if I’m imagining things.”

“Ask away.”

“Can I see your hand for a second?”

He smiled at me and nodded, offering his left hand, palm face up. I examined it, without touching him. The surface of his hand seemed normal, strong, a few caluses but nothing that would say he’d been toiling away in the fields for days on end.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said. I slowly moved my arm from my side. Henry used his right hand to demonstrate how I should touch his palm. Without saying a word, he straightened the fingers of his right hand and held the hand rigid over the left. “Like this.” I flattened my right hand and imitated the position he’d just demonstrated, only I alowed my palm to make contact with his, my fingers wrapping around the sides, his thumb and pinky finger curling around and resting on the back of my hand. The warmth started, moving through my fingers, throughout my palm, into my wrist, up my forearm, into my elbow and upper arm, through my shoulder, and in diagonal waves across and down my chest. I watched our hands, mine resting on his, for signs of electricity, for some sort of trick (his father was a magician, after al), maybe something Henry had protruding from his sleeve that would explain the sensation.

Someone in the kitchen dropped a heavy aluminum pot on the tile floor, and it made me jump. I puled my hand away and felt the rush of reality reclaim its position in my mind and body.

“That’s cool…I…I was just…curious,” I said. “So, it is real.” He smiled and nodded. “Thanks very much.”

“Anytime, Gemma,” Henry said.

I didn’t even blush.

:12:

We should notice also how easily men are corrupted and become wicked, although originally good and well educated.

—Niccolò Machiaveli, The Discourses

Monday’s pep assembly had replaced sixth period, so although Tuesday was day two of the semester, it was day one of Introduction to Philosophy with Mr. Harbourne. What a spazz.

Almost a retro/hippie thing going on. I wondered if he and Ms.

Spitzer ever ate lunch together. They seemed a perfect match.

This one course was the reason for my heavy schedule.

Philosophy was mandatory for graduation, for everyone in Eaglefern. It didn’t matter which year you enroled; you had to take

—and pass it—at some point. Failing bought a ticket to summer or night school. It struck me as odd that a school board would make philosophy a required credit when it seemed like such an airy-fairy subject with little in the way of job prospects. Few people went on to make their living as wealthy philosophers.

My prior exposure to philosophy had been just enough that I didn’t rol my eyes or groan with the other class members when the reading list was handed out. Mr. Harbourne planned to cover a year’s worth of material in the single semester, from existentialism to phenomenology to sociopolitical theory. Texts were to include Albert Camus’ The Plague (Irwin would be excited to hear that), some other book caled La Una written by a guy named Cailum Tridin who sounded more like Hitler than Sartre, as wel as a colection of essays and short stories from prominent female philosophers. Girl power!

Given the volume of material to be covered, and the heavy subject matter, no wonder pretty much everyone in the class was a senior. Mr. Harbourne reassured the few younger kids that if they couldn’t wrap their heads around this stuff, not to worry. They’d be alowed to retake it in order to get their diplomas. I tried to stay cool, but it rattled my confidence a little to know that it was indeed possible to fail a class. That would’ve been a first for me.

Four months ’til graduation. I could do this…right? An angry knot tightened in my gut. If I’d been alowed to carry on as the Cinzio Traveling Players, I would be in North Carolina or Wyoming or Tennessee, finishing the homework from our tutors, scooting closer to high school graduation unencumbered by this public school crap. Hel, I already had the acceptance letters from two universities and was expecting yeses from at least three others any day. I didn’t need to be doing this. I would’ve been fine with the status quo, on my own.