The Guardian (14 page)

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Mike’s car is parked in the driveway when I arr
ive home from school on Friday afternoon. Ours isn’t. I didn’t expect to see Moose. Mom is working. What her boyfriend is doing in our house, I have no idea.

I linger in the driveway for a few extra moments, debating whether I should leave or stay. I fina
lly pull out my house key, unlock the front door, and push it open, harder than I probably should.

Mike is stretched across the couch in the living room, entirely too comfortable, still in his work clothes. His
blue dress shirt is halfway unbuttoned, exposing a dingy, white t-shirt. A movie is playing on TV, a duo of open beer bottles resting on the floor beside him, one in his hand. Clearly he went shopping before dropping by.

“Hey, Genesis,” he says, not bothe
ring to sit up. His dark brown hair is unwashed. He hasn’t shaved in a day or two—a shadow of stubble overtakes his chin.

I search for my voice. “Hi.”

What are you doing here?

Then, as if reading my mind: “Your mom said I could hang out until she got off
work,” he explains. “I hope that’s okay.” 

Great.
Thanks, Mom.

“Sure.” I nod, moving to the hallway.

“How was school?” he asks.

“Fine.”

“You don’t have to rush off. I’m watching a great movie.”

I ignore him, and hurry to my room, shutting the door behi
nd me, locking myself in. My book bag falls to the floor, landing with a heavy thud. My alarm clock flashes the time. I still have an hour and a half before I need to be at Ernie’s.

I should’ve just gone in early
, I think, tumbling onto my bed.
Like I’d ac
tually
want
to watch a movie with him
.
I scoff. What is Mom even thinking? I don’t know where she finds these losers. Banker or not, Mike is just as slimy as the rest of the guys she’s picked up along the way. And the last thing I need is for this
boyfrien
d
to become a permanent fixture in our lives: glued to the couch and television on a regular basis. Having to endure him on the weekends is bad enough. And when it ends badly. . . .

I sit up, thinking I heard my name. I listen for sounds coming from the l
iving room. The TV is still on.

“Genesis?”

I debate whether or not to answer.
“Yeah?”
I finally call.

“Do you have any of those tortilla chips left?”

I swallow hard. “Um, if we do they’re probably on the counter.”

Nothing.

A chill shimmies up my spine,
prickling at my skin. I shudder. I can’t stay here.

A rush of warm air blows through my hair, tossing it around my head. I turn and find the window wide open. I stare at it for a moment, scowling, my lips pressed together in a thin,
hard
line.

He’s here.

I roll off my bed and push the screen out of the window. It lands on the shrubs below. I’ll fix it later. For now, I hoist my leg up and climb through the opening, careful not to hit my head. As soon as I’m standing safely in our sad excuse for a plant b
ed, I pull the sash down and leave.

S
IXTEEN

I stare at the white board as Mrs. Hines scribbles the formula for an algebra problem across it. I hate numbers. I can never seem to wrap my mind around them. Unless, of course, I’
m figuring out how much tip money I deserve based on a percentage of a check. I am a master at determining 15 percent of a food order. Those are real-life math skills. I try to imagine a situation where I’ll need to add
a’s
and
b’s
and
c’s
. I can’t think o
f one.

I glance furtively around the room. It’s bad enough I’m in a class full of juniors (and a few really smart sophomores), but to not even understand what the teacher is saying? I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

As I inhale, a wave of nausea swe
eps over me. In the next moment there’s a flash.
A little white car.
The sound of squealing tires.
An intersection.
And the sickening crunch of metal on metal as the car is hit. The sound reverberates. I jerk my hands to my ears to protect them from the no
ise. In the process, my elbow knocks my books off my desk. They crash to the floor. I lose my balance, falling out of my chair. When I open my eyes, everyone—the entire class—is staring at me. Mrs. Hines
pauses
her lecture. “Is everything all right Ms. Gre
en?” she asks, tone icy.

I bounce to my feet as quickly as possible, stumbling over my bag in the process. “Um, n—no,” I stammer. My thoughts race through a litany of potential excuses. “I, um, I have a headache.” I rub my temples for effect.
“A really bad
one.”

She makes no effort to keep from sighing loudly. I can read her thoughts as if they’re my own. I am such a lost cause. “Take the pass and go see the nurse,” she says, waving me away with a flick of her wrist.      

I quickly gather my notes and my
books, then grab my backpack and swing it over my shoulder. I weave down the aisle, maneuvering around purses and feet and book bags. I’ve almost reached the door when . . .

“Genesis . . . the pass.”
Mrs. Hines points to her desk.

My cheeks fill with heat
. “Thanks,” I mutter, grabbing the pink, laminated paper that has become my get out of jail free card.

Instead of going to the nurse, I take a detour, winding my way through the halls, heading straight to the library. The room is quiet, only a handful of
students scattered about, using the computers or studying at the tables. I move swiftly to the back of the room, not stopping until I reach a table hidden by rows and rows of bookshelves, where I sit down and bury my face in my arms.

Not again.

Instead of
just seeing things, I’m hearing them.
Loud things.
Important
things.
Someone somewhere is obviously trying to tell me something.

I sit up and close my eyes, attempting to remember what I saw.

Think
.

I take a deep breath and focus.
A little white car.
A
white car.

Again, an image of the car flashes in my mind. I concentrate on it, trying to keep it in my sight.
A white car.
The image replays in my mind.
A car, traveling down the road.
It reaches the intersection. . . . Someone runs a red light and plows
into the driver’s side. The car spins around.
. . . I inhale deeply and allow the scene to play again.
The Strip.
Whoever is driving is on The Strip.
A white car
.
The other car is an older model.
Green
.
My hands start shaking. I cover my eyes.
One more tim
e.
I focus on the white car, zeroing in.
Nothing.

I open my eyes and pound my hands against the table, head spinning. What good is a premonition if you can’t figure out what you’re supposed to get from it? I mean, how many hundreds of white cars are there
in this town? And I’m supposed to know what this means?

I grab my book bag and leave the library, unable to shake the image of the accident, even as I change out my books for my last class.

In Chemistry, we’re treated to a movie about the advent and imp
lications of the atom bomb.  Within the first five minutes, my eyelids begin to droop. Thankfully, the teacher seems more interested in grading papers than making sure we’re paying attention. I lay my head down, resting it on my folded arms, and close my e
yes.

In a moment, I see the white car. BOOM! It spins around. I glimpse the front license plate.
And an emblem.
It’s a BMW.
A new, white BMW.

I jerk awake at the sound of the final bell as it rings shrilly just outside the door. Around me, everyone is pac
king up to leave for the day.

Daddy’s Girl
.

My mind swirls dizzily. There’s only one person at this school with a plate like that.

I jump out of my seat, snatch my things, and bolt across the room.

“Hey! Watch it!” someone cries out.

I force my way throu
gh the throngs of students. By the time I reach the senior hallway, Selena isn’t at her locker. She’s gone.

No! No! No! No!
I scream over and over again in my head, mouthing the words.
The parking lot.

I have to get to her before she leaves
.

I skip my locker altogether and bypass my bike, which is chained to the rack in a grassy area just outside the building. The lot itself swarms with people. Sunshine caresses my shoulders, and a warm breeze blows in off the ocean. I can smell the brackish w
ater only blocks away.

I spot Selena heading to her car, cell phone in hand.

“Selena!”
I call out.

She doesn’t hear me. I run toward her, practically knocking down a freshman guy carrying a tuba case that’s bigger than he is. “I’m sorry!” I call, looking
back. “Sorry!” I dodge a few cars backing out of spaces and maneuver around my classmates.

“Selena!”
I cry again.

I catch up with her just as she’s unlocking the door. Her phone is still pressed to her ear. I run to the front bumper, just to make sure:
D
addy’s Girl
is airbrushed onto a pink plate.

“Selena, I need to talk to you,” I say. “It’s important.”

“Excuse me?” she asks, pulling her phone away from her ear.

“Hang up!” I demand. “We need to talk.”

She makes a face, rolls her eyes,
then
puts the phon
e back to her ear. “I’m being bothered. Can I call you later?”

She opens the car door and tosses the phone onto the passenger’s seat. “I have nothing to say to you.”

I don’t care. “Which way are you going home today?”

She narrows her eyes to tiny slits. “T
hat’s none of your business.”

“It might be,” I say. “Please, just answer.”

“Why should I? My date the other night was ruined thanks to you.” She folds her arms in defiance, pouting. “The second you showed up Carter bailed emotionally. It was the perfect ch
ance for us to spend some real time together . . .”

“Selena, there might not
be
another chance if you don’t answer my question,” I interrupt. 

She rolls her eyes again. “
What
is the big deal?”

I want to shake her by the shoulders, to wake her up, to beat
an ounce of understanding into her thick, stubborn head. “Just tell me: which way do you go home?” I practically shout. The rush of blood hammers in my ears.

“Jesus.
Chill.”
She tells me her usual route, with an added “Freak” tacked on to the end.

“Are y
ou going straight home?”

“No. I’m headed to the dentist. I have an appointment to get my teeth whitened.”

“You don’t have to take The Strip to get there, do you?”

“What planet do you even live on?” she asks. “You have to take The Strip to get
anywhere
in t
his God-forsaken town.”

Of course you do.

I take a deep breath, working to steady my pounding heart. “Okay, I know this sounds crazy, but I need you to do me a favor.”

“I’m not giving you a ride,” she says, climbing into the driver’s seat.

“I don’t need a
ride. It’s just that . . . you can’t go down The Strip today.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . um. . . .” I debate whether or not to continue, to tell her the truth. I mean, why does it even matter? She hates me anyway. But then . . . I know what’
s about to happen, and I can’t keep something like that inside. I inhale deeply. “I saw something.
An accident.”

“You saw an accident?”

“I saw you getting into an accident,” I clarify.
“This afternoon.
I know. It sounds weird, but you have to trust me. You
can’t drive down The Strip today. Something bad is going to happen.”