INVISIBLE MAGIC

By

Alaska Everfall

EBOOK EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Alaska Everfall

Invisible Magic

Copyright © 2012 by Alaska Everfall

Thank you for downloading this free eBook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may

be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete

original form, with the exception of quotes used in reviews.

Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is

purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

I hope you enjoy the story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

To find out more about me, just visit my blog at: http://justremy.blogspot.com

PROLOGUE

Sometimes, all one can do is run.

We don't solve any problems, or attempt to find ways to face what's holding us back. Instead, we pick up our legs and sprint. Away, away, away. As fast and far as possible.

Many stop halfway, taking a few breathers before moaning about how hard running track is. I envy those people. They're the ones I wish to be like. The reason they find common-sense to stop is because they’ve got nothing to run from.

They have nothing major to chase them. Those people are the ones able to look back and smile at their sightings, or casually eye the scenery at a steady pacing.

Me? I can only run. Sprint. Run. Dash. Even when I win first prize in running races, I don’t feel pride. There’s no smirks when Hunter Steele offers me an envious congratulations –Hunter, who never can quite catch up to me. He's forever in second place, but if he trained a little harder, he’d beat me. I doubt he has anything to run from, though.

It’s all just a game to him, and the whole world to me.

At the end of the day, I feel alone. Isolated, because I’ve spent endless time running towards an impossible happy ending. Nobody can catch up to me, both in running and metaphorically. No friends, no family not even a stranger can fully read me.

Maybe I’m just being over-emotional. I’m not out-casted, but somewhere in the middle. Acknowledged, but not valued. Perhaps I should just be thankful I’m not starving in the middle of an unknown country or that I, unlike many others, have a bed to sleep in.

However, I can't help the feeling of having somebody in the world who understands me. Somebody who can read my thoughts and nod, feeling the same way. Maybe I’ll do the same for them, because it’d feel terrible if the listening is one-sided. It’s a little too much to ask for, but never did I realise it can come true.

Or that Hunter Steele would be that somebody.

CHAPTER ONE

 I hate Hunter Steele.

No, hate’s a strong word. I dislike, abhor, detest him. The worst part? He hasn’t been anything but nice to me –not that we’ve had many enlightening conversations, but his awkward comments about the weather were pretty friendly. Instead, my hatred is merely another version of jealousy for this boy whom everybody crowds around. He’s that guy everybody wants at their party, regardless of how he memorised the first sixteen digits of pi and his braces are getting taken off at the end of the year.

Maybe it’s not a good reason to hate somebody. Especially somebody like him, who’s loved to an extent it’s an obsession and slightly creepy. The thing is, I still don’t have a clear definition. Every-time I watch him laugh like a hyena with his well-known friends, a surge of confusion erupts in my body.

What about this boy makes the entire school take a step closer?

I’m in the same boat as he is. Why am I overlooked?

“Second day of school, and I’m over it already,” says Sarah, tugging at her shackle-lock. “Anyone in your class from last year?”

“Absolutely no-one. ‘Cept for Owen and Hunter–” I stop mid-sentence. “Ew.”

Sarah throws her head back and laughs. She still doesn’t notice how her perfect copper curls make most people stop and stare. Maybe it’s my duty as her best friend to compliment her, but I decide against it. Despite being her friend since diapers and best friend only since we started the same high-school, I still haven’t got her worked out.

“Bridgette the Midget, must you hate every boy taller than you? Which, by the way, is every male from the age of one week.”

I elbow her in the ribs. “Sarah the Killer, must you squash a million ants because of your childish phobias?”

“Only because Brooklyn McKai’s allergic to them,” she argues. “Sarah the Lifesaver!”

“Nah, ‘slaughterer’ sounds better,” says a voice from behind me.

I grit my teeth and pull on the best smile. Sarah notices my efforts and grins. When I turn around, I’m awaited by the happy face of Hunter Steele –who, by the way, happens to be around five times (exaggerating) my height. It’s like in those horror movies where the poor little creature is frightened for their lives by the humongous shadow awaiting them.

However, I’m so much shorter than the average human that mice think I’m family. Even on my tiptoes, I reach up to Sarah’s shoulder. Which is depressing, because she’s always complaining about how she needs to grow another two centimetres to be considered “normal.” It makes me wonder if she… oh, I don’t know… even noticed her best friend’s height.

Or am I too invisible for that?

All these thoughts circulate my head, but there’s one standing out most of all. A theory. Hunter is liked by almost everybody in the world –there must be a reason. Maybe he offers to do homework for kids “cooler” than him, and then the pretend to accept him. After all, without his friends being popular, he’d be classified as another guy. Geeky, even.

In Australia, we don’t stereotype like the movies produced. The popular people mix with the unpopular, but there’s always going to be that wall. When teachers ask to make a list of one’s best friends, people at this school will choose the ones who truly are close mates. I know for a fact because I’ve been trying to be “popular” for almost three years in a row.

So far, I haven’t been on any lists but the Track-Running Team-List. Even so, I had to write my name because the teachers typing overlooked me. How uncool.

It’s sickening how much being admired means to me. My mum always says the usual, “Popularity isn’t going to get you anywhere in life,” but I can’t help it. Everybody wants to be liked; everybody wants importance. It’s natural for these feelings to develop. It just so happens I don’t merely want it –I crave the feeling. That wonderful, endearing sensation of being accepted.

So when I turn to Hunter, I attempt to hide all the jealousy hidden underneath this seething mind of mine. I’m suddenly thankful how my mind remains my own. All my thoughts are locked up deep within myself. Nobody can access them without my permission.

“Oh, hello.” I wave my hand dismissively. “Didn’t see you there.”

“Really? I thought it’d be the other way around.” He pats me on the head, laughing –around me, this is the closest act to cruelty he’s ever done. Somehow I doubt the police are going to take me seriously when I report this abuse. “Are you ever going to grow?”

I grit my teeth. Amazing. Twenty-four hours and three-minutes into the new school year and I’m already being mistaken as a mini-sized doll. “My mum’s making pancakes tonight,” I say, not-so-casually steering the conversation in another path.

“I’m sure they’ll be wonderful. How was your holiday, McAdams?” But his voice is so distant. Like he doesn’t care. In a sickish way, it kind of stings being rejected –even by a person I don’t really care for, despite thinking of in a hateful way at least five times a day like a national anthem.

“Good…” I say, my voice edging cautiously. Then, mimicking his distance and adding a fake yawn for good measures, I ask, “How was yours, Steele?”

He wants to act distant? Two can play at that game.

It’s not that I don’t trust Hunter –well, that too. It has never passed anybody’s mind there’s something weird about him. He’s nice and all, and yet, he’s two-dimensional. Like a shape with no height –he has no personality than the friendly, laughing and smiling face he places. There’s got to be more than that.

To add to his peculiar-ness, he calls everybody by their last name. Sometimes, students call him by his last name just for a joke, but the whole trend of generally calling him “Steele” never caught on. It drives me barking mad how nobody likes –well, at the very least doesn’t mind– that kind of distant attention. How is he not out-casted?

We’re so different, it’s impossible to even think what’s going on in his head. I’ve never found the nerve –or the likability– to call somebody by their last name.

And yet, he’s been doing it for years with everybody responding ridiculously well.

“Oh, my holidays were fine.”

“Good to know.”

“Yeah.” He obviously doesn’t care less about what I think. This is visibly demonstrated as his legs twitch, and within a couple of eye-blinks, he’s strutting away from me. “See ya in History. Oh, then we have Religion together after.” Just before he completely disappears from the scene, he grins at Sarah. “See ya, Saz.”

Oh sure. His green eyes glitter like teeth in a toothpaste advertisement when pretty girls are around. But when I’m the one he’s chatting to, he finds every possible way to leave. Not to mention how disinterested and bored he sounds around me, offering small-talk like he’s throwing a dog a bone.

Am I some sort of popularity charity-case?

She winks at him. Unlike me, she attended the same primary as him and anything seeming like flirting is simply brotherly. However, Hunter forgets the tiny detail and freezes at his spot. To my utter delight, he swallows audibly at the sudden attention before walking off with reddened cheeks. What a geek. So much rage builds up within me.

If he’d been fit to be popular, he’d be winking back and making terrible jokes funny because of his charm. He might even some pick-up lines at her direction and offer to teach her to shoot hoops or something stereotypically amazing shown in movies. But no. He’s not fit to be popular. The only thing Hunter Steele does is run away from every little thing.

Though, when somebody has his popularity, how he reacts to situations doesn’t really matter.

When he walks away, he’s confronted by another one of his zillion friends. How does a boy with no sporting ability whatsoever –excluding running, but it hardly shows in his lanky body– become so well-liked among his peers? He has a gift. A kind of gift I want to steal and keep in a little jewellery box with little white skulls and blood.

Suddenly, the sudden idea of reading his mind pops in my head. I’m surprised at how it appeals to me.

Wouldn’t everything be much easier if I could read his mind? Not to sort out his problems, of course. I’d read his mind to chortle like a goose and point like a sloth. He must have hugely embarrassing moments which would make my entire year, and I’ll hear them all without him knowing. Imagine the confusion he’d face when I tell all his friends. And how he’d react to my mocking –oh yes, mockery of Hunter Steele is the first priority in my world.

As if I’d want his non-existent –and possibly petty– problems like, “There are so many girls to choose from. I want them all. My life is truly over” to disappear.

The bell rings. I gather my books for History and Religion. History, as always, will be amazing. Who doesn’t love a dosage of facts changing the world? Many view History as unimportant because it’s “all in the past and doesn’t matter anymore.” I disagree. If it wasn’t for these “unimportant” events, the word wouldn’t be the way it is right now.

Saying goodbye to Sarah, I walk towards my class. A few people look down on me, a couple of them appearing as if they’re about to offer help. My mouth forms in a tight smile as if to say “I’m good,” and they instinctively back away before the next overly-friendly person crosses my path. Having such a short girl carrying her books is pitiful. I realise this is a Catholic School and everything, but why take the “helping others” concept to a ridiculous extent?

As I scramble through the hallways, I finally find my History class and drop the books outside. The teacher’s coming any second, but I’m puffing too much. Summer holidays are so lazy in my world. For me, it means eating ice cream until my stomach width and height are identical. During summer, I stop all physical activity and end up lazing around in bed with a blowing-fan, not getting up for a century or two. Running is completely out of the question, although I’m lucky with an inherited fast-metabolism, allowing me from being completely overweight.

…Still, it doesn’t help my unfitness.

“Ah, are you Bridgette?”

When I glance up at the boy, I suddenly feel a weakening at my knees. He’s simply gorgeous. Perfect, luscious hair; amazing skin and the most amazing height. Yes, in my world, I simply refuse to date somebody taller than me. He’s shorter than me, if it’s even possible. But he has the most beautiful brown eyes. And he’s shorter than me. I love his non-oily hair. Oh, and the fact there’s somebody in the world shorter than me.

His smile is so dazzling, I’m blinded. But with that kind of vision attached to my eye-sockets, blindness doesn’t seem half as bad. Or maybe it’s the beauty of his shortness attacking my insides. I swallow down some saliva and smile, but it ends up as a mangle. So, disallowing myself to speak in a situation like this, I nod.

“Wicked. Teach over there said you’re the best History student.” He flashes me a toothy smile.

I have the urge to sink into a large blob and never arise. This is such a wonderful moment, but I’m ruining it with my silence. My mouth’s dry. I try to speak, but find I can’t. This must be that true love Romeo and Juliet felt at first glance. He even has an American accent! After all, who refers to teachers as “teach” here in Australia? I frown. Strange, because none of my friends moving here from America use that reference. But I shake off the thought.

Bad idea. Those thoughts keeping me from marvelling over the beauty of his height –uh, I mean, his face. Yeah. His face.

I play it cool. “You’re new here?” I say smoothly, like it doesn’t really matter.

“Yup. New straight form Texas.”

“Oh.” I nod as if I actually know all the states of America. “Cool. What’s your name?”

Hunter Steele probably memorised all those states at the age of six, a taunting voice whispers in my head. I slap that voice, feeling delighted when mental shrieks and screams feel my head. Oh my. Did I really just do that? Come to think of it, maybe it’s better if nobody reads my mind. They’ll think I’m mental. But with three sisters in the house, what self-respecting teenager keeps their sanity?

Another reason Hunter Steele is a zillion times better off in his own world –because there, he doesn’t have endless siblings. He’s an only child –it’s the one thing I know. Every other bitter thought revolving is merely a reflex of jealousy.

“I’m Arthur. Oh, and believe it or not, but I’m actually the teacher.” He waves off my dropping jaw. “Bet you thought I was a student, eh?”

I try my hardest not to blush. When I do, it’s not cute like little rag dolls with coy smiles –I’m Tomato Woman; the one making little babies cry and humans flee. So I look away, trying to make sense of the situation.

He smirks, seeing straight through me. “Don’t worry, I’m used to it. In fact, I love referring to teachers as ‘teach’ to trick people into thinking I’m younger.” He winks. “After all, what self-respecting human refers to such devious people as shortened versions of their title?”

Now, I’m confirmed my jaw is touching the floor. No exaggeration there, I’m just short enough to almost touch it. There’s something extremely strange about this boy –uh, man. Yeah, I’m going to have a hard time finding a suitable title. But now, as I’m looking in his eyes, there’s something cold in the atmosphere.

And believe me, it has nothing to do with the weather. How would the glistening, steaming summer’s sun make me feel cold?

“Yeah, that’s right.” I laugh, a little uncomfortable. I hope he doesn’t notice. “After all, who refers to teachers as “teach” nowadays?”

His eyes twinkle. “Right? Anyway, I’m gunna be your religion teacher. Since I’m new here ‘nd all, I got some of the teachers to give one-lined descriptions of their students so I know them better.” He winks at me. “Goodbye, little historian.”

Before I can say another word –not that my speechless stage would allow it– he’s already disappearing. Vanishing into thin air in such a way, my heart’s leaping. My blood goes cold. He was so friendly, so nice, and yet… there’ something about him which seems a little off. Maybe it’s just me being my usual paranoid self.

Yes, that must be it. After all, I’ve never been the same since Eva died–

Horrified at the mental mention of the subject, I shake my head like crazy. The good news is that I succeed, and end up disremembering my previous thought. The bad news is how Hunter Steele happens to be right in front, staring at me with a horrified expression. He has his school laptop slung on one arm and is reaching out with his right hand.

But his fingers twitch, as if debating the right thing to do. I sigh. The entire world is a terrible, pathetic place when Hunter Steele thinks I’m off my rocker.

“I’m not mental, so cut that look, Steele.”

“Never said you were, McAdams. Cut off your accusations,” Hunter snaps, and then blinks. His metaphorical, two-dimensional mask just shattered into pieces, even if for just a second. “Uh, I mean…”

I smile, despite myself. Ah, that’s more like it. There’s more reason to why I completely hate Hunter Steele –one near the top of the list is how he’s always polite, even when the other person anticipates throwing knives at him. He’s one of those super-geeky people who use coloured highlighters for exams and hand in assignments within three days of the assigned date.

So by being a little more hostile right then, he broke one of his mental rules.

“What… what’re you smiling at, McAdams?” He’s trying to sound confident, but his voice is shaking. How I love it when people assume I’m cursing them mentally. Now, his eye’s twitching slightly. “Could you stop that? It’s creeping me out.”

If I didn’t have a huge desire to maintain my reputation, I’d be throwing my head back and cackling like a scheming witch. But because I’d rather not attend the nearest mental institution, I simply keep my glee at a maximum of a smile, despite it being the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

I’m willing to bet he has a list of rules on his bedside table. Highlighted like all his study-notes and revised every night like there’s an exam. The thought makes me gag. He has a whole list of things to abide to maintain a reputation so high, I’m sure of it. But he’s too much of a teacher’s-pet and goody-goody-two-shoes to even attempt violating one of them.

Guess I’ll have to break them for him.

CHAPTER TWO

As always, History flies by.

Because I’m such an expert, there’s never much to say. The minute the teacher asks a questions, her eyes subconsciously avert to me. Naturally, I reply with the correct answer and she gives an approving nod, explaining to the whole class how I’m right. This always gets dirty looks from Owen Gregory, Hunter’s best friend. But he’ll live with it.

After all, it’s not my fault the history teacher also happens to be his aunt, who always scolds him out-of-school about how he should be more like me. Instead, I agree with Ms Gregory (seeing as she’s Owen’s unmarried aunt from his dad’s side, she also has the same “Gregory” as a surname). If the world was more like me, it would flow magnificently.

Hunter, on the other hand, continues flicking erasers at me. He loves doing that. Normally, with any other girl, they’d giggle and throw something back. I pretend he’s not there and continue my work, secretly plotting ways to get revenge. If Mum’s not too busy, I’ll ask her to go to the local zoo and get a man-eating chimpanzee, only to place it in Hunter’s ginormous swimming pool.

How do I know it’s huge? Because I’ve been there in seventh grade, where he invited all his classmates to the pool. And believe me, it’s like all my dreams have struck at the same time. I remember splashing and laughing, floating around the huge ounce of water without a care in the world. Needless to say, I’m jealous of this boy. He has everything handed to him on a silver platter; he has no problems with his “perfect” life.

The bell ring, and though most of my History-hating classmates cheer, I unconsciously have my mouth set in a pout. Good things never last long. Never, ever, ever. Next, we have Religion, and I’m willing to bet it’ll tear my insides out.

Oh wait. I’ve got that Arthur “teach.” I smile. Maybe it won’t be that bad after all.

Once I enter, seeing as I’m the first one in, he looks straight at me. And then grins. His hands are waving wildly, almost animated, as he explains how lovely this school is compared to his old one. When I ask him about his old location, he just waves his hand dismissively, claiming it’s not important. I don’t know why I feel uncomfortable. What’s wrong with telling somebody about the past?

I sit at the front, dumping all my books on the desk and preparing myself for the lesson. And, to my surprise, Hunter sits next to me. When I question his sudden change of position, he just shrugs. That’s when it hits me. No, really –am eraser strikes me at the back of my neck. My head snaps forward in reflex motion as I turn, giving Owen Gregory a stink-eye.

Hunter raises his arm. Owen copies him. Then they make this huge act of high-fiving each other, and I resist the urge to remind them they’re three meters apart.

Luckily, this new teacher of ours agrees with my reaction. He face-palms himself, and in a calming manner, explains how people have to be near each other to high-five them. Owen, being the stubborn boy he has always been, shrugs and air-fives Hunter for the second time. The boy beside me nods, repeating the previous motion.

Arthur slumps back to his desk, defeated. There’s no reaching them, he mouths to me, and I know exactly what he means. I grimace.

The teacher clears his throat. “Okay, kids. Look at me.”

Everybody’s looking at him. Some of them, especially those at the back corner, have to stand and look down. He rolls his eyes and reminds them he’s the same at heart; just a little short in height. Some of the girls behind me are giggling like maniacs, explaining how adorable he is. And then they compare him to some famous guy they’ve once seen on a children’s television show.

I resist the urge to gag. This Arthur guy is too adorably short –uh, too adorably handsome– to waste his time with fame.

“Now, you may know me as Arthur. But you can call me ‘Art’…”

This is where it all begins. Mainly because I feel this tingle of energy every-time my elbow touches Hunter’s arm. We’re strangers who’ve known each other forever. And yet, what’s with these small amounts of electric shocks? They’ve never been there for the last century I’ve known this boy.

But I swallow my suspicions and focus on the teacher, jotting down notes. I don’t want to fall behind in Religion, especially since it’s my worst subject. Straight-A’s. I won’t tolerate any less. Mainly because Eva–

I shake my head roughly. No. No, I can’t think about that.

“..So as you can see,” explains “Art,” writing something on the whiteboard. He has very messy handwriting. “God is the creator of the world. Therefore, we should let everything fall into God’s hands. Only the Lord knows what’s best.”

There are a couple of snickers and whisperings behind me. People who don’t believe in religion are rolling their eyes, staring at the clock; wondering when this lesson’s going to end. Hunter’s playing with his pencil; he obviously can’t care less about religion. And if he does, he’s doing a poor job of showing it. Arthur doesn’t stop talking about the wonders of the world, and I swear, there are stars in his eyes.

I wonder if it hurts him, having such large amounts of gas stuck in his eyeballs. Is it safe? Should somebody contact NASA and feebly explain how a star possibly could’ve fallen into his system? I’m just about to raise my hand and recommend first-aid treatments for the poor ol’ bloke, but he turns to me.

There’s a smirk playing on his face. “I can read your mind.”

This almost makes me snort out in laughter. “Yeah, okay.” Careful to be polite –after all, this insane little creep is going to mark my exams; might as well be polite– I smile. I’m confirmed it’s turning into a mangle on my face. “That’s nice.”

His insane smile grows wider. There are noises of confusion filling the classroom, but nobody speaks up. They probably think it’s all an act. I wonder if they know I have no script, or any pre-warning about this performance. Hunter’s looking at me with a frown, simultaneously using his ruler to pick at a scab on his elbow. I look away from him in disgust, but I also don’t want to see Arthur’s face, either.

Coughing uncomfortably, I turn to my book with flushing cheeks. “Are you okay, Art?” It comes out as a mumble, because I don’t want to look at his eyes anymore.

“You want somebody to listen to what’s going on in your mind, right?”

There’s chattering behind me. Nobody’s taking notice of what Arthur’s saying. In fact, they’re too immersed among their own chatter and speeches to care. Finally, when the bell rings, everybody packs up and flees through the doors. I feel tempted to do so as well, but there’s something stopping me.

Mainly because my teacher’s sitting there; a lazy smile playing on his face. “Bridgette. What a nice name.”

I’m trying hard not to look freaked out. It doesn’t work. Instead, I end up looking like a seal with brain surgery performed. And possibly failed. “Uh… yeah. It’s my name.”

“You know what your name means, don’t you?”

“Yeah. It means something like ‘exalted.’”

“What does Hunter’s name mean?”

It’s kind of odd he’s asking me this question. First of all, I barely know him. Secondly, what does Hunter have to do with my life? Except for completely destroying it, making me envy a life I’ve never had. His stupid perfection makes me want to hit him with a glass bottle. What does he have that I don’t? Why does he live his life so perfectly opposed to the rest of the world?

But even if it’s a random question, it’s an easy one. “To hunt.” I somehow prevent myself from adding “duh” at the end.

Arthur nods and then bites his lips. His eyes suddenly light up. I have to urge to run from this room and never look back, because there’s something extremely creepy about his smile. Mainly because he’s a whole twenty years (I think) older than me. But my feet are stuck to the ground. It’s like somebody put superglue on my feet, having no intention of removing it.

“Meet me after school, okay? Oh, and bring Hunter with you.”

A little brittle with fear, I nod. Then I run out of the room before he can add another word. When I’m finally at my locker, I allow myself to breathe for a second. There’s something extremely creepy about this man. But on the bright side, he doesn’t seem to love Hunter like the Religion teachers always do.

Even if he’s not particularly religious, it doesn’t stop the teachers from picking up on his Jewish culture. There’s something really annoying about him. Even if he doesn’t know a single thing about his religion, or follows it, just because it’s in his family, he’s favoured. What’s with that? He has everything handed to him on a silver platter!

Maybe that’s why he’s so popular. Everything’s so luxurious for him, while I’m left eating off tin-foil and hoping it doesn’t affect the rest of my appetite. I end up vomiting. Okay, so it’s all metaphorical, but my family can barely afford school for all my five sisters. And me, being the youngest, will probably have to leave school soon; Christian schools are so expensive.

But there was a time where Eva debated about how public schools are bad–

Why do I keep thinking about her? And what’s more, it’s like she’s still alive. But she’s not. She died two years ago, even if I didn’t know her well. It doesn’t matter. She’s still my sister; she was still killed.

Another thing Hunter doesn’t have to live with; the fact his sister’s murderer is around somewhere. My heart’s thumping loudly. I can just remember that voicemail Eva sent me. When Belle, Becca, Barbara and Breena were all at college, I was the sister she turned to. But I didn’t have my mobile at the particular moment she called. Maybe things would’ve been different.

Perhaps I would’ve reached her in time.

The day flies by quicker than I can describe. Before I know it, I’m handing in assignments and collecting test results. I need to do well. Especially since Dad’s thinking about cutting off school –seeing as how school’s only compulsory until tenth grade here in Australia. But he doesn’t understand that, if I don’t get a good OP at the end of year twelve, I’ll be regretting it for the rest of my life.

Becca, who’s two years older than me, is always like, “Bridgette, why study? I mean, you’re fast enough for the Olympics –well, not now. But when you grow up, you know.”

I’d just roll my eyes and tell her how I’d regret not being “normal” like the rest of my classmates. She’d then shake her head and tell me I worry too much about the future. According to her, I should start being more spontaneous. But it’s not my fault everything has to be told to me before I take action. It’s just my personality-type.

The bell rings. Home-time. I hadn’t told Hunter about the whole “see me after school” because I figured it’d scare him. Then he’ll run away.

So I walk up to him and casually say, “Oh, Arthur’s waiting for us. At Religion, I think.”

He nods, surprisingly not running away like I expected. “Yeah. He told me as well, between classes.” Shuffling a little closer to me, he whispers, “He still kinda creeps me out.”

“Tell me ‘bout it.”

When we enter the Religion room, we both have fake smiles plastered on our faces. As if we don’t have a life to attend, and schools remains one-hundred-percent of it. Arthur smirks for a second before motioning to the two seats in front of us. My stomach’s doing flips, because this is something Eva used to do. She always got into trouble.

It was her position to be the girl in the principal’s office. A couple of years ago, the teachers used to tease me, saying I was nothing like her. I used to grin, taking it as a compliment. But now I want to be like her. I want to be everything like her.

“Hello, children.”

“He sounds so sketchy,” whispers Hunter, next to me. “How old is he, again?”

“About twenty years older. I think.”

“Actually,” Arthur speaks up, making both of us jump. “This is my first year of teaching. Just got out of high school.”

There are no words to explain how far both our jaws dropped –Hunter and mine. It was a moment of silence and confusion. And complete, utter horror. This man can’t be “just out of high school.” He needs to be at least a zillion years older, but he claims not to be. How is this possible?

While I’m still trying to make sense of it, Hunter speaks aloud. “Um, are we in trouble?”

“No, no! I just wanted to see you two.”

And then the strangest thing happens next. I feel a whirling going on in my stomach. Suddenly, the room isn’t as bright, despite the sun shining so brilliantly outside. There’s something about the world which is making me dizzy. The ceiling fans which were spinning so rapidly a second ago are slowing down. Down, down, down.

“I don’t think I’m feeling so good,” says a moaning Hunter, jumping from the chair and sprinting outside.

“Me neither,” I say to no-one in particular, just racing out the door.

Air, air, air. Suddenly, the Religion room no longer has oxygen. There’s a strange sensation circling around my body. The entire world just falls into darkness.

What just happened?

It’s a voice. But it’s not my own.

It’s Hunter’s.

CHAPTER THREE

There are a few things no teenager ever wants to hear.

Their beloved pet dying is number one. After all, pets are part of the family. Maybe that certain teenager would wail, but then get over it after a few years. There are a whole list of things teenagers my age experience. Things such as fallen friendships, bullying, parental issues and many, many more.

But hearing somebody else’s every thought… that’s something which isn’t on the list. And normally, I’d dismiss such a ridiculous idea.

If only I wasn’t one of the victims.

We’re at the dinner table, my family and I. Dad’s watching me carefully, frowning at how I haven’t gulped down all my food in one go. That’s what I always do normally. But today’s definitely not a normal day –especially with a random stranger being able to read all my inner thoughts and feelings.

Mum’s staring at me too. Then Belle. So I pick up some peas with my fork and stuff them in my mouth, just to stop the staring. It works, and they slowly begin minding their own business, speaking about school. I remain quiet. Which is terribly rare in my family, because I’m the most outspoken one.

You’re having peas? Hunter’s voice. Yum! Give me some.

Idiot. We can only exchange thoughts, not physical objects. And anyway, what person with a working brain thinks peas are yummy?

Me. And anyway, quit being so haughty.

Haughty? Me? You’re the reason that Arthur dude didn’t like you and decided to curse us both!

Why curse us both if I’m the only person he was “angry” at?

I can’t answer that question, So I shift my focus away from Hunter, and begin poking at my dinner, eventually swallowing them. The less I think about him, the less he’ll hear my thoughts–

I’m still here, you know…

My teeth grit. Becca puts her fork down and studies me. She obviously knows something isn’t right. And that’s one-hundred percent accurate; my thoughts are being exposed to somebody I don’t trust! But how am I supposed to explain something as absurd as this? She’ll probably get Belle, who’s studying to be a psychologist, to take me to her clinic and get my brain checked out.

So I force a smile and stuff more potato mash in my mouth. “Too much homework,” I say with my mouthful. I swallow it. “I’m just getting stressed. Can I, uh, be excused?”

There’s relief flooding through my parents’ eyes. They’re just happy they don’t have another daughter who feels depressed and out-of-touch. Eva was always wild and unpredictable; depressed most of the time. Nobody knows what happened to her.

What’s with the high and low noise?

What are you talking about?

There’s this high noise. It goes low and then high again. I mean, I’m not trying to read your thoughts or anything, but it’s making me lose concentration to my video game. I’m on Level one-hundred-and-six! Don’t make me lose now!

As I stand up and head towards my bedroom, I begin referring back to what I was thinking. My brain is racking. What was I thinking about, before this mysterious noise sounded in Hunter’s brain? And that’s when I remember. But I don’t want to think about it. No. I must not think about Eva–

There’s that high-pitched noise that goes low-pitched!

Wait, so you can’t hear my thoughts?

What meaning of “high-to-low-pitched-noise” do you not understand? Of course I can’t!

That’s when it hits me. Whenever I think about Eva, there’s a high-pitched voice in his mind. There are no words to describe how utterly relieved I feel. Telling a complete stranger about my dead sister isn’t on my list of “fun” things. It’s strange, because although murder is thought as a major crime in Australia, the police have done pretty much nothing.

Maybe it’s just the ones in this town. Who knows?

Either way, there’s no evidence of her murderer. There’s only her dead body, found at the bottom of a lake, three kilometres away from her university. I’m sure if they only roll the security video, they’d have their thief. But it all seems reluctant. It’s as if they don’t want to justify my once-beautiful sister.

Ugh! Stop. Freaking. Thinking!

I can’t help feeling a little bubbly on the inside. Especially since I’m beginning to see the true side of Hunter. The friendly and joking side has disappeared. He’s just annoyed. It’s nice to see his true-self once in a while.

Face it, you know you love my thinking.

Do you want me to damage your stupid brain?

Ooh. Anger-problems, much?

Shut up.

Make me.

So I poke my tongue out, knowing very well he’s not going to see it. Then, I change into my pyjamas, do some homework and lay back in my comfortable bed. It’s bouncy. It’s perfect. A soft sound of relief floods through my mouth, realising just how much I missed lying in bed. There seems to be less time relaxing when high-school’s getting the best of me.

I’m sure Hunter’s mocking how difficult I’m finding schoolwork.

You bet. You’re really slow.

My nose wrinkles.

Maybe so, Hunter Steele, but I’m a better human being than you’ll ever be.

It was mainly out of anger, but there’s not a response. I begin feeling a little guilty, but the stubborn part of my brain won’t allow me to release this argument. I shouldn’t have said something like that; especially something which isn’t true. I don’t know anything about him, except the fact he annoys me with his perfection.

One second passes. Two seconds pass.

Not a single thought from Hunter.

Just a high then low-pitched buzzing noise.

*

When I wake up in the morning, I look like Frankenstein’s wife.

My head has been attacked by the humidity. Fetching a hairbrush, I yelp as the bristles run through every knot, every slight imperfection. And even after finishing with my oh-so-lovely hair, I end up looking like a feminine version of Dr Frankenstein himself. Thank God Hunter can’t see everything I’m seeing. There are no words to describe how humiliating –and altogether irritating– this scene would appear.

He’d probably never let me forget it, the little devil.

Forget what?

Darn it. That was a thought! This is much harder than I thought it was.

Nothing can be harder than doing your hair.

My heart skips a beat.

I can read every thought in your mind. And the fact you’re brushing your impossible hair. I mean, aren’t all blondes supposed to have “luscious, perfect hair”?

Not in my world, I think bitterly. Hoorah! I beat all stereotypes.

Not something to be proud of, believe me. And what’s more, you’ve got blue eyes. Isn’t that, like, the “image of perfection”?

My inner-mind gits its teeth. Metaphorically, of course. It’d be altogether creepy if my cranium had a set of teeth for itself. But I guess I’ll never know.

Did… did you just have a mental rant about having teeth in your mind?

I don’t know what you’re talking–

Just wait until Sarah hears about this…

It takes all I have not to march to his house –and beat him to an unconscious stage. Using blackmail against me? Doesn’t he realise it’s impossible to persuade me to do something? Evidently not. This is Hunter Steele we’re talking about –textbook-smart Hunter. He knows nothing about the real world. He’s pretty much clueless.

That is so judgmental! There’s a pause. You’re the one who’s so stupid, you can’t pass a stupid French exam. There’s another awkward pause. My jaw drops. Oh, God. I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to say it–

But you were thinking it, right? This is a bitter thought. Suddenly, I stop controlling every thought in my mind. Just for a short, fatal second. You don’t have to worry; you’re too perfect for the likes of me.

What are you–?

I cut off his thought with one of my own. Just shut up and get to school. Try not to think anymore.

…Okay.

When I catch the bus to school, there’s another thirteen minutes until the bell. Sarah comes up to me and shakes my hand, like we always do in the mornings. Of course, she has to reach severely down like I have to gesture upwards. But it’s okay. We manage.

I don’t even remember where we got this from. Did we always have our own secret gesture? Why don’t I remember anything about it?

The hallways are decorated in pink and red. It’s hard to think there’s only three days until Valentine’s Day. And as a treat, the entire school is going to some star-exhibition. Or the movies. It depends on the occasion.

But Valentine’s Day always happens to be one of the worst days of the year. Not because I’m single every year, because it honestly doesn’t bother me. However, it’s like a given excuse for couples to display more PDA than necessary.

I reckon! Hunter’s voice rings in my mind, ringing with enthusiasm. His tone drops as he thought-mumbles, Sorry.

Nah, that’s alright. You hate Valentine’s Day too? I try hard not to sound completely shocked. And before I can stop it: I thought you’re one of the guys who always has a date.

I can almost hear his grin.

You think I’m that attractive? I’m flattered.

Believe me, I don’t. I just didn’t think somebody like you –popular and textbook smart– would be without a date.

Yeah… I can see he’s trying really hard not to think about something.

I persuade him. You thinking of asking somebody out this Valentine’s?

Sarah. There’s a short pause. I’m confirmed he’s blushing. But it’s impossible not to think the answer when a question has been asked so directly. Oh no. No, no. McAdams, if youdare mess it–!

You have such little faith in me, Steele. I examine my nails. How monstrous do you think I am?

Very. The answer escapes in his mind before he can stop it. He doesn’t bother to correct himself. Instead, he adds with a smug tone, In fact, that’s the whole truth and nothingbut the truth.

Idiot. Now, I think I’ll just tell Sarah–

No!

I wasn’t going to, stupid.

There’s not another word more. He truly doesn’t want to speak to me. Technically, though, he’s not using his vocal cord. So would this be considered as think-speaking? I remember reading about these types of wasps, who can communicate to each other using their minds. Maybe we’re both like this.

It’s obvious this is a dream. That’s why I haven’t been sweating it. Otherwise, I’d be screaming and throwing Hunter against a brick-wall as if playing a game of tennis. When I wake up, or maybe got to sleep tonight, everything would disappear. I’ll be in my own little world and he’ll be in his.

And my stupid wish of “somebody understanding me” will disappear. Because if there’s something useful I’ve learnt in the –oh, I don’t know, eight hours– I’ve spoken/thought-with Hunter, I like my thoughts personal. I’d prefer them within myself. Just the slightest bit of control which isn’t directed to me is enough to make me paranoid. Or maybe that’s just my bothersome personality.

One of the taller, popular girls, Rochelle, hangs banners across the hallways. She gives me a small smile as she hangs up the whole “Happy Valentine’s Day!” around the school. Though Valentine’s Day is just an excuse for young couples to be sappier, this school supports it all the way. Mainly because our principal got proposed on Valentine’s Day, and she wants to relive the happiness over and over.

If only she wasn’t left widowed at only twenty-eight.

As if by magic, I watch her bouncy red curls jump on and down on her collar. She’s a jolly, plump little woman –funny and likeable, but strict at the right times.

“Bridgette!” she exclaims, doing a short wave. “Training for the athletic festival?”

I salute her. “Yes, Ms Rhineheart!” She raises her eyebrow. “I mean, uh –yes, Madam!”

“Good. Now, you win that trophy, you hear me?”

She winks before disappearing through the hallways, until there’s nothing but the ghost of her figure. It makes me wonder if she’s going home, unable to bear the love and loss on this particular day. I don’t remember a single Valentine’s Day where stayed calm –at the end of the day, she was always in the girls’ toilets, crying her eyes out.

She misses her husband, doesn’t she?  Back again, he is.

I should tell him to go away. But then I sigh. It’s not his fault; he just has bad luck –ending when one of us wakes from this horrifying dream. Yeah. Of course she does. It’s kind of tragic. Cancer, of all things.

I remember Mr Rhineheart…

Really? I can barely remember him.

Not many people remember him, even now. But I remember how he swore he never wanted to get cancer, seeing as how he saw his mother suffer from it. It was pretty cool listening to his lectures –it cut into our science lesson, so it was all good. Still, it’s the irony of all ironies.

I grin. Count on Hunter and his class to calculate the time passing rather than what it was passing on.

Another girl with a upturned nose hangs up a sign. Something about a Valentine’s Day dance. I remember Sarah promising me that she’d never attend –not in a zillion years. Likewise, she also thought this particular holiday was a waste of time.

And yet, it’s in three days.

I sigh.

I hate Valentine’s Day.

CHAPTER FOUR

Valentine’s Day is in two days, and I get reminded every five seconds.

All these posters and banners. We’re advertising a love-fest at a Christian school. What’re we doing next, holding unsupervised proms? Not only that, but Hunter can read my thoughts. Apparently, when we’re sleeping, the thoughts don’t interfere. But since I’m up about one hour before he is –he’s probably going to be late; sucks to be him!– all my thoughts are safe and secure.

For now, anyway. I can never hold a guarantee.

“Oh, look.” Deliberately, Sarah looks down. Her hand is shielding her eyes, displaying a shadow over her forehead. “It’s Bridgette.”

 “Cut it out with the short jokes!”

But even so, I sound like a toddler. This time, though, Sarah doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, her head is craning upwards like a giraffe, scanning the hallways with those beady eyes of hers. She’s not attractive, my best friend. But there’s some sort of aura that makes her seem it.

She notices me staring at her curiously, my forehead in a half-frown. “Don’t worry,” she says, too quickly. I raise an eyebrow. She looks down. “Fine. I’m looking for Owen.”

 “Owen?” I scratch my hair. Not only is it a tangled mess, but there’s also flaky dandruff falling to the ground like feathers. Yuck. I get a glare from Sarah. “Oh. Right.” And, about a long ten seconds later, I yell out, “Wait, you like Owen?”

She slaps her hands over my mouth. “Loud, much? Why not yell it a little louder –I think somebody in America couldn’t quite hear you.”

I lift her hand off my face. “Owen? Seriously? Red-head, annoying, hyena-laughing Owen?”

What did I miss? It’s the groggy voice of Hunter spinning in my head.

I bite my lip. There’s no way I can tell him about–

Tell me about what?

Don’t worry!

Turning away from my best friend, I race to the Girls’ Toilets. If I’m to avoid a subject, to stop thinking about something all at once, I’m to evade the person talking about it. There are two girls standing in front of the mirror, skilfully chatting and applying lip-gloss at the same time. One has curly hair and the other has a straight bob. Must be two of the more “popular” girls.

They turn and smile at me, before turning back to the mirror. They laugh about something that happened over the weekend, leaving me without any information of what they’re talking about. It’s got something to do with bricks. And though it’s shameful, it’s the only thing I overheard with my pathetic eavesdropping skills.

God forbid me from ever being a girl, Hunter’s voice echoes in my mind, covered in a layer of disgust. They talk about the most useless and boring things! It’s as if they have to say something or their mouth will fall apart.

I stand up straight. My body stiffens, mainly in annoyance. Not all of us are like that…

Oh yeah. His voice is dismissive. There’s a small, giggly laugh in his head.

…What was that?

Nothing. There’s a pause. He sighs. Fine. I’m just thinking about how Sarah isn’t anything like other girls, especially you–

But unfortunately, you’re not “special” enough for her to like.

Wait… what?

Curse my short-temper. But there’s no way somebody stereotypes me with the rest of the gender-humiliating girls. I will always defend myself. Even if it means completely tearing the other person in half –emotionally.

She doesn’t like you, you know. He’s about to ask me the question. But his voice will probably sound ultra-depressed, and I’d feel guilt, so I cut in the answer before he can ask. She likes Owen. The next thing I say makes me realise how hard it is, living without control on what I’m thinking/exposing. She’ll never like you; face it, you’re far too introverted and insecure. Your popularity doesn’t fool anyone.

Instantly, my head is filled with a zillion high-then-low-pitched noises. They’re getting louder and louder. Oh God, I made him think about something unwillingly. But the volume of these random notes are driving me insane. I can’t stop these sounds from entering my head. It’s like torture to its highest extent.

Sure, it was buzzing yesterday too, but not as much as right now.

Deciding there’s no point running away from him, I exit the Ladies’ Room and head to the cafeteria. I see Hunter instantly, but he ducks his head. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to meet my eyes. Not that I blame him, especially for how terribly I treated him. No words in the English dictionary can describe the feeling of guilt tucked in my st4omach.

Why, oh why did that Arthur guy pair us up together?

This is just a dream.

That’s the only thought keeping me sane in the worst of times. When I wake up tomorrow, everything’s going to be alright. ‘Course, I said the same thing yesterday. But it’ll be different, because tomorrow’s another day, right?

It really doesn’t help my mood when Naomi Baker comes up to me. She’s not popular or unpopular: she’s in the middle somewhere. But it doesn’t matter, because she hates me. Completely loathes me. Almost as much as Hunter irritates–

Hey!

Sorry, Hunter. But it’s true.

I can tell he’s trying not to think of a zillion curse words. But my eyes are focused on the girl in front of me, her eyes in narrow slits as she smiles. It’s not a cold or unfriendly smile. However, it’s a smile which isn’t genuine –and that alone makes me feel intimidated and inadequate for her level.

 “Oh, Bridgette.” Everybody around us is in ignorance, walking past like we don’t exist. That’s the problem with my school: nobody knows who’s friends with who, seeing as “friendship groups” always change from time-to-time. Therefore, me randomly hanging out with a girl who dreams about murdering me isn’t too far-fetched. “How are you? It’s been so long.”

Not long enough, I think.

Why does Naomi Baker hate you?

I think about ignoring the question, but realise he’ll find out anyway. It’s better to make him think I was meaning to tell him.

Which is why my reply is, She always comes third when it comes to running.

…But I come second.

Yeah, but you’re popular. When I hear the confused “What?” in Hunter’s mind, I grimace. Popularity; you don’t know how much of a difference it makes.

 “My dad just opened a new restaurant branch here,” she says, eyeing her fingernails. There are small broken pieces, which she frowns at for a good ten seconds. Then she turns to me with a curt smile. “You know our restaurant, don’t you? Best one in all of Australia.”

Baker’s Paradise. It’s kind of impossible to miss.

Her dad owns Baker’s Paradise? Hunter’s voice is shocked. I never knew that!

How funny, I think with a grimace. Especially since I’m reminded of this every single day.

How come?

She likes poking fun at how my father’s business –Nails and Hammers ‘R’ Us– is such a failure. And also, how I don’t get accepted at any part-time jobs because of my mum. Before he asks, I think, She was the school outcast. And almost every boss in this town had some sort of “terrible” experience with her.

Oh. It’s obvious he doesn’t know what to think. That must suck.

 “Suck” doesn’t conclude my life.

But I turn my attention back to Naomi, forcing a smile. “How lovely.”

 “Yes.” Her voice is dismissive. “It is lovely. Say, he’s hiring clients right now.” My heart skips a beat. “But because of your history….” She bites her lip, as if she’s truly hesitating. It’s amazing how ugly somebody is with jealousy radiating from every body part. “Sorry.” And with that, she’s off through the hallways.

My nose wrinkles. Even if I try to apply for a job, Naomi’ll make sure I don’t get it. It’s the one advantage she has over me: access to every job thanks to her popular –and not to mention rich– father. And believe me, she knows it like the back of her hand. It’s kind of irritating how I can never win with somebody dripping with jealousy.

An absurd thought enters my mind. Maybe I should let her come second next time…. I snort the minute I think it. As if I’m ever going to “let” her win; she just has to become better than me.

Wow.

Wow what?

You are so shallow. All you ever think about is yourself! And, um, overconfident much? What makes you think that Naomi’s not better than you? There are better runners out there besides you. Please don’t tell me you’ve forgotten!

Why, thank you. You comment has been kindly disregarded. Ex-oh-ex-oh-ex-oh.

And, for the second time in the same day, I can tell he’s thinking of a zillion cursing words to throw at me but just can’t find them.

*

“Oh, look. It’s my guinea pigs.”

The minute Arthur says those words, looking upwards from his desk and staring at both of us, I know there’s something wrong. Hunter and I exchange looks. This is a man who has something to do with our new “ability” –one which neither of us asked for. There’s something really weird about this substitute teacher.

Especially since he never got much of a welcome. The Principal gave a polite speech about welcoming “Arthur,” but that’s it. No last name, not a single word of extra information. It makes me more queasy to talk to this, well, stranger. Especially since he has that crazed look in his eyes once more.

Hunter and I are the first people to enter the classroom. Afterwards, everybody in my religion class enters and I feel more uncomfortable than usual. Although a lot more people have entered, chatting quietly among themselves, there’s something isolated about this classroom. It’s like me and Hunter are the only ones here.

Which is insane, because there are about twenty other kids.

For the second time in the same amount of days, Hunter takes the seat next to me. I’m still squirming at how terrible boy-germs must be, but I tolerate it. After all, it’s not as if there’s anybody else I’d rather sit next to –when it comes to my regular classes without Sarah, I’m a complete loner. Why can’t I have more classes with her?

 “So, class, tell me what you know about the Earth.”

Instantly, Naomi puts her hand up. Because she usually avoids me, I sometimes forget she’s in my Religion class. “It’s a round object. A sphere shape.”

Arthur nods. “Okay, are there any questions?”

I’m stunned. Instantly stunned. That’s it? The entire lesson’s on what kind of shape the Earth is? A couple of other students around me have the same confused expression as they peer up at Arthur. The extremely short teacher just shrugs, like it’s no big deal. It’s almost as if he’s some sort of imposter dressed up in ragged clothes and the most torn jeans. What is this sorcery?

We are so failing Religion this year, I think hauntingly to myself. Imagine what it’s going to do to my not-that-good grades.

So self-absorbed, I hear Hunter’s disgusted thoughts. Why did I have to end up reading your stupid mind?

Because I’m a zillion times better than you? Oh, and also because rumours say I beat up ninety-nine boys last year. And then the hundredth one ended up getting his head smashed, so it wasn’t really a “beat up,” but more a “murder.” So it didn’t really count.

I hear Hunter laughing like a hyena beside me. At first, I think he’s suffocating, so my heart skips a beat as I debate what to do. But then I realise his snorting is not out of pain. Instead, it’s out of humour.

Which is weird, because it definitely doesn’t sound like a laugh. A lot of students around the class are looking at Hunter. They then look away when he gives them a smirk. Nobody can match Hunter Steele’s smirk with the same smugness –urgh, I hate this boy!

That was seriously a rumour? You’re kidding, right?

I wish. It’s one of the worst rumours ever.

Not as bad as the one with me being tortured by my parents and then ending up in the hospital and living in complete sympathy. Oh, and apparently, some orphanage adopted me and had people fight over my brilliant good looks.

Every word out of his mouth –well, brain, technically– is bitter. And though I don’t want to ask, curiosity bites at every nerve in my body. My mouth doesn’t want to ask the question, but my brain is urging. Pressuring me to find the answer to a particular inquiry. And before I know it, I think, Is it true?

My stomach churns as I watch Hunter duck his head and look the other way. He’s staring at the door and watching people pass by, deciding he’s not going to learn much with Arthur teaching us. There isn’t a response which I can hear.

Instead, there’s a deep buzzing noise like a zillion hornets attacking at the same time.

Definitely not a good sign.

CHAPTER FIVE

When I’m jogging, the whole world is forgotten.

No, that’s not right. I wish it was. Sometimes, I wish there could be an instance –a hobby, some sort of miracle– which would let me run away. Why do I always run towards things? Why do I always collide into problems? That’s the thing about me: I’m willing to do so much, but so little opportunities are presented to me.

Granted, the minute some sort of responsibility is handed to me, I mess it up. It’s weird to think Hunter Steele is still in bed, probably with a mass of bed-hair. I grimace. He puts so much gel in his hair, it’s sticky and disgusting-looking. He doesn’t try to be popular, but since he already has the reputation, why not continue it?

What really annoys me is how rumours are another factor towards popularity. Hunter’s “past” is a deep and tragic story, filled with hope and emotion. People want to talk to him, people want to hold him tight and tell him how okay life is. Whereas when it comes to Bridgette McAdams, the only thing people think is the typical, “Run! She’s going to murder you!”

I sigh. My feet keep running, rhythmically touching the ground at the right moments. The concrete under my feet feels so alive. It’s as if it’s moving instead of my own feet. This is why I love running; this is why I can run forever and still not get tired of how the wind blows through my hair, pushing me faster.

But even so, I still wish I could change things about myself.

Life is so unfair. Why did I have to be stuck with Hunter Steele and his useless thoughts? I mean, I don’t really mind if it was Sarah, because despite the whole Owen-adoring thing, she doesn’t keep secrets from me. Why did it have to be a complete stranger who ends up listening to every personal thought?

Shouldn’t I at least get a choice in this?

Honestly, there isn’t a number for how many times either Hunter and I wanted to confront Arthur. Not only is he no longer attractive –sorry, but even if he’s a perfect height, creepy young guys who force people to read each other’s thoughts don’t float my dating boat– but he’s a stupid excuse for a teacher! Our entire Religion class is going to fail; I know this with instinct.

But there’s something intimidating about him. That’s the only reason neither Hunter or I approached him. He’s just far too scary and unpredictable! Although this sounds like what a wimpy toddler would claim, there’s no denying the dirt living under his fingernails. Arthur needs to get a manicure –full-stop.

Oh, would you know it. It’s McAdams. Hunter’s inner-voice is dripping with bitterness. Why, hello there, McAdams.

Hello there, Hunter, I reply, using the same amount of bitterness as him.

There’s a short pause. And suddenly, Hunter’s voice sounds excited when he thinks,It’s Valentine’s Day!

I don’t see the excitement. …And?

And I woke up today with a huge chocolate craving. I always get boxes of chocolate on Valentine’s Day!

Honestly, if there’s a way to murder somebody using only my mind, I would’ve done it by now. It’s true: I’ve seen it before. Somehow, when it comes to Valentine’s Day, the “popular” people happen to be everybody’s best friend. They always get a zillion chocolates. And Hunter Steele –stupid, boyish and smug Hunter– never fails to remind me how unpopular I am among my peers.

It’s almost humiliating. But I don’t show much of a weakness as I leave my mind blank. I’m not going to expose a single thought–

Oh no. There’s sadness in these two words. I stop at my track. No, no, he thinks quickly. Carry on. Seriously, it’s nothing.

Tell me.

And the words come flooding out. Sarah. I really like her. She’s already asking Owen out, like you said. And what makes matters worse is how Owen likes her back. I know I’m supposed to be a mate and everything, but it’s so freaking hard. Especially when he’s always droning on about her and he doesn’t have a clue that I like her.

It’s kind of hard not to feel pity at a time like this. Even if this enemy of mine is a complete egoistic and “flaunting” person, he’s still capable of being broken. Also, his situation is, indeed, extremely complicated. He used to go to the same Primary School as Sarah, so he must’ve known her forever, whereas Owen and I went to another one.

I didn’t even meet Sarah until this year; Owen wouldn’t have known she existed. And somehow, poor old Hunter gets overlooked when he knows her the longest.

Oh, the irony of this world.

No matter how terrible Hunter Steele is, he still doesn’t deserve it.

Gee, thanks, I hear his dry voice say. I didn’t realise that all my thoughts, even the ones I don’t precisely dictate, are heard by him.

Sorry, I reply.

It’s okay. Anyway, it’s not like it’s your–

Why do you like Sarah, anyway?

We were kids once. Like, ten or eleven. We used to watch the moon during family trips –well, by family, I mean my grandparents and her parents. And then, we used to think the moon followed us. It was so… weird. She’s the first girl I met who admitted to something as stupid as that, especially since we both knew it wasn’t really following us. There’s a pause. I don’t know… I guess I liked how she wasn’t afraid to stand up for something she believed in.

I wrinkle my nose. Yeah, um, I’m nothing like Sarah. She’s far better than me.

If possible, I hear him laugh. No, wait, it probably is possible, seeing as the brain registers everything a person does or says. I wouldn’t exactly say better. You’re sensitive and cry really easily, she’s not. You, uh, have a reputation for murdering innocent little children, she doesn’t.

Hold on, how do I “cry very easily”?

Every-time you fall over during Track, you start crying. Every. Single. Time.

Shut up. The whole “murdering” rumour may just be true, you know.

Nah, I don’t think you’re that bad. And anyway, Sarah’s not the one I feel like slaughtering when a certain cry-baby wins Cross Country. Even after spending half the race blubbing about a small bruise on her ankle!

My lips form into a grin. The secret lies in the tears, Steele.

*

 “Bridgette, you need to get to the Valentine’s Day Dance,” my mother says, genuinely looking anxious towards why her daughter is still in her smelly sneakers and casual top. “What’s wrong? Do you have a fever?”

 “I actually don’t want to go,” I mumble.

 “Oh, Honey.” She ruffles my hair. “It’s okay if you’re not popular with the guys.”

My teeth grit. Obviously, that’s the reason why I can’t show my face. Because I’m not “popular” with the male race. Like, what kind of person is my mother? Is she one of those insane people who always wanted to be popular? And then a sudden, terrible thought strikes me. That’s right: we’re exactly the same. Although I’m not an outcast, I long to be noticed among my peers at school.

Mum, though an outcast, must’ve felt the same way.

It’s weird how people assume blonde hair and blue eyes instantly gets someone popularity. It’s so not true –I’d know this better than anybody else. In fact, I’m the only person in the family with the combined features of blonde hair and blue eyes. The rest of my sisters dyed their hair black to match Eva’s, seeing as she was the “trendsetter” of the family.

There’s a cold shiver running up my spine. I hate how she was everything. Why can’t she still be something? Wait, that’s right –she’s dead.

I shudder. Eva’s death’d be far more painful if I knew her better. Because of my lack of knowledge, I never found the urge to dye my hair black or follow her like all my older sisters would do. I was happy knowing I had such a cool sister, but never wished to be like her. It’s weird, because she’s the “recipe” for popularity –and yet, I didn’t want that.

My reasons for popularity revolve around how well I can influence people. I can inspire, I can help. These are characteristics more “popular” people don’t have. If, for even the slightest of moments, I could have a word with the school, I’d be able to make a difference. That’s because I’m good at changing the way people think; I can change the world.

But I’ll never be popular. Never, ever, ever. Only because it’s in my blood. My mother was rejected, teased, ignored. I think it goes down to her youngest daughter, who looks exactly like her.

Looking away from my mother, who seems to have forgotten me, I walk back to my room. I pick up my pillow and scream in it. My scream is muffled. Thank Goodness, because I’d be pronounced more mental than I

already am. It’s peculiar how quiet my mind is without Hunter’s voice nagging at me. I sigh. He’s so lucky to be a boy.

Before disappearing from my head, he declared he was going to sleep. Most members of the female species wouldn’t be able to rest –not with a ginormous Valentine’s Prom to attend! But because he’s a boy, he doesn’t have to waste his time thinking about this disgraceful dance until the last five minutes.

What a lucky bugger.

 “Yo, Bridge.” Becca elbows me in the rib. I smile as if she didn’t just break my ribcage. This is one of the main disadvantages of living with the Champion-Female-Boxer of her university. “It’s fun, trust me.”

My mouth opens, but I’m interrupted.

 “Oh!” Barbara arrives in my room, grinning. “Valentine’s Prom already? I remember how epic it was when I was back in high-school…”

Presenting Barbara, the one who recalls her childhood like it’s some sort of treasure. To be honest, I’m spending more of my time trying to escape from the clutches of my teachers, not wishing on every bone in my body to hug them.

 “You have to wear a blue dress. Promise me.” All of Breena’s words happen to be gushes which usually don’t make much sense. “It’s the only colour that suits you –you look ugly in pretty much everything else.” When all my sisters turn to look at her, she crosses her arm defensively. “What?”

 “What a cow,” says Becca with a grin, ruffling Breena’s hair.

If possible, Breena sounds like a choking walrus and begins panicking. Her makeup is already smudging, despite how she wore it two minutes ago. She’s one of those girls who has to look perfect every five seconds. But it’s all worth it, because she’s the girl every guy at her Arts University as their eye on.

However, Becca –down-to-Earth and just graduating Becca– disagrees. Despite being about two years younger than Breena, she manages to have more pride and sense of life in her. Won’t date until a guy hands her a pineapple for Valentine’s Day.

What? It’s Hunter. He’s awake. Oh, the joys. What on Earth, McAdams? Apineapple?

Yes, I think back, sighing. A pineapple. Yeah, you heard right. According to Becca, a guy must know her well enough to know she wants –very specifically– a pineapple before she agrees to date him.

...Your family’s so weird.

I watch Breena scream as Becca tries to pull her hair out. It’s like a wild chase, and poor Barbara is standing there awkwardly with the usual, “Guys, this isn’t a very good idea…” But of course, her whole existence is ignored. It finally takes my mother to walk in and scold both Becca for trying to damage her sister’s hair and Breena for acting so weak and threatened by it.

And then she reminds them of their age. Her eyes dart to me as she rolls them. Like always, she never fails to remind me how mature I am compared to the rest of her daughters.

My family is weird, I say in agreement. But it’s all good, ‘cause I love them anyway.

CHAPTER SIX

Somehow, I get rid of all my pestering sisters –then lock my bedroom door.

I’m reminded how happy I am Dad finally gave in to having a lock. With the amount of fracas that goes on at my house, survival depends on the small object. Their loud bickering is heard even when I’m three meters away from the door. How loud can they go?

Regardless, I’m happy to have the bed for myself. I make angels among the sheets, realising with a sleepy sigh that, once I wake up, Hunter’s voice isn’t going to be there anymore. He’s all going to be a memory. And sure, Arthur’s this sketchy person who joined our thoughts together, but he can’t be that bad.

Or maybe this is all just a big, terrible dream. Perhaps it’s just one of those “three wishes” things where I realise just how horrifyingly my one desire can turn out. In which case, I’m grateful, because I’m learning to move on with my life. After I wake up, I’m going to be completely alone with my thoughts. And I’ll never want the same wish again.

I close my eyes and drift off to sleep.

When I wake up next, there isn’t much light streaming through the windows. This might be a worry. Well, to most people. But I’m so used to feeling tired after school and taking naps, that I never worry about spending more than two hours sleeping. I sit up in bed, just thinking about how lovely my life is.

…You take naps?

He’s back. Why is he still there? For the first time in my life, I’m terrified. Completely and utterly horrified. For instance, who am I supposed to alert about my situation? If I tell my parents, they’d worry and send me to a shrink –only to have Breena scowling at me, ‘cause she won’t get that “perfect” dress she’s been looking at. Our family is already reduced financially; there’s no need to create more problems.

But I was sure. I was so confirmed that, after my nap, I’d be alone with my thoughts. Life is so unfair. There’s something really dangerous about not being to explain what’s going on in my mind. Maybe I can tell somebody who believes me –which is very unlikely. I mean, if I heard myself speak, there’s no way I’d buy something like, “Oh my gosh, I can hear that person’s every thought and they can hear mine.”

Technology’s not that advanced.

Worst of all, I’m stuck. I’m stuck with this guy like superglue, and there’s no way to stop it. No, wait –worse than superglue. At least there would be the simple “visual” aspect, where somebody with good hands can help us. Not only that, but our inner secrets and thought would be protected.

Nothing can quite be worse than a situation like this. And I have no idea how to stop this.

You know what, I’m gonna try taking a nap as well. But there’s too much sweat on it. Hold on, is that sweat? I really hope that is, ‘cause my dog Roger was in my room a second… oh no. There’s too much of it. There’s no way it can be sweat…

That’s it; the last screw of my sanity, gone like the wind.

I pick up my pillow to muffle my scream.

*

I grudgingly give in to Breena.

It’s possibly one of the biggest mistakes of my life. Especially since I now look like a human present, wrapped with blue bows and a dress which is supposed to reach my knees but ends up almost touching my ankles. Curse my shortness!

But according to Becca, I look so adorable she wants to eat me up. That was when Barbara got this worried look on her face as she told me to run to the prom quickly –before I have a human cannibal feasting happily on my flesh. I shudder this very minute, thinking how close I was from being devoured by my beloved sister.

It’s every girl’s worst nightmare.

Besides having a stranger read her every thought, right? I grit my teeth. There he is, Mr Steele, sounding as smug as ever. He still has braces! How is he still popular? Hey, that’s not very nice! And for your information, Naomi said my braces are very attractive.

I almost fall on the ground. My knees are weakened. Did you just say Naomi…?

You heard me. She’s probably going to ask me out for the Valentine’s Day Dance. My anger boils when he adds, Come to think of it, she’s probably not the only girl drooling after me. They all love me.

It’s weird, because once upon a time, I absolutely disliked Hunter. But that was before I got to know the real him. And once I found out the real version of him, I’m wishing I never met him. Mainly because the true version is a zillion times worse, smugger, and not shy at the slightest. So is this what he’s like on the inside? Arrogant and typically male?

Hey, you’re nothing like I expected either.

What?

I always thought that, despite crying when you get the slightest bit of a bruise, you were tough on the inside. But you’re overly fragile, despite being so bold on the outside.

I’d rather be fragile than a complete fake.

Fake? He laughs. It’s not exactly humourous or mocking, but just kind of bitter. Nah, believe me: the quiet side is the true side. Every guy is a typical idiot on the inside –there are exceptions, but the majority are. And only a selected few show it on the outside. Even if I want to, I can’t show my “bad side” to the world.

…That’s so weird. But why can’t you?

 ‘Cause it’s just my personality, being quiet. I can’t help it. And only a selected few see the other side of me, so… uh, congratulations.

I snort. Believe me, it’s not something I’m proud of.

*

Finally, I get the finishing touches done. Breena insists on doing my makeup and Barbara –pessimistic, worrying Barbara– makes a list of reasons why Breena’s makeover skills may completely damage my skin, letting it rot, and then melt off my face. Breena just rolls her eyes dismissively, and assures me that, even if that does happen, the worst I’ll get called is “Skinless” at school.

I find it alarming how my sister attends university. Did she not consider the hazards of not having skin as anything but beauty-related? No, it’s obvious I’m smarter than her –science-wise, anyway. If somebody asks me about cosmetic brands, I’d be useless and tongue-tied. There’s no doubt that Breena would walk home with the first prize.

Taking a gasp of a deep breath, I arrive in front of the mirror. According to Breena, I’m “gorgeous and adorable.” According to me, I’m a potential partner for Frankenstein. No, partner sounds like I remotely have a chance of being human –I’m his future wife. Becca looks as horrified as I do, but a blind person can see my clothing isn’t “her style.”

Her black hair’s in a bob, her biceps are bulgier than most men and she chooses to wear pain studs in her ears than actual earrings. Yeah, a frilly dress isn’t her style at all. She mouths the words, “Are you sure?”

But pessimistic Barbara looks optimistic for once. “You actually look pretty adorable.” She giggles. “Be sure to never turn a guy down.”

 “Exactly.” Becca nods her head viciously in agreement. “You’re supposed to take them down with your super-muscles. Show them who’s boss!”

As if with sisterly instinct, Breena grabs my shoulders and cautiously removes me from hitting distance and whispers, “Or you can just accept the guy if he wants to dance. Now, no slouching. And what’s with your legs? Are you ever going to grow taller?”

 “Longer legs doesn’t mean I can run faster,” I shoot back. “And, if you haven’t noticed, I’m the best runner of my Year Level –possibly Olympic-worthy.”

 “Wow,” breathes Becca, shaking her head but grinning. “For a small body, you have a big head.”

 “Careful.” Barbara’s voice is raspy, injecting fear in every nerve in my body. I get the tingles from one word alone: this girl has major potential as a public-guilt-speaking. She can save the whales and tortoises without lifting a finger. “You don’t want a big head. Because when you get a big head, your nerves expand. And after your nerves expand, they pop. Of course, you don’t realise it at first. That’s what makes this a slow… painful… horrifying–”

 “Enough!” Breena sounds genuinely shaken up. She coughs, as if to cover her fear. “And anyway, Bridgette might be full of herself, but she has right to be.” As usual, she can’t talk without a squeal injected somewhere in the sentence. “OhmyGodyoulooksoadorable. Youaregoingtobetheprettiestgirlthere.”

 “Did anybody under a word she was saying?” whispers Becca when Breena runs to the bathroom to apply her next layer of foundation –just like she does every five minutes or so. “Like, anything at all?”

 “She was saying something? I thought she was calling aliens to take her back to the planet she was born on,” deadpans Margaret.

We all have a good snicker about this fact. And finally, when Breena’s back with a new layer of foundation and her camera, she takes a shot of us all together. There’s something magical about every photo she takes; it brings be straight to the moment, and she manages to press the button at the exact time needed.

She has total future potential to become a photographer –in fact, she’s considering taking it up as a part-time profession after becoming a fashion designer.

When I exit the house, I’m being forced to sit at the back-seat. Barbara’s the oldest and most responsible, so whenever somebody needs a ride, my parents insist on her driving us everywhere –even after both Breena and Becca have their licenses. I think neither of them can image us more grown up than babies. Which is kind of insulting.

But there’s a different kind of fun when sitting in the backseat. Because our house is in a remote part of the town, it takes about thirty minutes to get to school. This means thirty entire minutes of Barbara’s classical music and ravings about how the world can end any second, at any rate.

She always has been an interesting person, Barbara. Second eldest, and definitely the most mature among us sisters. People used to think she was older than Eva. Granted, Eva looked the same age as me until…

I don’t finish that thought. Instead, I quickly ask Barbara to name a list of the possible malfunctions which can go wrong in this car-trip. It’s like heaven has been handed to her on a silver platter, because she begins theoretically speaking about how wheels can fly off this vehicle, how petrol can run dead-out and a car can collide with us from behind.

She tells me her theories with such enthusiasm, it’s weird to think she still has a grip on the steering wheel. I shudder. Though hearing about ways to die isn’t a particularly satisfying way of spending time, it definitely beats thinking about the past. And what I could’ve changed.

I stifle a gasp. The tune of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star is playing over in my head. Over and over again. My brain is so messed-up. And I groan when I hear Hunter’s voice, when he thinks, That’s so weird; I haven’t heard a single thought from you. That’s when I realise my life isn’t normal. I completely forgot about the “thought-reading” incident occurring this very minute.

Of course, Hunter has to remind me instantly. Chills are running up my spine. I’m terrified. This kind of thing doesn’t happen to normal people. Why am I being a victim? Did I do anything wrong –any sort of sin– to deserve such a cruel punishment? Maybe I made Breena or Becca take out the garbage when it was my turn, but sure it’s not that much of a sin. Right?

So I think back, with intentions of it getting to Hunter, No. I haven’t heard anything from you, either. But there was the Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star tune playing over in my head right before you asked your question. What were you thinking about?

I was thinking about you. Oh, and how you’re going to be a complete reject at the dance.

My hands tighten around my blue ribbons like they’re Hunter’s throat.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The music is loud.

This is the mere thought circulating my mind when I take a deep breath, finally stepping into the room. A faint scent of perfume rustles through the air, catching me off-guard. Shouldn’t a hall like this stink of sweat? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining –it just seems severely unusual. There is chattering and giggling, as the music pulses in everybody’s ears.

But because this is a school event, there isn’t any R-rated gestures going on. Which I’m extremely thankful for. Especially since the principal lost so much; why drown in sorrow, realising how everybody else is more fortunate than her? She can’t have everything. Nobody has everything.

Sarah rushes over to me and we exchange the secret handshake. Only, it’s not so secret because Owen watches us with an expression of disgust. Or maybe that’s supposed to be aimed at me: his eyes won’t leave Sarah, and it’s definitely not hatred in his eyes when he continues gazing at her. I want to inform him he has drool escaping the corner of his lip, but I stop myself. There’s no need to make him hate me even more.

Another thing surprising me is how Hunter’s stupid voice isn’t in my head. It’s not there. Not at all. Although I’ve been praying every night before bed, begging for our thoughts to separate, it feels so weird without it. Dare I say it, I feel lonely without his snarky remarks about my hair or threats to completely ruin what’s left of my reputation.

No, I take it back. Life’s so much better without him.

That was a little harsh.

You’re… you’re not gone? It’s hard not to sound weary. I’ve waited too long for this moment –the minute I break free from this terrible, confusing curse and think private thoughts once more. Evidently, life’s never easy. Nothing ever goes my way: it’s foolish to think the world might just revolve around me, even for a second.

Gee, you sound happy. But we can’t hear each other’s thoughts casually anymore…

Yeah… You reckon it’s, like, a form of communication? Like when I’m thinking right now, I’m hoping you’ll hear me.

That must be it. It’s not a “privacy” invasion anymore: we have choice as to what we want the other person to know.

I guess this is good news. It’s better than knowing every one of Hunter’s thoughts and him hearing mine. Though, I crave the for the chance of being alone –without any pesky people interrupting what I’ve got to say. That Arthur teacher has something to do with this entire “thought-reading” thing; I don’t accept that, just after he stares at us with a creepy grin, we end up in a paranormal situation.

No, he definitely has something to do with it. If only he was a little more approachable. Quite frankly, there’s not a single kid in school who isn’t intimidated by this short but vicious teacher. If he’s he a teacher in first place, that is. I wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up as a magician, running around the world and cursing people with his magic sword –or, well, his eyes. His glittering, deep eyes which continue to haunt my dreams.

I wonder if he has a wife. It’s kind of mean to think a creep like him won’t have a female to love, although it’s quite possible.

Love without evidence is stalking, says a giggling Hunter.

You know that giggle you did? Yeah? Yeah? Never do it again. It’s so sketchy when guys giggle.

Sexist! Everybody can giggle. You’re just a complete hypocrite.

…Honestly, I’m surprised you even know what a hypocrite means.

The conversation stopped right there. I’m sure Hunter’s fuming. Maybe he is, but I can’t see him anywhere at this room. He has to be around. I think. Gee, I hope I didn’t offend him enough to stop him coming to the dance in first place: it’d be the ironies of all ironies, seeing as I’m the one who swore to never set foot on the dance-floor. But then, after I gather my thoughts, I snort.

As if I care about Hunter’s feelings –if he has any in first place, that is.

When I’m back to reality, Sarah’s looking at me like I’m a maniac. Uh-oh. I straighten my posture and raise my eyebrows, trying to appear casual. Sarah’s one of those “I-don’t-judge-people” types –the people who stand up against whale-hunting and fight heated discussions on why refugees should be allowed in Australia. So when she looks at me like I’ve lost my last screw, there’s definitely something major going on.

“Um, why are you staring at me like that?” I try to sound nonchalant. “Seriously, close your mouth: it’s embarrassing.”

 “Your watch is on the wrong hand. And why are you even wearing a watch? It’s a dance, for crying out loud!”

I mutter something unintelligent before sliding the watch off my wrist, stuffing it in my pocket. Typical Sarah. She always notices the smallest things and wrinkles her nose at them. I wonder if Hunter knows this side of her: the controlling, I’m-always-right part. Probably not. And anyway, it doesn’t matter because she’s already talking to Owen.

Talking isn’t the best word. They’re both struggling to keep conversation. Neither of them want to be there, judging by their scarlet faces, but they don’t want to stop talking either. It’s like those moments where two options seem ideal, but neither fit: the moments where one wants the best of both worlds. Deciding I can’t take their helpless flirting any longer, I trail to the table to get myself a batch of cupcakes.

People are dancing all around me, grinning like idiots as they do stupid stuff. This isn’t unusual at a school like mine, where the boys are immature. I remember reading a book once about a guy in a wheelchair, and how he feels so helpless because he can’t “protect” his girlfriend. But here at my school, the guys don’t even know about their “roles” –they’re the ones pushing females down stairs and betting on how serious their head-injury is.

Yeah. Immature to the fullest –if not dangerous and having future potential of becoming psychologically damaged.

 “Oh, fancy seeing you,” says a voice behind me. I spin around to see him. Hunter Steele. I sigh in disappointment –I really wish it was somebody else. “What brings you here, McAdams?”

 “Food…?” I question his intelligent with my frown.

His entire face brightens. “Say no more.”

Before I know it, half the cupcakes are gone. Not that there were many to start with, but still. I try not to look in disgust as I pick a block of chocolate from the plate. Only, a grubby hand snatches it from me before I get the chance to savour it. I look up. Sure enough, there’s Phillip Tennyson with my chocolate block –and a zillion others tucked in a tissue, hidden in his arm.

I’m just about snatch back the piece of chocolate –seeing as it’s the last one on that plate– but he gets the bright idea of licking that particular block. I flinch as if he’s a radioactive spider; he returns my expression with smugness, spontaneously twisting himself around and walking away. That greedy little jerk! Even after having an uncle who’s the third richest in Australia, he acts no better than a starving person on the street.

In fact, I’m willing to bet that starving person would contain a little more pride than this guy.

I hear snickering. When I turn around, I see Hunter’s eyes as wide as a deer in headlights, as he covers his mouth with his hand. “Oh wow.” He tries to disguise his laughter for a coughing fit. “Poor you.”

 “No, no. Please don’t feel sorry for me; I’m not the one who looks like a shark with gum-disease.”

His face darkens. I shouldn’t have said that. I know I’ve crossed some sort of line, and it’s obvious he’s angry. Especially since he looks so distant. I’m willing to bet that, if we could still hear each other’s every thought, there would be a deep buzzing voice. The one which notifies the other there’s something both of us are hiding. But there’s nothing significant about having crooked teeth: I mean, millions of Aussies grow up with uneven sets of chompers.

What kinds of “secrets” would be linked to them?

Still, it doesn’t excuse the fact I shouldn’t have said it to him. Back in fifth grade, he used to get teased for his crooked teeth. But he took it quite well and laughed along with all the “crooked” jokes, although the smiles never reached his eyes. Just looking at him makes guilt bubble in me: is it some sort of aura he has, the natural it’s –not-my-fault-it’s-yours expression?

 “I’m sorry–”

But he’s already walking away, his back turned to me. He goes straight up to Owen and starts talking about boy-stuff. Motorbikes, what they’re going to do on the weekend, who won the finals for the cricket match –those types of things. It’s strange to think Hunter was completely fuming, threatening death to me a couple of minutes ago. It’s amazing how quickly he can shift from mood to mood.

A thought strikes me. Has he really shifted from one mood to another? Or is it all just an act?

I want to ask Sarah out.

For a minute, I think the whole “every thought” function has returned. I groan. There’s nothing worse than going back to the way we were.

And I need your help, Bridgette.

That’s when I realise it isn’t a random thought. He wants me to know what he’s saying. It’s a “hallelujah” moment because it means we’re not stuck in the uncontrollable process again. But he’s asking for my help. It’s all so sudden. Why does he need me? That’s an easy question to answer: I know Sarah better than most people. And also, maybe I can be his “wingman” and set them up.

I don’t owe Hunter Steele anything. In fact, I’ve spent more of my life loathing him than breathing. So why should I care about his feelings? Why work for his happily-ever-after if I can’t build my own? It makes no sense. Especially since he hasn’t done anything nice for me. He’s absolutely no significance in my life. None whatsoever.

Please, Bridgette.

If this was some sort of movie, I would’ve said yes. And Hunter would live happily ever after with my best friend. How am I supposed to explain Sarah deserves somebody –not better– but more different than Hunter? Sarah’s opinionated and strict: she needs somebody wilder, somebody who’s immature. Somebody like Owen, really. They’re perfect for each other. Whereas she and Hunter won’t balance each other out with their personalities.

No. Sorry. I’m doing what’s right for my best friend; you’re just not right for her.

Even I find it shocking how nonchalantly I thought those words. Hunter’s probably thinking a zillion things, but none of them go directly to my mind. I scan the room for him. And sure enough, I see the back of his body. He’s purposely turning away so I can’t read his face or see his emotions.

But believe me; his hands are clenched so tightly they might fall apart.

 “Sarah.” The next few minutes are vital. All in slow motion. I don’t want to watch, but I can’t pull my eyes away either. My head is throbbing: I can feel my heart beating, the rhythm and the sound. Hunter touches Sarah’s shoulder as she spins around in surprise. She smiles at him –a quick and friendly one. “Sarah, um…”

I can’t hear the rest. I want to run straight in front of them and knock them over –or do something totally dramatic which belongs only in movies. My feet are frozen. There’s no way I’ll be able to do anything but anticipate movements I’ll never make. I take a step forward. My hands are shaking. I know exactly what Sarah’s answer would be, especially since I know she likes Owen.

Why didn’t I tell Hunter? I’m such a bad, terrible person. He thinks there’s a chance of them dating. How am I supposed to tell him now’s not the time?

Suddenly, Mrs Rhineheart barges between them. It’s an accident, but I’ve never been so grateful. “Oh, heavens.” Using Hunter’s outstretched hand, she scrambles to her feet. “Sorry about that. I haven’t fallen over since…” And then her thoughts trail off. There’s an obvious lump in her throat. She’s speaking of times where her husband was still alive.

 “May I have this dance?” It’s Hunter, his hand outstretched for the second time.

Sarah looks at him like he’s gone insane. For the second time in a row, Hunter Steele has messed up. Although it should make me giggle like a maniac, it just makes me frustrated. Almost as if his thoughts circulating themselves in my mind makes him a part of me. Everybody knows Sarah has this thing about students and teachers always keeping distances: she hates the entire idea of student/teacher relationships, and makes a huge deal of letting everyone know.

It’s impossible Hunter doesn’t know. This is Sarah we’re talking about: not exactly loud, but overly opinionated.

And yet, I watch a slow smile spread through Mrs Rhineheart’s face as she takes his hand.

I watch them waltz around the room. Not every eye is on them, but most are. Hunter doesn’t seem to mind, and if he does, he’s doing a good job of hiding it. Mrs Rhineheart doesn’t look uncomfortable at the least, and grins properly for a long time. There are wrinkles of noses and confused faces. But it’s a matter of times before these expressions disappear and are replaced with shrugs. Well, almost all of them. There’s one particularly disgusted face which arrives next to me.

Sarah shakes her head as if this is the worst thing she has ever witnessed. “What is the deal with that boy? I mean, he was in the middle of saying something, then some teacher bursts in, and he’s dancing with her? Doesn’t he realise how many teachers are sick in the head? Has he forgotten the age of Mrs Rhineheart? Does he…?”

But I’m no longer listening.

And suddenly, it’s not the moon following the grinning Hunter across the room.

It’s my eyes.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I’m not sure what’s weirder: the fact Hunter danced with Principal Rhineheart or that he called Sarah by her first name.

This is the question rolling around as I chew the end of my pencil, flipping pages through my textbook. There’s so much homework, I begin wondering if Becca is right. Maybe I should ditch school and run in the Olympics. But running’s something I don’t want to do forever. Although it’s a wonderful feeling, it’s better as a hobby and less as a profession. I need to be something like a lawyer –something which will get money in my bank.

Easily, I do History first I the homework section. Because it’s so interesting, I find myself lost in all the work. The revolutions, the fighting, the freedom. History is what shows me exactly what the human nature is capable of. It inspires me beyond words. Maybe one day I’ll be attached between the pages of some sort of History page.

Perhaps my name will echo off every wall on Earth.

I snort. What wishful thinking.

Becca enters my bedroom with a giant “boom” sound. The door can’t handle her abnormal strength. I’m about to remind her what the “Please Knock” sign on the door means, but face is such a deep scarlet, I stop myself. Instead, I question her fatigue expression with a raise of my eyebrow.

“Bridge…Ette,” she puffs. After a second’s worth of uneven breathing, she says, “I think I burnt the toast.”

I pick myself off my chair, dashing to the kitchen. Sure enough, the last loaf of bread has been burnt. Because we can’t afford bread from the shop (seeing as a family this big finishes a loaf of bread in two days), a friend of ours gives us free bread. The only condition: we have to bake it in the oven, seeing as there are mostly burnt bits and some of it isn’t developed properly.

Using my hand to shoo the smoke away, I open the oven door. A huge puff of smoke erupts in my face, causing me to cough several times in a row. When I stagger backwards, I find Becca looking sheepish. When the rest of us took Home Economics for school electives, Becca took wrestling.

She can’t even bake a loaf of bread without misreading the oven’s signals, causing every piece of food to burn. It’s only a matter of time before the entire house burns down.

Sighing, I say, “Don’t worry. I’ll run down to the store and get another loaf of bread.”

Judging by Becca’s reaction, I might as well chew on a shoe. “Are you kidding me? Have you forgotten we live in a remote area? You know, about six kilometres away from town?”

Although Becca is extremely sporty, she’s more of a weights person: she can beat almost anything in a wrestling match, but can’t run for her life. This means she underestimates my abilities a lot.

Which I don’t blame, seeing as I usually scoff when she tells me yet another one of her ex-boyfriends ended up in hospital. My face always turns pale when I call the hospital, confirming another relationship-gone-bad guy is fighting for his life.

I usually make sure to give Becca a one-hour lecture about not injuring people. She usually doesn’t listen to me. Which is why it happens again –like a vicious cycle.

Winking at her from the door, I open it slightly. “Seriously, Bec –you underestimate me.”

And just to prove her wrong, I run all the way to town. I don’t take a minute to walk to pause. There’s nothing to take a break for, anyway. I ram through my pockets, hoping to find some loose change to buy a packet of bubble-gum. A sigh exits my mouth when I notice a couple of spare cents –just enough to buy a loaf of bread from the store, nothing else.

Hey, Hunter. Do you have any ways to make money?

What? There’s a pause. Oh, right. Sorry, just a little groggy today. I can’t believe I did that…

I can’t believe you danced with Mrs Rhineheart either. I mean, I always thought of you as a mean, self-centred person. I never thought of you as nice–

I didn’t dance with her to be “nice”: I did it ‘cause I knew Sarah would hate it.

Ah. I knew it was too good to be true. A pause. Why would you do something Sarah hated?

Because she’s opinionated and I thought that, since I’d be rejected if I did ask her out, I might as well mess up her mind. She probably won’t speak to me for a long time. Great news, right? Even though the words he’s saying are full of amusement and carelessness, his tone says otherwise. He’s uncertain. And a little regretful. Anyway, you can make money doing this really simple thing. Yeah, um, it’s called a “job.”

I’m not stupid. I’m just smart enough to know nobody will hire me –not with my mother being the high-school reject.

Nobody needs to know who your mother is. Tell you what, I’ll meet you at the city centre. We’ll talk from them on.

Sure enough, I see a familiar head of curls in front of me. He waves to me, and then points to the store in front. Nodding, I enter the store. And then my heart skips a zillion beats. I feel like hitting him, because it’s not any store: it’s Naomi’s father’s store. Doesn’t he realise how badly I’ll get rejected? From here, out of all places.

I glare at him. He grins back. My simple outrage obviously isn’t dumbed-down enough for him. How typical –another textbook smart person. Somebody who’s great at school but impossibly stupid when it comes to real life. It reminds me of how Eva used to be, all smiles and text-book smart. But she didn’t have enough general knowledge to save her… life.

Swallowing a mouthful of spit, I realise how haunting that statement is. She was murdered –she really didn’t have enough general knowledge to save her life. But no. I can’t think about her. Because if I do, I’ll start crying and regret all the small times I’ve messed-up; especially that last moment when she asked for help specially from me. And I let her down so badly.

There isn’t a single person I’ve let down this tragically.

Hunter looks at me. There’s annoyance on his face –like I’m zoning out for no reason. This makes me outraged. This makes me what to scream so loudly, the entire Earth shatters into tiny pieces. Does he have any idea

how empty I feel, how difficult it is to pretend a fragment of the past never happened? How, around my house, everybody laughs a little too loudly and cries so softly, the naked ear can’t hear it?

Of course he doesn’t. No matter how many thoughts we exchange, no matter how much he learns about my life and knows me, he’ll never understand. Knowing isn’t the same as comprehending. I can continue forever about problems; babble til I’m out of breath. But doesn’t mean he cares. And if he does, he won’t understand.

He will never understand.

I manage to calm myself down. Faking a smile, I say, “Why are we here?”

“I’m going to show you,” he says, fishing a pen out of his cargo pants, “how easy it is to fake an identity.” He holds out a card, his face close to mine as his eyes dart to the “Staff Only” room. “The minute you enter that room, you’re Amanda Rose.”

“Are you crazy?” He’s about to reply, but I interrupt him. “No, don’t answer that. Not much of a challenging question.”

He frowns, but digs the business card in my shoulder, clearly urging me to follow along with his plan. I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of everybody: is it really a ridiculous wish to request? So I shake my head countless times. “Nope. Not doing it. You can’t make me.”

“What if–?”

“Don’t even try.”

“–I buy you a packet of gum.”

My jaw drops. How does he know I wanted it? He can’t read my thoughts, can he? “How did you–?”

“You were thinking it a second ago,” he says, confused. “You probably didn’t realise that, by wishing for something, I could hear it. I think it’s some sort of mind-reading thing: if there’s something the other wants, and we can fulfil it, we hear it.” He grins, spitting on his hand and holding it out. “So, um, deal? You trust me on this plan, I buy you a packet of bubble-gum.”

Careful not to show any emotion, I spit on my own hand and shake his hand, all while maintaining a straight face. “Deal. Although I don’t know why you wanna help me this badly…”

He snorts before I finish my train of thought. “As if. I’m just trying to prove I’m right and you’re wrong.”

There’s a pause.

We wipe our hands on our pants, avoiding eye-contact.

*

“Ms Amanda Rose Oslen?” Naomi’s father has the same complexion as his daughter, but he’s missing the two devil horns. Or maybe it’s just me visualising them. “Good afternoon. How are you?”

“I’m great, thank you.” I’m wearing glasses. Hunter managed to get a fake license, despite the fact I still can’t get into the driver’s seat without fainting. And on that license, it’s a picture of me –off my Facebook account– with realistic glasses and large hoop earrings. So this is what I wear when I enter. “I’m here to apply for the job.”

“Yes, yes. Please tell me a little bit about yourself. Why do you want this job?”

“Because I want to feed myself.”

His entire body springs forward a little. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I got kicked out the other night.”

I’m not sure what Hunter was thinking, but he insisted on those words exactly. Although they can’t be less false. My parents need me for their household chores and for making sure Barbara doesn’t cross over to the dark side –not completely, anyway. I’d have to mess up majorly to be ordered to leave.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. It’s like he’s avoiding my eyes. “Tell you what, we need a young worker at this place anyway. I’ll hire you.”

It’s as if a zillion dreams have come true. So suddenly, I begin to wonder if it really happened –did I just get a job? Technically, it wasn’t me who got it: Amanda Rose Oslen managed to charm this man into employing her. But it’s still going to the McAdams’ family, no matter who I pretend to be.

Hunter’s plan worked. I can’t believe it. My entire body wants to jump and down in a repetitive manner, just to show the world how happy I am. Maybe with this extra money I’ll be able to afford those new running shoes I’ve been wanting forever. There’s every possibility I’ll have more money to spend on bubble-gum.

But then one sentence makes the air turn cold:

“May I know your mobile number?”

My mouth goes dry. For a moment, I can’t speak. My mind’s racking through a zillion excuses I can make: maybe I can tell him my mobile’s in repair, or I’ve got a new number and haven’t memorised it yet. But what good would that do? It’ll only make him suspicious, possibly to the extent that he doesn’t offer me the job after all.

I can’t give him my mobile number. Because we can’t afford a mobile each, we have a single cordless phone at home. No mobiles for us.

Hunter, I need help. He wants my mobile number.

Almost instantly, I get a reply. Give him this number: 0495289218.

I tell him the number. He takes a note of it, giving me a weak smile as I leave through the door. For the first time in the entire day, I relax, finding Hunter sitting at a table with a hamburger. He grins at me. It’s obvious what he’s saying: I was right, you were wrong.

“Yeah, okay, you were… right,” I say, a little grudgingly as I sit opposite of him.

He hands me a mobile phone. “Here. The number I told you is for this one. Keep it, just in case he calls.”

Taking it in my hands, I examine all the scratches. It’s not brand new, but it’s obvious it hasn’t been used much. I’m about to refuse –mostly out of pride– but something makes me stop. I hesitate and then pull my hand back in. “Thanks.”

“It used to be my mum’s,” he says nonchalantly.

“Oh?” I change the subject. There’s a cold, uncomfortable air –I can feel it in my veins. “Thank you, though. I just have to ask: how did you manage that fake ID?”

“Mum already had one of them. I just had to print a picture of you, edit it a little, and then attach it on the card. In other words, it was a ready-made fake.” He stands up. “Let’s go buy that packet of bubble-gum I promised you.”

My feet follow him out the door, and when he looks back, I grin as if to say, Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten. But when he turns around, my grin fades into something fake and more forced. My smile is uncertain. There’s something very wrong with this scene.

There’s something really “off” about Hunter Steele. Just hanging around him makes me feel uncomfortable, almost waiting for something bad to happen. I’m turning into a less serious version of Barbara, which definitely isn’t normal. Or something a popular, perfect person would do.

And Hunter’s both a popular and perfect person, right?

CHAPTER NINE

Left. Right. Left. Right.

This is the pattern I use while running. I guess everybody uses the same technique; it's virtually impossible to reach a maximum potential while hopping. But I constantly repeat the words "right" and "left" to keep me on task. It's a certain rhythm preventing me from thinking, "This is stupid: I could be resting right now" or "My legs are killing me!" Instead, I focus on nothing but the rhythm of my feet against the grassy ground.

Admittedly, ambition isn’t the only thing keeping me moving. For another, Coach is hassling me through the field, shouting out insults about my family. Yeah, okay, he means well and always apologises afterwards –but still, it gets me so agitated! I often feel like turning back and knocking him to the ground. Which won’t be too difficult, seeing as his plump figure mustn’t have any exercise for several centuries.

Does he recognise the definition of running, or is it another foreign term?

“McAdams! Go, go, go!” His screeching is so loud. I grit my teeth. “Move it!”

I find it pathetic how he’s racing around the field on a golf buggy. Somebody should’ve told him this isn’t a gold court –and maybe somebody did, but he didn’t listen. Huh. How typical. But the main thing is, he isn’t getting any exercise. I, on the other hand, is wondering if I’ll live to see sunrise.

As I’m running, puffing for air at the same time, I resist the urge to blow a raspberry at Coach. It’s weird how nobody knows his name. He’s always “coach” to me –and always will be. Until he dies. Which, after hearing repetitive insults about how my mother “flashes” everybody, I hope will be soon.

Let the man die!

Now, now, Bridgette –that’s not a very nice thought.

Shut up, Hunter!

Yeah, you’re right. I should shut up. Especially since you’re working your head off and I’m sitting in front of the television, drinking sweet, long sips of ice coffee…

Shut up.

Make me.

Shut up.

Make me.

Ugh, I hate Arthur! After making me slightly satisfied for not letting us exchange unwilling thoughts, it’s back. The gift’s back. Oh, I want to strangle him until–

Okay, calm down. You’re scaring me. Take deep breaths. In, out.

I’d like to see you breathe slowly while you’re still running!

It’s definitely the anger talking. Just calm your farm.

Calm my farm? Hunter’s right about being angry with Coach; I lose it. What am I, Old McDonald? Last I checked, I don’t have a farm!

Now you’re just being ridiculous.

I don’t reply. The number one reason is Hunter Steele is an impossible person to argue with –granted, so is Becca with her endless lectures on why watching wrestling live is better. Oh, and don’t get me started on Barbara. Her pessimistic personality is enough to spoil the happiest human on Earth –you know, just making him think about death and all.

It’s kind of gruesome how the second reason is that I just can’t be bothered. Gruesome in the aspect us McAdams girls are always tough and “fighting for rights” –but since I’m running, the family motto no longer applies to me. If Breena was here, she’d powder the most fake foundation on my face –oh, the horrors. It makes me shiver just thinking about it.

“McAdams! If you don’t speed up–!”

“Get stuffed, old man!”

I outrun his golf cart and remind myself to lock my windows.

*

“You are so stupid,” says Breena as she’s painting my nails. “I mean, this is Coach we’re talking about! He'll never let you live after showing cheek! How can you be so idiotic!”

“Tell me, smart one –what’s his real name?”

She pokes the air several times in a row, her lips pressing then un-pressing like a fish. Finally, she sighs and admits defeat. I smirk at her, reminding how smartness isn’t something she has. She throws a pillow at me (while astonishingly managing not to damage my nails) and I throw it back. Suddenly, it’s a world where pillows are nuclear weapons and blankets are the only source of shelter. This is what life’s like when Breena’s around.

And sure, all three of my sisters are supposed to rent their own apartment, but none of them bothers. They earn money and give a very small amount to Mum and Dad –about one quarter of an apartment rent. Why not take whatever opportunities in front? And since they don’t worry about earning enough money, they focus on their degrees, having severe advantage over others.

“I’ve gotta go to the bathroom,” says Breena, grinning. “My bladder’s so weak.”

“I can’t wait ‘til you move out.”

“Feeling the love, Sis.”

She enters the ensuite in my bedroom.

I step out of the bedroom and poke my head out, seeing Mum and Dad at the dinner table. Faking a smile, I fling my arm around the both of them, ready to tell them about my new job. I haven’t been finding the right moment, but I guess there’s no “correct” time.

“What is it?” My Dad’s voice is curt, causing me to wrinkle my nose. He puts the newspaper down, peering at me. “Bridgette, I’ve had enough female daughters to notice a change of aura when there’s bad news.” There’s a pause. “Or when money’s about to be taken. So if you want any cash, you ain’t getting it from me.”

Mum rolls her eyes and tries to smile. “You ‘kay?”

“Yeah. I just got a job.”

“What? Who hired you?”

“Mum, it’s not much of a deal. I mean, Breena, Becca and Barbara all have jobs!”

“They look like your father –and on top of that, they dyed their hair, taking out the full “Finland” genes outta them! Nobody remotely relates them to me. But you… you’re like my clone! How did you manage it?”

Amazing. My own mother has no faith in my abilities. I suppose I should’ve seen this coming; if it was vice versa, I’d be disbelieving towards her news. It would’ve been a shock for sure. However, I’m not my mother. I’m perfectly capable of getting a job without help. Only, I didn’t do it without help: Hunter helped me the tiniest, slightest, littlest–

Don’t flatter yourself, says an annoying voice, and the last thing I’m wishing to hear. I’m the whole reason you got it. Face it, you just have to tell her the truth.

There’s this new thing called lying. Maybe you should try it someday?

What’s the matter with you? Ever since I helped you with the job, you’ve been nothing but rude. That’s the thanks I get?

I ignore him. “I’m perfectly capable of getting a job, Mum.”

“Who hired you?”

“Oh, Naomi’s dad. I forget his name. But you know, the girl you once babysat 'cause there weren't any babysitters left that night?”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “That guy threw my math assignment in the boys’ toilet in seventh grade.”

“Ah. Typical.”

The “unpopular, hated” gene runs in our family. Why couldn’t I have my father’s genetics? He wasn’t exactly “popular,” but he had his moments of fame. Like when the electricity broke and there was this really important assembly, and he used his abilities to fix it. Yeah, he shone a couple of times. But my mother? She was good at nothing; she doesn’t even have any friends.

In her yearbook, there are comments like, “Dear Aina, even though I sat next to you for all of primary school and high school, I didn’t talk to you. Sorry. You seemed like a cool person” which makes me wonder what people

who didn’t sit next to her wrote. Anyhow, I hate how they write things they don’t mean. If somebody’s genuinely an interesting person, surely a person might spare a couple of minutes to hear them out?

Guess the whole “blonde hair and blue eyes” package didn’t work for my mother, either.

“Okay, I’ll tell you. You know Hunter Steele?”

“That guy you think is evil?” Becca walks in the kitchen, carrying a glass of water –the only thing she can make without messing it up. Of course, there was a time where she ran hot water and burned herself. “The one who’s popular, smart, athletic –and since girls are attracted to those qualities, they find him physically attractive?”

I stuff garlic bread in my mouth. “Yup. That’s the one. Anyway, he got this…” I trail off. No, it’s too personal to tell them about the fake ID. Even if Hunter’s annoying me beyond reason, I don’t have any right telling him off –letting my parents know remotely about his past. I clear my throat. “He told me to pretend I was homeless. Apparently, homelessness is something which Naomi’s father takes pity on, and yeah. Got the job.”

They didn’t ask me any questions; I wasn’t willing to answer any further ones. So it was a win-win situation.

That is, until Dad said, “That was quite nice of this guy to help you out. Invite him to dinner.”

My mother speaks up. “What’re you trying to do, freak out the poor boy? No, don’t ask him to dinner –it’s just too much. He’ll think we’re weak or something; and weakness is something the McAdams family just doesn’t do.”

“I say to invite him.” Breena enters the scene, placing her bottle of nail polish on beside the television set. I’m willing to bet she’ll forget where she left it and rampage the whole house later. “Nothing’s too much here.”

They all turn to me.

I sigh. “Two against one: I’ll invite him.”

“What, don’t have an opinion of your own?”

“Becca, I hate the guy. There’s not a day in my life where I don’t dream about sending him under a vacuum cleaner and sucking his eyeballs out. And when they’re out, I imagine playing ping pong with them, watching them dance around from one bat to the other. When the bats are all soggy and disgusting, I’ll put them under his gravestone and dance on it, laughing like a–” My family looks as if they’re about to experience a stroke. “…I’ll, uh, go and phone him.”

I go to my bedroom. Fortunately, that’s all I have to do. I don’t even have to pick up a phone!

My parents want you to come over.

Yeah, I got that. Oh, and a little something about you wanting to murder me. Now, I believe you didn’t quite finish your sentence about the whole “laughing like a”–

Are you coming or not?

Maybe. Promise not to poison my tea?

What makes you think I’m even going to offer you food?

Ha. I’ll be there. There’s a pause. Why are you being so bitter? I mean, you’ve always been snarky, but it was a nice kind. Now you’re just being ridiculously unfriendly.

Just shut up. I don’t care if you helped me get the job or not; it doesn’t mean I’m going to treat you any differently. There’s a purposeful pause. How’s Sarah going?

I don’t want to talk about it.

No, tell me.

It’s just… so awkward. I mean, I like her and everything: I just need her to go out with me.

I’m not going to help you. I mean, I told you before –there aren’t two people more wrong like you and Sarah.

Gee, thanks.

And anyway, your best friend has mutual love for her. Why don’t you just forget about her?

That’s the thing: I try to pretend I’m over her. But I’m not. Like, even when I try to pretend I do stuff just to annoy her, it’s basically… well… not planned out to irritate.

You know how they say in every person there are two genders?

…Yeah?

You have to be a girl. You’re far too sensitive. Ask her out or get over it.

I don’t hear a reply. Just a mild cursing of language my mother would frown upon, and my father would encourage.

Bridgette: 1 | Hunter: 0

CHAPTER TEN

My jaw drops open when Hunter admits he loves Phoebe Clearwater’s music.

He doesn’t mean to –it just slips out in his mind. It’s petrifying because she sings country music. And if that’s not bad enough, they’re religious and filled with secret messages. Everybody hates her. On her last tour, a group of bikies set fire to her stage. They hate the idea of having somebody remotely sane in this world.

And though I’d never admit it either, I love her music as well.

I never thought I’d have something in common with Hunter, though. That’s definitely something I don’t want to think about. But the connection’s there; I’m just too stubborn to accept it. Is there anything else we share interest in? If so, I may have to change my entire personality. Perhaps even burn my soul with boiling hot water.

When I sit with Sarah, she gives me a quick smile before lusting over Owen. I still don’t see the attraction. He’s just another bulky looking kid, with pale blue eyes which makes him look deadly. But she obviously sees something more than his oily hair, toothy smile and shortness. I just can’t share the same interest.

“We have English together,” she says. “Hooray for the lack of high schoolers who actually do English! We can all fit into one class.”

She begins droning on about how easy this assignment’s going to be. Just get into pairs, choose a song and interpret it. Apparently, she has done things like this with her father, which makes me frown. Why does she overrule any short amount of pleasure my life contains? Is it part of her aura? Her personality? No wonder Hunter has/had an impossible crush on her.

Come to think of it, what happened to their relationship? I cringe. When he comes to dinner today, I’m probably going to ask him. If his death-glare doesn’t murder me first, of course.

Her eyes keep flickering between me and Owen, like she doesn’t know where to look.

“Yeah… um, are you ever going to ask Owen out?”

Her head snaps to me. “Are you insane? Of course not!”

“Whatever.” There’s a pause. “Oh, if you really want to, work with Owen.”

Her eyes light up. And that’s when I realise how much I’m sacrificing.  I really should’ve thought this through before offering, because she begins babbling about how great I am. And how she never had a better friend. It makes me feel uncomfortable with the remote idea I might take my words back. Yes, I’ll end up working with Hunter, but what else can I say to somebody who says such pleasant things?

Darn you, Sarah. You know exactly how to pull somebody’s strings.

Do I want to know?

Not really. Except the fact that Sarah’s about to approach Owen… I watch her grin at him, her hands behind her back. She says something, he replies, And before I know it, she’s kicking Hunter out of his chair and moving ever-so-sweetly into it. How lovely. …She’s kind of impossible to miss, eh?

Tell me about it. But who am I supposed to work with now–? There’s a pause (terrifying for Hunter) as he registers the situation. Oh no. No, no. I’m already having dinner at your house –I’m already wonder if I make it out alive. I don’t need this! I don’t want to work with you!

Sheesh, calm down. Just find somebody else to work with.

Why do you think I’m panicking? There is nobody else left!

Slowly, his eyes lock upon mine. There’s an expression of sheer horror on his face, and I’m too busy drowning myself in sorrow to enjoy this moment. A moment where Hunter Steele isn’t as perfect as he thinks he is. Then again, he never really considered himself perfect to start with. So it’s not much of a win. Anyway, I’m ashamed to admit this wasn’t an enjoyable moment.

Especially when the teacher made eye-contact with both of us. I could’ve vomited right then. It was the “signal.” The one which confirmed both our worst nightmares and combined them into one, huge one.  Which immediately increases the situation to double-embarrassment.

Hunter and I exchanged stares. He walks over, sitting beside me. “Might as well suck it up. We’re doing this together.” He twists his body around to face the teacher. “Hey, Miss, are we presenting this to anybody?”

“Nope,” she replies without looking up.

Grinning, Hunter says, “Well, that’s that –we’re doing Phoebe Clearwater.”

*

I can’t say working with Hunter was a bad thing.

No, it was worse than bad. It was, like, mega-bad. Especially when he kept going onwards, yelling at the top of his lungs about how Phoebe meant certain things at certain aspects. Of course, in order to have an opinion of my own, I needed to shout. So we ended up in a screaming frenzy.

Which didn’t run through too well with the teacher, who raised a finger to her lips. It looked even more threatening with her thin, slightly curved index. In order to live through the night, I shot Hunter a look. He seemed to understand, and lowered his voice by adding more ridiculous statements to the conversation. Things which didn’t even make sense, let alone fit in meaning with the song.

It was torture. I wanted to run up to Sarah, fall to my knees and declare an explanation on what I’ve possibly done to deserve this. Barbara is probably getting heavy signals something is wrong in the world, while she runs around the house and screams. As usual, Mum and Dad will ignore her. Everybody has learned to drown her dark bursts of thought with forced laughter.

Ultimately, Becca would raise her fist and declare war. This will only make Barbara want to shriek even more, as she’d run to her room and begin cursing us all with scented candles and a plush black kitten.

My sisters are so weird.

And yet, keeping my mind on them doesn’t make Hunter disappear from my world. I watch as his lips press together and then open wide. I study him. He looks like a fish with his mouth gaping like that. I wonder what’d happen if I steal one of Dad’s many fishing hooks and attach it to the roof of his mouth. Surely the result would be better than the torture I’m enduring.

What’s more, he wears braces so it already looks like he’s wearing a zillion fish hooks. For normal people, braces look cute. For Hunter, it makes it look like something’s eating his mouth alive. Maybe this is another reason people started liking him –maybe it was all out of pity. No, there’s no maybe in that sentence; his whole popularity is consisted of compassion.

My mother was the social reject. Shouldn’t I be one of the most popular girls at this school?

Truthfully, I’ve figured out why popularity means so much to me. I want somebody who understands me –how better to find that somebody when I’m famous? Well, school-wide, anyway. However, when Hunter and I suddenly exchange thoughts, I feel as if I might puke. Preferably all over his nice new sneakers, which would’ve cost a fortune.

I stare at them. For a long, long time. And then recognition attacks me like a jolt of electricity, causing all the hairs on my arm to stand.

Those are the new running shoes; the ones I wanted from my parents since I was ten, then forgetting about them in the last six years. But I recognise them now. And another strike of self-hate spreads over me. Does he realise how long I’ve cried myself to sleep, wanting those sneakers so badly? I thought they would’ve made me run faster –“faster than lightning,” as claimed by that television advertisement which most likely was factually incorrect.

But no. My father could barely afford our living, let alone another pair of shoes. The only reason our house is not a one-bedroom apartment is because it’s my grandfather’s: he left it for us, because he knew my father didn’t have the mental capacity for schoolwork. It’s not that he didn’t put in the effort: his brain just couldn’t take it all in.

I can’t thank my grandfather enough. Even though he’s dead somewhere, a part of him lives on. Right in our very house, because Breena’s bedroom (not that she uses it much seeing as she goes to college and all) was where Grandfather used to sit by the fireplace, reading books.

“…And that’s why Phoebe Clearwater’s song Possibly, Maybe, Selfishly is about her parents divorcing, and her talking to God about it.” Hunter grins, his metal-teeth showing.

I remember when he first got them braces and Sarah was beyond freaked. Even though she knew the guy for so long, she couldn’t approach him. All because of her silly little fear of metal, which I still don’t understand. I think it has something to do with her auntie dying from tetanus –a disease which is caused when wood/rust/metal goes in the blood. It causes the spinal cord to stiffen, so the person is resulted staring up at the ceiling.

Bam. I’m back to reality, with a smug Hunter facing me. He probably thinks he made the best argument ever. It’s just too bad I didn’t listen to a single word he said.

My brain zoned out for so long, I don’t even remember hearing his arguments. Not a single bit of them. And though I should ask him to repeat it, I’m certain he’ll add more to his previous argument, making it even more painful. So I just nod and sigh.

“Perfect. So that’s what we’re doing: a person has their parents divorced, so they’re looking for God.”

“Yeah, okay. Whatever.” I take my laptop out. Our school supports laptops, but the thing is, half the internet is blocked. No social networking place for me. “I’m just going to re-check the lyrics.” There’s a pause. I catch Hunter staring hesitantly. “What?”

“I, um… I heard your family was, you know, not as fortunate.” He clearly looks uncomfortable. “So if you’re really, uh, low on your budget, then you really don’t have to invite me for dinner. It’s totally cool.”

I grin. This must be a shock to him, because he’s darting questionable looks. I answer his mental questions by saying, “Idiot. As if you can get out of being poisoned that easily.” I drop the humourous, light-hearted tone. “Thanks, I guess. For considering us. But that whole ‘poor’ thing has passed. My dad found some job where he gets money, even without education.”

“Oh.” He looks relieved. “And also, if you don’t mind, how did you afford this expensive private school even at those… difficult times?”

“My grandfather left, like, a hundred-thousand dollars for us but made Dad promise it would go towards nothing but education.”

He nods and I feel guilty. Like, ridiculously guilty. I don’t know if I’m capable of feeling this much, but I’m feeling it right now. It’s like a thousand spikes and being pinched into my skin at the same time. It’s not a good feeling, trust me. I feel as if I’ve been disloyal in some sort of way.

Hunter listened throughout my whole speech. I didn’t offer him that when he was talking my ear off, providing evidence for why Phoebe had secret messages within her songs. But didn’t I just completely irritate his ear-drums with my sentimental, sappy –yet short– speech? So why can’t I lend him an ear, just this very once?

Am I that selfish to have somebody listen but not return the favour? No. That’s what I’ve decided. I’m not that kind of person and I’ll never be.

So I say words which chill me to the core. “Hunter, you know when you were talking about Phoebe Clearwater? I wasn’t exactly listening. Sorry. Can you repeat it for me?”

There’s a wicked glint in his eyes. “Sure thing. Only, I’m one of those people who can’t repeat something without going slower than the first time around…”

I brace myself for this. “Go ahead. I’m ready.”

And I was. I was ready to listen to whatever Hunter Steele had to say.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

He’s coming over. The devil’s arriving any second now, and I haven’t showered.

If I walk out with sweat pouring all over me, he’ll think we truly are unfortunate. Suddenly, there’s a spark of anger rushing through my nerves. Why does he take me as helpless? I’ve had enough of his niceness to last me a lifetime. Which is why I enter the shower, putting extra conditioner through my hair and wearing my most expensive clothes.

Then again, I’m certain he can’t separate good from bad when it comes to clothes. If he could, why does he always wear that bracelet on his hand? It’s ugly. Red and brown with a touch of sickening, vomit green. Not only do the colours match, but it proves pretty useless. What’s the history behind that bracelet?

Oh wait. That’s right. I don’t care!

When I sit at the dinner table, I’m drinking a glass of water. Trying to look casual. Which isn’t working, because Barbara clutches her head the minute she enters the kitchen –never a good sign.

I sigh. “What is it?”

“You’re giving off vibes… of trying too hard.” She grins at me.

Somehow, a smile creeps on my face. Sometimes I forget Barbara’s pessimistic thoughts are only half of who she is. She also has a sense of humour –however, it’s very rare she shows it. So I’m one of the few people to catch her in a good “the world has a lot to go before ending” mood. I’m not sure if that makes me lucky or if it gives me more disappointment when she returns to her own self.

There’s a knock at the door. Breena answers it while Dad sits at his seat. Mum’s brining over all our food at the table. Barbara’s good mood has disappeared, and she’s now clutching her forehead for the fifteenth time. Becca’s charging Breena’s batteries for her before taking her seat at the dinner table.

Hunter walks in. He grins at us all.

Pretending he’s not there, I swallow a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

“Hey, B-Epic.”

I choke on my potatoes. “What?”

“Get it? B-Epic? Like ‘be epic’?” He laughs. Nobody else joins in. I swear some crickets are chirping in the background. “Never mind.”

Mum points to a spare seat on the table, beside Breena. Unfortunately, Breena has devilish plans of her own, as she motions for Becca to sit next to her. Becca, who was sitting next to me previously, leaves her seat vacant. Hunter sits down. Beside me. I try my hardest not to scream.

It’s bad enough having English with him –even worse to have him as a partner. But this? Him sitting next to me while I stuff my mouth with potatoes? Doesn’t anybody realise how damaging this is to my reputation? Am I

suddenly not worth caring about anymore? Ignoring these rhetorical questions, I stuff my mouth with peas, and for the first time in ten years, chew with my mouth closed.

Becca raises an eyebrow. I look the other way, pretending I didn’t see her smug expression.

“So. Thank you for having me over.”

Mum smiles. “You’re welcome. Bridgette’s told us a lot of…” She pauses. “Wonderful things about you.”

“Really?” He turns to me. “No mention of ‘vacuum cleaners’ and murdering souls?”

There’s a silence. Suddenly, everybody’s laughing at once. Not a shy sort of laughter, but hearty and strong. Pieces of food flies out from Dad’s mouth and lands on Breena, who, in between fits of giggles, swears she’ll boil herself in ten minutes. Becca’s banging her arm against the table and almost chopping it apart. Even Barbara, who’s too preoccupied in the aspect of doomsday, is cacking like a witch.

Everybody’s laughing. All except Hunter and me.

“What’s so funny?” I say.

At the same time, he says, “Did I miss something?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” My mum coughs several times in a row, requiring my father to slap her on the back. She calms down. Her face is still read, though. “It’s just, me and my husband had a bet: the next person to say ‘vacuum cleaner’ has to clean the whole house.” After inspecting Hunter’s horrified face, she quickly adds, “We’re not going to make you do it –really!”

“Okay…” He’s still freaked out. “Then why was… um…” He points to Becca and she offers her name. “Becca laughing so loudly?”

Breena speaks up. “Me, Becs and Barbara just like the phrase ‘murdering souls.’ I dunno –it just really speaks to us.”

I bite my lip, fighting a smile. Hunter doesn’t fight it: he grins openly and nods, letting us know he’s not inquiring any further. Which makes all the McAdams family sight in relief and get back to dinner. Dad starts a conversation on football and, surprisingly, Hunter jumps in. He says something about a favourite player of his, and how he signed the ugly bracelet he’s wearing.

This makes me frown. So besides Hunter, there’s actually somebody else who’d even consider signing such an ugly piece of material? Apparently so. And then my father and Hunter begin debating who’s the best team in the league, leaving all the females out of the conversation. Becca, who plays football in her spare time, tries to cut in but never succeeds. She’s forgotten. My father is too busy bonding with one of the most popular guys at school.

Can my life get any better?

After their debate ends, Hunter turns to me. “I was meaning to ask: how come all of you have names beginning with ‘B’?”

Mum grins. This is her favourite question. “Breena’s full name is ‘Sabrina,’ Becca’s full name is ‘Rebecca.’ And Bridgette and Barbara… well… they’re just Bridgette and Barbara. It’s much easier on the tongue to call them names starting with B.”

Hunter laughs. “So there’s nobody in this family without a ‘B’ in their name?”

There’s silence. Mum and Dad suddenly find interest in their fingernails. Becca starts squeaking about football, but nobody hears her. We all know she’s trying to change the subject, but it’s not working. As if even possible, Barbara’s clutching at her head even more tightly, while Breena’s covering her face with a napkin. She might be crying behind it, but I don’t know.

Realising he touched a nerve, Hunter turns to the last person: me.

I look away, unable to meet his eyes.

*

“McAdams.”

I hear my surname, but I keep walking. Keep calm, Bridgette. Pretend he’s not there. The school hallways are empty so early in the morning –which makes it even harder to avoid him. Especially when the slightest pin-drop can break the silence. I keep my face staring straight ahead, which isn’t high –sometimes, the shortness of my height annoys me to an endless level. My heart’s skipping beats. I keep walking.

“McAdams –wait up!”

Ignoring the voice, I take a left turn.

“I know about Eva.”

This makes me stop dead at my tracks. My blood just turned cold, my forehead suddenly increasing in temperature. Why am I feeling so exposed, so frustrated? There’s something about my steps as I turn around, looking straight into Hunter’s face. Only then do I realise what’s wrong: my legs are heavy, as if there’s metal attached to them. Like I’m carrying all this weight around. All this unnecessary, unneeded weight

“Do you really?” I try to sound confident, but my voice breaks mid-sentence. I clear my throat. “Do you really?”

“Yeah–”

“Oh, then I suppose you know it’s my fault she died.”

“…What?”

I laugh. It’s unintentional, but seeing the innocent curiosity on Hunter’s face makes me want to giggle. He really shouldn’t get caught up in this –he’s going to regret it. And somehow, I believe he doesn’t have many worries already.  Him and his perfect home-life. So I decide giving him something to think about is legit.

“I was the one she turned to when she was about to get murdered. I left my phone off. She’d always scold me about turning it off, and I’d pretend I didn’t hear her. She told me something could be really important, which couldn’t wait for voicemail. But I ignored her.”

“I don’t like where this is going.”

“Yeah? Me neither. I still can’t believe it happened.” I take a deep breath. “So one day, Eva didn’t come home. This wasn’t unusual –she was probably staying over at a friend’s house. But she never stayed over somebody’s house without telling us first; it just wasn’t like her. Even if she was dead-drunk. So, after another night and no sign, we searched for her. And then I turned on my phone.”

“Voicemail from her?” His voice is all quiet. His hand’s trembling, as if not sure whether to assure me. Deciding against it, he pulls his hand away.

“Yeah. It was her. She was yelling out about how there’s a man downstairs, and she’s dead scared. She says she didn’t like the way he was looking at her; apparently, it was as if he was waiting. So the next day, we checked at her university. We found her hair extensions on the second floor. And about three kilometres from the university, we found her bones buried deep in a hole.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.” I smile wistfully. “Wow.”

There’s a pause.

“Well, uh… I can’t really do anything. But if you want, I’ll visit her grave with you.”

That’s when I snap. “Don’t interfere with my life!”

This definitely wasn’t the response he was expecting. Perhaps a mumbled, “No” or a thankful “Yes.” But I’ve been known to react in an unexpected way. Hunter opens his mouth to say something, but I’m already running to the track court. As suspected, he chases me down while yelling my name. My teeth are gritting in concentration; I need to do whatever it takes not to stop, not to turn back.

I need to run towards hope.

So I fish through my pocket, while continuing to run, and find my MP3 player tucked. I plug the headphones in my ear and close my eyes, seeing darkness but having sunlight creep through my eyelids. Phoebe Clearwater blasts through my headphones, the second song she ever created: Stop It ‘Cause I’m Losing It

Stop trying to understand me

Don’t you go underestimating me

I won’t lose it: I have spoken

It’s the only song which describes how I’m feeling. Although I can’t quite put my feelings in words, I’m still running. Running because I don’t want to stay back; I don’t want to spend time trying to convert my feelings. There’s no point. Even if somebody hears my every thought (speaking of which, I haven’t heard Hunter’s thoughts

in a while now) it doesn’t mean they care. And even if they do, it’s not caring: it’s just pity. Plain, raw and spited pity.

And that’s the last thing I want. So I continue running, like I always do. Not running away from something, exactly. I wouldn’t care if Hunter caught up to me. But I wouldn’t let him slow me down: I want to sprint to my destination. What it is, I have no idea, but I need to get somewhere. There’s nothing wrong with the life I’m living: I’m perfectly content with it.

However, I want to run somewhere else. Just another place. I’m probably never going to find another area as wonderful as home. I can’t be certain though, can I?

As I continue sprinting, I’m too busy focussing on my music. Hunter’s loud yells are a blur to me, and I wonder when he’s going to give up. Of course, it might take him a while: he’s a runner, so catching up to me is easier than I’d like to admit. It makes me wonder: if he puts some effort into it, maybe he’ll catch up to me. Beat me, even. This idea horrifies me, so I turn up the music.

The buzzing of the music is beating against my eardrums, almost hypnotising.

So attention-grabbing, I don’t see a large rock buried beneath a pile of leaves. 

CHAPTER TWELVE

I guess there’s something seriously embarrassing about falling down.

Especially over a large rock which is impossible to miss. And though I expected Hunter to laugh, I’m surprised to find how worried he looks. It doesn’t change the fact this is really embarrassing. I can feel my cheeks flushing to a bright scarlet colour, and uncontrollable tears rolling down. Honestly, I wish this was a running race where I’m so caught up in my own world, I’m more than happy to lie down for a second and cry properly.

And even after my waterworks, I’d win first place.

But this isn’t a running race. Lift isn’t all about running. Unfortunately, that means I have no idea how to react when I’m crying for no reason and have no prize to win. It’s a matter of confusion, actually –like I don’t know which way to go.

My hatred for Hunter increases to a double. Why does he, out of all the villains invading my life, have to see me cry and not get up? Usually when I cry during a race, I fish the first prize and my tears are then forgotten. However, this is never going to be a race. There’s nothing I can do to stop this –it endless.

What’s more, he angered me beyond reason with his “comforting words.”

“McAdams, do you need a hand?”

 “Go away.” I stand up. My ankle almost gives in, but for the sake of pride, I stand up properly and meet him face-to-face. Well, not exactly face-to-face, seeing as I’m a quarter of the size he is. “It’s all okay. I can run and walk perfectly.”

 “What? You’ve got practice with coach tomorrow. You can’t run!”

 “Don’t care.”

 “Are you that stupid?” I watch, astonished, as he babbles on with anger glinting on her face. Our roles have switched. Suddenly, I’m not the one completely mad at him; the situation’s vice versa. “Do you honestly never want to run again? You’re giving up all of it for pride?” I’m about to turn away, but he fastens a grip of my shoulder. “Do you want to never run again?”

Never. Run. Again. The three words give me instant shivers. And though I try to ignore them, I can’t. Sometimes, the solution for a problem exists for the sole purpose of me taking it. I can’t ever imagine being trapped in a wheelchair, all because of me and my stupidity. Am I the kind of girl who turns my solution into a problem? Also, maybe he is right. I don’t quite believe it myself, but maybe my ankle really is badly injured.

Perhaps I’m setting myself up for a life without running. Without victory, without tears –without being the number one at something, and watching envious-Hunter come at second place. Forever and always.

I swallow my pride away and look down. Hunter takes the hint and lets me put my arm around his neck. He says I can lean in more, but I don’t. Mainly because all my pride has drained into the toilet –and though there’s nothing left of it, I still like to think there is. So I start complaining about how he should take regular showers, while he rolls his eyes and tells me school might’ve started already.

It suddenly occurs to me, as shameful as this sounds, that school’s on. I feel as if it’s the last thing on my mind, especially with everything else rolling around. Hunter leads me up the stairs and into the Sick Bay, where they release me to my regular classes with Sarah helping my limping body all day. The nurse said I’ll have to check up with a doctor, seeing as my ankle’s heavily injured.

It suddenly strikes me just how much damage an unseen rock can do.

*

 “Ready for your doctor’s appointment?” says Hunter with a grin on his face. It disappears immediately when Sarah appears right behind me. There’s a moment of awkwardness. It’s as if both of them forgot how to speak. “Um… Hi.”

Sarah looks equally uncomfortable. “Yeah. Hi.” She does a small little wave, which expands the awkwardness rather than decrease it. “So. I told Bridgette that I can’t take her to the doctors’, seeing as I have piano. And her mother thinks there’s no point of Bridge going all the way home and coming all the way back –like, you know how far it is, right?”

She babbling. Hunter senses this and interrupts her with, “Yeah. I know.” He grabs my sleeve and gives a gentle tug. “C’mon, McAdams.”

 “Why do you never call anybody by their first names?” This is the first Sarah-like sentence I’ve heard from her in days. Bursting with confidence, with an edge of judgemental. She’ll have no problem visibly wrinkling her nose if the wrong answer is given. “I mean, you didn’t call me by my first name at the dance but that…” And suddenly, her confidence vanishes. It’s like she’s a completely different person. “…That was different.”

 “Yeah. I guess it was.”

He clearly has no intention of answering Sarah’s question. My best friend doesn’t ask twice, as she gives both of us a tight smile and walks towards her bus-stop. It must be ages before any public transport looks twice at our school. I’m surprised we even have a transport service in first place.

Wow. She’s so pretty.

And hell has entered.

I can read your mind.

So can I.

Well, duh.

For your information, normal people don’t read each other’s mind. So don’t you “duh” me.

It’s just like old times. Only, I find myself wishing I was out of his mind. Again. What changed to make him and I mindreading couples once more? I mean, I didn’t mind Hunter too much when he was a normal person. Actually, that’s a lie –I still hated him. But he didn’t know it.

For that small amount of time where neither of us could predict the other, it was peace at last. I almost felt as if we could be good acquaintances.

But no. Nothing ever works out for me. Might as well suck it up and continue this living torture.

I know this is a random question, McAdams, but why aren’t you freaked out about the whole “mindreading” business?

Huh? What makes you think I’m not freaking out?

When I first knew I could read your mind, I almost did a double-flip. And I suck at gymnastics, so we both know it wasn’t of joy. You, however, seem to take it in a, “Oh great. I’m reading Hunter’s mind again. Hey, is that chocolate?” kind of attitude. Seriously, what’s with that?

Suddenly, I realise Hunter’s right beside me. So I do the semi-normal thing I’ve done in years, and whack him in his upper-arm. Immediately, he flinches away. Huh. Baby.

What was that for?

For assuming I don’t have any feelings.

You get angry at the littlest things!

At least I can talk to Sarah without looking like a complete loser.

Leave her out of it!

Never.

There is a pause as we both stop at our tracks. We glare at each other. It would’ve been a better argument if we said it aloud, but somehow both of us are too outraged to consider it an option. By the way Hunter’s looking at me –like he wants to, well, hunt me down with a shotgun– I have a feeling more of my body-parts are going to break before any get fixed.

To my surprise, he exhales loudly. Okay. Fine. It’s your turn to ask me a question.

It’s like a moth just flew into my mouth. Out of pure shock, I begin coughing while my body-guard grumbles, hitting me on the back to prevent my choking from increasing. This really wasn’t my idea of friendship. Or anything, really. Even I would’ve expect Sarah and I to have such a weird, wacky relationship –and she’s pretty much the queen of freaky.

What? I think, when I’ve finally stopped choking and gathered enough energy. What… what’re you talking about?

Ask me a question. I’ll answer it. 

That’s it? You’re not going to cut me into pieces and organ-donate my body?

Unlike you, I have a more natural approach to arguments; I let the other person have it. And no, I’m not going to “organ-donate” your body. It infuriates me when he uses her fingers to make air-speech-marks. I’m more tolerant, thank you very much.

 Alright. Fine. I’ll think of one.

We both walk towards the doctor’s chamber in silence. Well, Hunter’s walking and I limp, holding onto his sleeve the slightest and not even wanting to do that much. I’m not his Damsel in Distress. I don’t need saving, even if he refuses to let me walk on my own. Which, admittedly, I can’t do. Not without falling over with the hazard of breaking more body-parts. So I have a loose grip on his sleeve.

Suddenly, I stop. He stops also. I was thinking about what Sarah said… why do you refer to people by their last name?

He sighs. I just don’t like giving people the pleasure of them thinking they know me and I know them. It, uh, creates this wall between us.

Why?

There’s no mistaking the buzzing noise. The same high and then low pitched sound which never ceases to make me wince. And, like Sarah, I don’t question further about his motives and thoughts. If he doesn’t want to tell me, it’s either something really private or something better left unknown. But it still doesn’t stop making me feel curious.

Finally, we’re at the doctor’s chamber. Hunter opens the door for me, while I ungracefully limp into the room. It’s a small waiting room, filled with patients with supposed all kinds of diseases. Or maybe they’re enduring the same “broken-body-parts” condition as I am.

The receptionist takes my name and looks me up on the database. It’s confirmed. I have a card which cuts off all cost of hospital care. I thank the receptionist and take my place in the waiting room. Because there’s only one doctor, I’m certain it’ll be a long time before I’m called up, so I don’t rush anything.

About an hour later, I’m called to the room. Hunter comes along with me. I almost insist that he doesn’t, but he follows me.

”As if I’ve ever listened to you before,” he says to me. There’s a slight smile on his lips. “C’mon. Let’s get this over with.”

The doctor inspects me, saying it’s some sort of fracture. Or something like that. I’m not listening to him, even though I should. Hunter, however, is doing enough listening for the both of us. I almost giggle aloud at his serious, quizzical expression but manage to control it. But the decision’s final –in order for full recovery, crutches are needed.

Which is why I walk out of the doctor’s chamber looking smaller, more crippled and lonely than ever before. It doesn’t help my reputation when somebody as tall as Hunter –the type who blocks out the sun and makes me want to punch him down. Preferably do damage with a knife, also.

These thoughts circulating my mind are too violent. My father would be proud. So would Becca.

But there’s something weird about how we walked to school in silence. Me waiting for the next bus to catch home; Hunter waiting beside me ‘cause I’m injured. His house is right ‘round the corner. He can ditch me if he wants to –after all, I’m never a Damsel in Distress. But somehow, he’s sitting far away, close enough to make me frown.

 “You can go home, you know.”

 “And leave you behind, helpless and injured? I’m not a complete monster.”

 “I’m not helpless and injured!”

 “But you’re my friend.”

That almost makes me choke on saliva. “No, I’m not!”

He doesn’t say anything. Not even the usual, “Yes, I am!” He just looks down and smiles. And it not a smile I like, because it’s implying he’s wiser than me. Which is probably true, but I don’t like that expression anyway.

And somehow, his silence is worse than if he started an argument.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I’m hopping, limping and failing –all three at the same time.

Is this even possible? Failing at three categories at the identical time? Apparently it is, because I seem to be achieving it. What’s more, people are staring at me. It’s a sight to see: the world’s shortest girl on crutches. Somebody, get a camera to preserve this moment for the rest of eternity.

Which I suppose a lot of the school photography club is doing right now, judging by how Owen is eyeing me with a glint in his eye. He’s evil. What does Sarah do but see good in him? Oh wait, that’s right: nobody is quite right in the head when it comes to love. At least, what she considers “love.”

All my books are piled under my arms, reminding me a lot of theEifelTower. I’m ashamed to admit my piles of books are taller than I am. Perhaps twice the height. Does this make me even shorter than normal? Sarah thinks so, because she’s covering her mouth to prevent herself from laughing.

She comes up to me and takes all my books. “Count on you to hurt yourself. Anyway, what do you have first up?”

 “She has Religion and History with me,” Hunter interjects.

Even now, it’s just plain awkward with the two of them remotely a metre apart. He clears his throat and gently takes the books off Sarah’s hands. I watch her hands fall to her side, limped, and a little unwilling to ever help me again –just in case it puts her in the same awkward position.

 “Yeah. Okay…” It’s still awkward.

Not as awkward as when Hunter turns to her and blurts out, “Will you go out with me?”

Just as Hunter says this, Owen comes around the corner. He hasn’t heard any of the discussion, or else he wouldn’t be as cheerful as he is right now. He says hello to Sarah and high-fives Hunter with a huge grin on his face. Both of them exchange glances, shifting a little with uncomfortableness. Neither of them want to hurt Owen.

That’s when I realise, relieved, that neither of them will be “hurting” him. After all, Sarah doesn’t like Hunter that way. She has feelings for Owen. Well, last time I checked anyway. Owen won’t be getting hurt because Sarah has all the power to say “no” and move on with life. Maybe Hunter might accomplish this “moving on” aspect as well –although I doubt it.

 “Yes.”

Wait, did I hear that correctly?

Hunter grins at her. His braces are glinting against the sun. I’ve always wanted braces –mainly because my teeth are like a picket fence, pointing out in all directions. But I’ve always been scared about them hurting, so I’ve decided against it. At least, that’s the reasoning I give to Sarah, who still hasn’t stopped scolding me. Stuff like, “Quit being a baby!” Honestly, I don’t care if it hurts. There is, however, something unnatural about braces.

When I’m caught back to reality, I’m suddenly aware Sarah said yes. She’s grinning right at Hunter. And I swear, there’s some sort of spark flittering between the both of them. It makes me sick to the bone. Fortunately,

Owen looks more confused and doesn’t see the tiny glimmer of a spark. Although I have to think to myself: why did Sarah say yes?

No, I’m not thinking. Thinking doesn’t make one’s eyes bulge until they’re ready to pull their hair out. I’m demanding an answer; scurrying through my tremendous frustration to reach a point of understanding. There’s no words to explain how “out of it” I am right now. Of course, clueless Owen’s just standing there, not even aware of the question Hunter asked.

 “I…”

 “He asked me out.”

I swear I heard a pin-drop. That’s how eerie the silence is. Owen’s eyes feast on Hunter’s face, as if biting away every layer of skin with his eyes. His stare then turns to Sarah. Then back to Hunter. Until, finally, he can’t look at either of them.

So he does the most unlike-Owen thing I’ve ever witnessed: he runs. Just like Hunter and I, he finds some sort of comfort in running away or towards something. But there’s confusion: he’s not running towards or away from something. If he was running away from something, he would’ve been sprinting. He’s just jogging. Gently.

It’s impossible to even consider something dramatic happened to his life a few seconds ago: something which would change his entire perspective of trust, friendship and school. He doesn’t have an aim or a goal. He’s not running away from something, or running towards something. He’s running in circles.

The weirdest thing is, I’m the one who takes off after him on my crutches. Admittedly, I’m not fast at all with them weighing me down. But I’m not his best friend. Or his best girl-friend who could’ve been something more than just friends. Instead, I’m the one who snaps out of this illusion first and chases after him (with huge heavy cutches) –which, honestly, didn’t take too long. He’s not exactly the fastest runner.

I’m the one going after him when two of the most important people in his life stand a metre apart, starting a more valuable relationship of their own. One without him.

And what am I to him? Nothing.

Just a stranger.

*

After school ends, I scoop things from my locker and pour them in my bag, making sure to bring home everything required for homework.

Rushing, I sling my bag over one shoulder and try not to wince at how painful it is. Perhaps I’m an amazing athlete (if I may say so myself), but a weight-lifter I am not. Which is just perfect, because Hunter arrives around the corner with his arm around Sarah’s waist. I pretend I don’t see it. Just as well, because I haven’t heard any of his thoughts all day.

 “Hey, McAdams.” Hunter removes his arm from her waist and takes my bag. “I’ll carry it for you.”

As if making the biggest point ever, I clutch my bag back and walk towards the bus-stop. Not before giving Sarah the dirtiest look I’ve ever given. It works perfectly, because there is both guilt and uncomfortableness on her face –this, she tries to disguise, but I can see right through her.

She knows how hurt Owen is: for the first time in his life, a girl actually pays attention to him. So, predictably, he develops feelings for her. And to watch it all fall apart –and by his best friend, too.

Maybe it’s none of my business. After all, Owen’s not my friend: he’s a stranger. But I can’t help turn around. “Sarah, I guess I expected this kind of stuff from you. Giving people false hope. All. The. Time. Wasn’t that what you did to Hunter at first?”

 “You’re acting as if I’m the bad guy in this! For goodness sake, I had a minor crush on Owen. If he thought it was going anywhere, then, well, he was wrong!”

 “You’re right, Sarah.” I can’t keep the condescending tone away. It’s like a mosquito: it keeps coming back. “You aren’t the bad guy. You are, Hunter.”

 “What?”

 “You heard me. You betrayed your best friend.”

 “How-? The only reason Owen liked Sarah was because of how she paid him special attention. And I didn’t get in the middle of it ‘cause she liked him too.”

 “Liked.”

They exchange a small smile. I swear I hear wedding bells ringing. Quite frankly, the idea of getting a chainsaw and slashing all of them down –along with Hunter and Sarah themselves – is appealing. Neither of them are realising how they’re in the wrong. They shouldn’t hurt Owen. No matter how gross and disgusting I think he is, he still doesn’t deserve pain. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

“Y’know, I’m going to leave you two losers here.”

“Losers?”

“Yeah. Because not only have you lost Owen as a friend, you lost me too.”

Then, as if to finish the dramatic speech, I storm out of the school hallways and head towards the bus-stop. This isn’t easy with my crutches, but believe me: I try. I honestly don’t think they’ve lost both of us. For all I know, Owen’s probably out there, shrugging and eating cheeseburgers. Probably babbling, in his mind, about how wrong he was. Then they’re  most likely going to make it up between the three of them tomorrow.

And, for the record, neither of them lost me either. Sarah’s always been my friend. Hunter, however, may have. My mind’s too twisted to think clearly. But something tells me I don’t want a backstabber –the kind who dates one’s crush– as a friend. That’s just too far-fetched.

Not to mention, the idea of them going out in first place is just plain… bad. Something rolls around in my stomach whenever I think of the two together.

I gasp. I stop at my tracks. Sure enough, there’s Owen. Sitting on a low-levelled brick-wall with a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other. My jaw almost drops. But I manage to take a deep breath and walk straight into his view.

“What’re you doing?”

“Oh. Hey, Bridgette.” He blows a puff of air. Straight in my face. I have trouble not glaring at him, but control myself because he’s had enough going wrong. “What’s up?”

I sit up on the brick-wall with him, leaving my crutches lifeless on the floor. There’s silence for a couple of minutes. “If it helps, I think both Sarah and Hunter deserve a good whacking.”

“With fish?” He grins. Puff’s still flowing out, but I ignore it. “You gotta hate fish.”

“Nah, I don’t mind it. But sure. If it makes you feel better, fish it is!”

He laughs. “You’re like the only person I can bear to see right now. Which is weird, because I always thought of you as… uh… loud. And a cry-baby. No offence.”

“None taken. And I’ve always thought of you as a disgusting loser who has inappropriate dreams about Sarah. So, uh, no offence either.”

We sit in silence for a minute longer. I can’t help wishing the bus would arrive at my feet again. It’s taking so long –as always– for it to arrive. And although I feel sorry for Owen and everything, I still don’t feel comfortable sitting next to him. Which sounds mean, but I can’t help it. It’s just something in his aura. Just like there’s something in mine, making me seem weak and defenceless.

I smile to myself. I’m sure Hunter would love a good debate on, “Is Bridgette weak and defenceless? Does she need help with everything?”

“I really thought Sarah liked me. And, ugh, I sound like a girl and all but… I dunno. There seemed to be something special.” He quickly looks up, begging me with his eyes to save him from over-embarrassing himself. “Y’know?”

“I know. And honestly, she liked you too at one point.” I shrug. “I guess crushes go away quickly, huh?”

“Not mine.” He stares right ahead, expanding another cloud of smoke right in front of our eyes. “But the thing is, Sarah I could live without –kinda. Hunter I can’t. There’s no ‘kinda’ at the end of that sentence. And it seems so surreal that he… betrayed me. Just like that.”

“Don’t worry, I’m mad at him about that as well.”

An amused smile plays on his lips. “Of course you’d be.”

“Now, what exactly do you mean by that?”

“You always find something wrong with him. Maybe it’s something to do with his hair or how he memorised the first… I dunno, fifty-trillion digits of pi. Perhaps it has something to do with how he’s so popular.”

“But he is popular! And wow, I gotta stop thinking aloud…”

“Yeah. You really gotta. And as for popularity, open your eyes. Sheesh. Hunter’s not the only ‘geeky-popular’ guy at school. Have you ever considered me? Level Twenty at Mario and half the world’s population loves me ‘cause of my laid-back personality and fun personality.” His face darkens. “That’s what Sarah said to me, anyway.”

I can’t say I’m not gobsmacked. And a little ashamed. “No,” I admit. “I actually never did notice you.”

“Or Yush Lee, who’s the chess-master and has over a thousand friends on Facebook –like, people he actually does know. Or Ianna Higgenbottom –model after school, Star Wars geek during school. Or–”

“Okay, okay. I get it.”

“In conclusion, you have all these people who fit under the same ‘popular but geeky’ group Hunter does. Yet, you see the world like it revolves around him.”

My cheeks flush. “And your point is?”

“And my point, my fair maiden, is that a certain somebody has a little-bitty of a crush on him.”

I kick him in the knee. Hard.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“You kicked him?” Becca’s mouth is hanging open. “With your broken foot?”

 “Gee, Becs. You’re acting like you wouldn’t do the same.” When I say this, I watch her shrug and smile. “And, for the record, I used my other foot.”

Breena enters the room, attempting to add contacts in her eyes. She always stuffs up, because her arms always wobble. I find it shocking how she takes such amazing pictures with a shaking hand, but she manages. Anyhow, it’s troubling how her tear ducts release drops, staining mascara all down her cheekbones.

Barbara, who’s sitting on the other side of the room, wrinkles her nose. She has a crystal ball in front of her and murmuring words about breakfast, and how she wishes for the world to turn in an orderly fashion. Now, her prayer switches to her hoping Breena doesn’t cause any heart attack with her smudged makeup.

My fashion-obsessed sister gives my quirky one a very rude gesture.

I guess that’s how things roll around here.

 “For the record,” says Barbara suddenly. “I think you like Hunter.”

Of course. I almost forgot she’s been listening the whole time as I told Becca about my courageous kick. As it turns out, Barbara wants a kick in the knee as well. Breena looks like Christmas and Birthdays have mixed together, because she looks at me with a glint in her eye. This is her area of expertise –nobody in the world has dated the amount of guys Sabrina McAdams has.

 “Come to think of it, I think you like him too. Like, middle-school-wise. You know, how kids tease others ‘cause they have the hots for each other?”

 “But…” I close my mouth. There’s no point explaining to her; she’ll insist on me having a non-existent crush on this horrible creature. “Whatever. Think what you like. I do not, and never will, like him.”

 “Sure you won’t,” says Breena under her breath.

It’s amazing how people practically beg for kicks in the knee.

*

 “So… put your hand up if you know the answer to this question.” He writes something up on the board. “What are the five pillars of Islam?”

A hand shoots up. It’s Sandy Rutherford. Surprise, surprise. “One must attend the ‘haj’ at least once in their life; they must pray five times a day; they must have mercy on the poor; they must fast during Ramadan and they must cleanse themselves –like, having good hygiene and everything.”

 “Excellent. Now, who can answer the second question: how many steps are there in Buddhism?”

 “Eight steps.” Sandy again. “They include the Right of Mind, the–”

 “I’m gunna cut you off there.”

 “Thank you,” bursts out somebody from the back. “I think I love you, you handsome teacher you.”

Arthur makes such a disgusted look, even I have to smile. Even if I think the guy’s nuts. And a little loopy in the head. I mean, who else gets two people to read each other’s minds? Now that I’m thinking about it, however, this kind of thing doesn’t happen to people. Sure, we accepted almost immediately we can read each other’s minds, but why aren’t we freaked out?

I’m pretty sure I remember Hunter telling me about his nightmares. But still. It doesn’t explain why we suddenly find this thought-exchanging “normal.” Maybe Arthur brainwashed us more than I’d like to think. The thought alone sends shivers running up my spine, until they’re trapped by my dropping neck.

Snapping my head back up, I look behind me to see who made such a nasty/disgusting/flattering comment.

Obviously, it’s Peter McKay, the guy with pimples and the weirdness that nobody likes. I mean, the pimples we can tolerate –but regular squeezing during class, right in front of us? Without shame? Um, no thank you.

He asked Sandy out, she said no. I think we all know of the bitterness shielding his heart like armour. And that bitterness allows him to put her down in any of her classes. Which she really hates, because she’s turning around right now, glaring at Peter. I think she secretly likes him. If bulging eyes and gritting teeth indicating she wants to bury him alive is a sign of pure love.

Arthur looks at the clock. He then looks at me, and just as suddenly, locks eyes with Hunter. Which is creepy, but not as much as two people reading each other’s every thought. And, as suspected, the bell rings. Loud and clear for everyone to hear. All the half-dead zombies grumble something under their breath about yesterday being a rough night with a party. Then they head to their lockers.

Hold on. Did they say party?

 “Hunter, your party was epic.” A guy comes up to Hunter and grins. Hunter tries to return it, but I catch his eye, and the smile vanishes into a gulp. The blond guy, congratulating this spawn for his party, is too tired to recognise the difference between a fake and a real smile. “See you later. You and Sarah are awesome together, by the way.”

I’m tapping my foot. Arthur locks eyes with me and grins. Which creeps me out so much, I almost lose pattern in my rhythmic tapping. Hunter’s looking around the Religion class, almost everywhere but me. I have the feeling he wants to escape from this scene and never look at me again. However, there’s a high possibility his feet are stuck to the ground without his intention.

 “So…” Arthur’s one word is deliberate, almost mocking. “What’s been going on, kids?”

 “Oh, nothing much. This guy here betrayed his best friend and got ‘lucky’ with mine.”

 “I didn’t ‘get lucky’ with her! She likes me too!”

 “Yeah. Just like she ‘liked’ Owen before completely destroying your love-life. She’s gonna do that to you, you know. And when she does, I’ll be the one cheering her on.”

Hunter’s just about to say something –maybe something supposedly witty and snarky. But he stops and, instead, says, “Why are we still here?”

 “Because I’m controlling you with my mind.” Arthur looks especially smug. “You can’t escape from my awesomeness.”

The freakishly-tall-monster and I exchange a glance. We may be on different sides when it comes to what’s right and wrong in romance, but it doesn’t stop us both thinking, mutually, that there’s something extremely wrong with Arthur.

Maybe we should send him to a psychological ward –if that helps, of course. A lot of television shows claim not everybody is released from the mental chamber sane. Instead, they’re hunting for revenge seeing as they’re mind-blowingly mad at those who send him there in first place.

Which isn’t the best way to spend my Saturday night: being chased by a psychopath.

 “How are you controlling us with your mind?”

 “Watch.”

In about a second, there’s nothing but dread filling my mind. Just pure panic. Hunter can read my mind, I can read his. I no longer accept it in a relaxed manner; there’s a sudden surge of “This is not normal!” spreading through my brain like electric shocks. Different parts of me feel weak, while other parts feel sick My stomach feels as if it’ll rip apart any second.

And, just as quickly as it overwhelmed my mind, it disappears. All the horror, the raging of my brain thinking this is the worst thing that ever happened to me. Suddenly, I feel the calmness I was used to feeling: Hunter’s reading my mind. So what? Let him. Although I’m a little annoyed at how he’s hearing my every thought, it’s nowhere near the panic I felt seconds ago.

The freakishly-tall-lover-stealer asks the million-dollar question, “Who are you?”

 “I’m Arthur. Put purely on Earth as what you kids might call a ‘genie’.”

 “Genie?”

 “Yup. You both wished somebody could understand you and that you could understand the other person. Well, us there in heaven got kinda sick of seeing two teenagers who, if united, could fulfil both their wishes. So we sent me here. And, like I said before, I’m your genie.”

 “Genie?” I repeat, clearly not understanding this concept. “Wha… what?”

 “Yeah, uh, I wasn’t really supposed to tell ya.” He grips on both our shoulders, gently but firmly, and leads us out the door. “So don’t tell anyone.”

 “Tell anyone?” Hunter replies dumbly. I’m glad I’m not the only one having difficulty understanding. But thanks to Arthur’s magic powers, I feel at peace –something I wouldn’t feel if he wasn’t controlling it.

 “Right. Don’t tell anyone.” He pretty much shoves us out the door. “You’ve got two more wishes –I’ll be in the lamp if you need me.”

He shuts the sliding door in our face. Which isn’t technically slamming, but still gets across the message neither of us are wanted. I hardly think that’s fair. He makes us both read each other’s minds and fails to see any problems with what we want. And what I want is to be free from this entire mess.

I want to take back my wish.

Bewildered, Hunter walks beside me. It’s awkward. Mainly because I still haven’t forgiven him for the whole Owen-betraying thing. Speaking of him, where is the disgustingly-forward smoker, anyway? I don’t appreciate having puffs of smoke blown directly at my face, thank you very much.

He’s so weird.

And we’re back in business. Only now, as if by some punishment Arthur has decided on, I absolutely loathe this friend-betraying guy. Not that I liked him much to start off with, but now I’m just plain disgusted. And if, like everybody is saying, I once liked Hunter… well, they can be sure it’s over now. Completely over.

Ugh, how can people think I like you?

Hunter steps at his tracks. You like me?

Uh-oh. Did I really think that? Apparently I did, because he’s looking at me all funny and taking a couple of hesitant steps backward. Definitely not a good sign. Especially since this is the boy who thinks oranges with sunglasses on is hilarious, according to Sarah last night. Only, she said it out of desperation and I still wasn’t listening to her.

Does she really think that I’ll forgive her like that?

No. I don’t like you, and I never will.

 “Oh! There you are, Hunt–” Sarah stops at her tracks, eyeing me with that same guilty look. Huh. Speak of the devil, and the devil arrives looking more fashionable than ever. “Um, hi, Bridgette.”

 “Hello.” My tone can turn steam into ice. “Having fun betraying Owen?”

To my surprise, it isn’t Sarah who takes a step forward and tells me to shut up. It’s Hunter. What makes this scene even more shocking, is how his voice is so high-pitched and loud, so everybody at the halls stop whispering. Or rampaging through their locker; talking to friends; taking bites of apples. They all turn to the scene Hunter Steele was making.

He doesn’t even care what it’s doing to his popularity. That’s the kind of person he is –he can cause a scene and still have everybody arrive at his pool-party, forgetting what he did. How can he do that so easily? It makes me mad. It makes my blood boil.

 “…In conclusion –stop! Stop making Sarah feel bad. Stop making me feel bad. Really, it’s none of our fault. The problem lies with you and Owen, and, quite frankly, I don’t give about your problem.”

 “So that’s the kind of friend you are, eh?”

And that’s when I wish I could read his mind, because he doesn’t say anything. He takes Sarah’s hand and leads her out of the hallways outside, where they’re probably eating with lovesick eyes. I wish I knew what he was thinking. It can’t be a secret, because there’s no awful buzzing noise. Instead, there’s silence.

It makes me realise how empty my head is without Hunter’s thought flooding it every five to six seconds.

The next three hours flow by really quickly. I take notes in class, listen to what the teacher has to say, and make notes in my diary about all the homework I’m getting. My eyes scan for Owen, but he’s nowhere to be found. He wasn’t at school today. Guess betrayal really stuffed him up, because I never see him anywhere.

Granted, it’s only been one day. But he’s one of those people I always see. The type who always catches me doing weird stuff, like that time in third grade where I tried to lure a sparrow to my arm by making butterfly noises. Except, I didn’t know what butterflies sounded like so I made up my own, wacky version. Owen watched through the whole thing and somehow managed to preserve the innocence of his ears.

When I’m finally at home, I sit in front of the television. They’re all children’s shows, but I feel so defeated. It’s like I’ve lost all my friends. This wouldn’t have happened if I was popular; if I was well-liked by everyone. People always tell me popularity isn’t everything –well, mostly Mum– but she doesn’t understand.

There’s a different feeling to it. It’s like one’s at the top of the world when everybody knows their name and everybody likes them. When somebody has that kind of reputation, nothing’s impossible. It’s a burst of confidence, a wonderful feeling. That’s what I see it as, anyway. And I want it oh-so-desperately.

Bridgette?

Yeah. I’m here.

My heart’s beating a million times in the same minute. What does he want? Hasn’t he said enough? Is there anymore he needs to lecture me on?

Just thought I’d let you know that Sarah and I broke up.

What?

Yeah. It’s all your fault. He sounds amused. So I hope you’re happy.

Gee, um, I didn’t think you’d actually break up.

Nah, don’t worry. It’s all cool. We’re just friends now. There’s a pause. And anyway, it wasn’t worth losing Owen.

Glad you finally came to your senses.

And also, Sarah didn’t want to lose Owen either. Or you.

Wait, so Sarah didn’t want to lose Owen and me but you just didn’t want to lose Owen? What about me?

What about you? It’s not like I could lose you, even if I tried. You’re like this bloodsucking leach stuck to everybody’s head. You’re the first person a crazy person sees, along with a worried and guilty one.

Gee, thanks.

And somehow, I think it’s Hunter’s way of saying he didn’t want to lose me either.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

By the fifth day at work, I know exactly where everything is.

I roam around in a short white skirt and a t-shirt with a nametag, pretending to smile at all the rich folks who have a daily cup of coffee at a restaurant as expensive as this one. How can they afford it? Do they have trees made out of money or something? Obviously, due to my extreme respect for this rich folks, I keep my mouth shut.

Somehow, screaming out, “What’re you doing about poverty?” seems like a good way to get fired. And that’s something I don’t want. Not yet, anyway. If I make a good impression on this job, I’ll get another one. Nobody can refuse an employee with a perfect working record. It’s the start which is hardest.

It reminds me, once again, how much I owe Hunter. And I really, really hate owing him. Though this has nothing to the plain vanilla latte a rich person with a top hat wants, I can’t help thinking why Hunter would need fake IDs, even if they were his mother’s. Why would his mother have fake IDs in first place? I heard she died about a year ago: is that true?

I never thought about Hunter’s personal life. I always envied his social popularity, and the fact he had the entire school balancing on his scrummy fingertips. Maybe if I paid a little more attention to him, I might have something more to offer to the table than just, “Did his mother die or something?” It’s especially shameful, because I’ve known him for about ten years –maybe more.

“Um, can I please have my vanilla latte?”

 “Coming up!” I reply with what I hope is breeziness. I never knew rich people used “um” in their language –in my mind, they’re always supposedly “too good” for filler-words. “Here you are.”

The man smiles at me. “Thank you.”

Ugh, I hate this restaurant. Just as I’m thinking this, I watch Naomi enter the building. Her face turned a dark shade of moody, as she stared at me, half-dumbstruck. “What’re you doing here?”

 “I got a job here. You father hired me.”

 “He… does he know about your mother?”

 “Nope.” I shrug, as if her informing her father about this tiny detail won’t cost me my job. “But it’s okay, ‘cause he hired me anyway.”

She looks as if she’s about to explode. Then, as quickly as the expression overcomes her, she calms down. Sighing, she sits at one of the many tables and orders some sort of French coffee, which I get for her immediately. Impressing the boss’ daughter is one of the most valuable things I can achieve, in order to maintain my position.

 “Sit down opposite me,” she says, after taking a sip of her French coffee.

 “Um, I’m sorry. I can’t–”

 “I’ll tell my dad I made you. So just sit down, will you?”

I do as she asks, in fear she might get me fired if I don’t. It’s a very stressful position. There’s no way I can afford to lose my job, but at the same time, losing my pride and dignity isn’t appealing. I’m not their lapdog –somebody they can call over anytime of any day.

I, Bridgette McAdams, have a life. Somewhere. I think. All I have to do is uncover it with this clever mind of mine.

 “Why’d you, uh, want me to sit down?”

She puts her mug on the table with a clunk. “You know Owen?”

 “Yeah,” I say cautiously. “I know Owen.”

 “Can you…?” Suddenly, her face turns a deep scarlet. Not a good look for somebody as pale-skinned as her. It matches the dyed-redness of her hair. She clears her throat. “Can you, uh, ask him out for me?”

She wants to ask out Owen?

Oh, shut up, Hunter. Why are you still there, anyway?

Hey, don’t you “sass” me. I’m the one who got you this job in first place.

I can’t believe you used the word “sass.”

It was a moment of desperation! I wasn’t thinking clearly! I, uh… please don’t tell anybody about this. Like, never mention it again.

Whatever.

And, just like that, Hunter’s out of my mind. For now, anyway. After spending so much time with him in my head, I’ve learnt to control my thoughts so that his interaction takes up as little of my time as possible.

What makes Owen so popular with females? Is it fair to say I really don’t see it? Is there something in the way he smokes air in people’s faces which makes him hard to resist? Because, believe me, I’ve spent all my years where I’m completely ignored by the male-population. Maybe I’m just missing the cigarettes.

Realising she’s waiting for an answer, I bring myself back to reality. “Sure. I’m not really promising he’ll say yes, but if you want…”

 “Thanks.” She smiles, but her lips are in a thin line. She opens her mouth as if to say something, but then closes it. “Thanks,” she repeats.

 “You’re thinking I’ll turn this into a rumour or something?”

 “Yeah,” she says, visibly relaxing. “I don’t mean to insult you or anything, but we haven’t been on the best of terms since, like, ever.”

 “Don’t worry. I would’ve been a little cautious with you too. But I won’t tell.”

 “Really?”

 “Yeah. But can you answer a question for me?”

 “Uh… sure.”

 “What exactly do you see in Owen?” There’s a pause. “I mean –oh wow, forgive me for saying this– but Hunter’s better-looking. Why not him?”

I can hear the smugness in his voice when he thinks, You think I’m good-looking?

Yeah. Then again, I also think Peter McKay is a severe ball of hunk, so you better not believe my word.

…Now that’s just insulting.

Ah, I try.

 “Well, Owen’s just bursting with personality.” And puffs of smoke. “And then there’s Hunter, who’s just so, well, moody. Maybe it’s the braces, but when he smiles, it never looks like he means it. You know?”

I so do smile! Hunter’s listening to what Naomi’s saying in horror. And I sure as heck mean it!

 “Yeah,” I say, just to irritate this boy in my head. “I know.”

 “And Owen,” she goes on, “has a cute, dimply face. Hunter’s just too tall that we can’t see his face. Not unless he’s sitting down.”

Great. First she insults my laugh, now she’s making fun of my height. My life doesn’t make sense!

Really? I think it makes perfect sense.

Shut up.

 “Ugh, I hate how closed-up he is.”

That grabs my attention –and Hunter’s too, by the way he’s pretty much yelling, “Now I’m closed up!” in my head. “Closed-up?”

 “Yeah.” She stops at her tracks. “Wow, I really shouldn’t be telling you this stuff. You’re friends with him, aren’t you?”

 “No!” I yell out. A lot of the rich people look at me, before turning back to their own conversation. It’s funny, because I always supposed them to never be engrossed in anybody else but themselves. “No,” I say, a little more quietly. “We’re not friends. Not at all.”

Real thoughtful, Bridgette. It sounds like he’s hurt. Not because he cares if I’m his friend or  not, but more that he’s rejected in first place. All in the same week, with Sarah breaking up with him and all. Great to know we’re not friends anymore.

And even though I have, pretty much, nothing to do with him… I still feel a slight pang of guilt. He hasn’t been anything but nice to me, while I hold his popularity as some sort of justification for my hatred. Isn’t that a little bit far-fetched? I think it’s safe to say I don’t completely hate him anymore. He’s not half as bad.

Nah, you know I’m lying, Hunter. It shocks me, because this isn’t a complete lie. I just wanna hear what she means by “closed-up.” You want to as well, don’t you?

It’s like his energy comes back, because I hear his happy, Oh yeah. Bring it on.

 “Oh? Well, then. What I meant by closed-up is that he doesn’t mix with people much, does he?”

 “Naomi, he’s really popular.”

 “Exactly.” When she sees my confusion, she adds, “That’s what popular people are, aren’t they? They’re closed-off from everybody because they treat everybody the same. They don’t have any genuine enemies, just like they don’t have any genuine friends.”

And all this time I supposed Naomi to be some brainless girl incapable of passing seventh grade. I never looked at popularity like that; the one thing I craved. I always saw it as a good thing. It was always something a person does to get to the top, to have people respecting that particular person.

Naomi, however, seems to see it in another light. A negative, realistic light. She’s popular: she must know how it feels.

Yet, I still want it. Just as badly as I did since the beginning of time.

 “Oh. I’ll be honest, I never saw popularity like that.”

 “Not many people do.” She tosses her dyed-red hair behind one shoulder. “They all think it’s glitz and glamour –not that there’s much of that at our high school, but you know. It’s not like that. Popularity isn’t all that great.”

*

This is it.

I’m writing a song with my guitar next to me. Next week, we’ve got a talent show. Sarah looked at it and rolled her eyes, saying it was one of the lamest things she’d ever seen. According to her, only talentless people with no lives enter something as depressing as this talent show. So after laughing about it for a couple of minutes, we walked the other way.

Now, I can’t believe I’m actually putting my name down. I’m actually writing a song with hopes of presenting it to the school. What’s more, all I know for guitar was what I learnt in eighth grade, when I was forced into music. Only a handful of chords, nothing major. But probably –hopefully– enough to write me a song.

Because I’m going to be popular. I don’t care what Naomi said about not having close friends: I want to be known. For once, the idea of the world seeing me as a running cry-baby like Owen does will be dismissed. All I have to do is go out there. I need to prove myself to the school, show them there are a lot of sides to me.

However, I have to figure out how to write a decent song first.

Are you seriously going with the plan? He hasn’t stopped pestering me for the entire day. I swear, it’s his voice which is going to haunt my dreams. You really want popularity? That badly?

What do you know? You don’t know what it’s like not to be popular.

You’re right. I know how to be popular, because that’s what I wanted for myself. I can feel the anger in his voice, which alarms me. He already told me he was tired –maybe this is just a reaction. But he hadn’t stopped yet. I wanted to be popular in school. Yeah, Bridgette. You’re spot-on. His voice is so snarky, so condescending, I almost feel my heart breaking in half.

What’s gotten into you?

There’s nothing wrong with me. Nothing at all.

It’s obvious something’s up.

It’s weird, because one hour ago everything was fine. I was writing songs and he was sitting around by the television, interrupting me in every way possible. Although it was annoying, I could make-do with it. But I can’t make-do with somebody pretty much yelling about how wrong I am.

Especially when they’re in my mind, because there’s no way to get rid of them. What’s with the sudden mood-change? What did I say to make him this angry? I didn’t know Hunter was capable of anger. It was always “being moody” with him, but never actual anger.

Hunter, tell me what’s wrong.

No reply.

Tell me what’s bothering you.

You wanna know? Do you really want to find yourself in this whole mess?

That’s funny, because this is exactly what I thought when Hunter asked me about Eva. I didn’t want to bring him into the mess, but at the same time, I wanted to show him what a mess my life was.

And though it’s a sudden twist of event, I think, Yeah. I want to know.

His voice is drowsy –his thinking voice, anyway. That’s when I finally realise he’s not sleepy; he’s drunk. That’s why there’s a sudden change in moods, a sudden burst of anger. Do you know exactly how I became popular?

Yeah, I do. It was due to some stupid rumour about your parents dying in a car-crash.

They didn’t die in a car-crash.

What?

They didn’t die in a car-crash. He repeats the phrase as if it’s the simplest expression on Earth. They’re dead, but they didn’t die in a car-crash.

I can hear a slight slur in his words. And though there’s a part of my brain begging not to ask the question, I do anyway. How did they die?

There’s a pause.

I killed them.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I’m not sure what I heard.

A small part of me refuses to believe this. After all, he’s drunk: he’s speaking gibberish at this point. But my heart leaps with uncomfortableness. Why would somebody bring up a completely irrelevant topic like this? There has to be some truth in what he’s saying, even if it’s in a difference sense.

However, one thing’s for sure: I don’t like this situation the slightest.

I put my guitar down, trying to stop my mind from racing through a zillion events. Surely Hunter’s just playing with me. It can’t be true. Maybe there’s another reason for this sudden burst of unusual, horrifying information. I can’t resist asking.

What did you say?

I said I killed my… parents. His voice is slurring. Yeah. I killed them.

When there was a pool-party at Hunter’s house, once upon a time, I remember seeing the friendly face of his grandparents. It suddenly dawns on me I never considered his parents were dead –I simply assumed they’re out for a short period of time.

But I need to find out more.

You killed them? How did you kill them?

With a knife.

I really should ask for details. After all, a detective never suspects without gathering all the small information first. But my heart is beating so loudly, I can’t hear myself think. Information-overload. My brain’s about to explode from confusion, horror, and questions. Too many questions and possibly too little answers.

Which is why I lay in my bed, and though it’s difficult, I block out all the questions.

I drift off to sleep.

*

“McAdams.” I see Hunter in front of me. Slamming my locker shut, I look at him. There’s a long pause. “What happened yesterday?”

 “Nothing,” I say, a little too quickly. Turning back to my books, I order them from largest to smallest, just so they’re easier to carry. “Nothing happened yesterday. Don’t worry about–”

He’s touching the lockers with his fingertips, blocking me. “What happened yesterday?”

 “What makes you think anything happened yesterday?”

 “Because when I woke up, I felt so empty. That never happens. I always feel heavy and craned.”

Avoiding his eyes, I divert my thoughts. We have history first. I’m mentally jumping up and down. Although the same routine happens, and I have Arthur afterwards. Who I’m really not looking forward to seeing. Just thinking about his gleaming smile and eyes makes me shudder. How does he fit the criteria of a teacher? He doesn’t teach us anything.

What’s more, does this mean I’ll be facing Sarah and Owen again? I can never trust them to act normal. Chances are, they’ll both be awkwardly hiding behind newspapers which are suspiciously upside down. For the rest of their lives. Thinking about this makes me feel a little uncomfortable. Will I have to choose between the two?

But nothing goes near the worry of Naomi. Is she going to rip apart my flesh? Or is she actually somebody I can consider a friend, now that she doesn’t completely hate me anymore? Will I ever run in peace? So many questions. Over and over. Why is life so confusing?

Things get horrifying when I connect these questions to the ones I had yesterday. And suddenly, these questions aren’t occupying my mind anymore. I’ve unintentionally entered reality once more. And suddenly, I can only hear the one word Hunter’s calling out across the empty hallway.

 “McAdams.”

I stop and face him. “Fine. You know, you’re right. You did say something.” When I take a step forward (well, hop forward because of my crutches), I watch his feet debating whether to take a step back. My step is menacing, purposeful. But he asked for it. “You told me you killed your parents.”

As if on cue, he shuffles back a couple of steps, visibly showing his uncomfortableness with the situation. I’m blazing, however. I’m on fire. “You...”

It’s obvious no words come to his mouth. He’s opening and closing his mouth like a fish. I know exactly what it’s like to be in his place –having so much to say, to explain, but having words fail me.

 “Care to explain this, Hunter?”

 “No. I don’t want to explain. It was all gibberish, that’s all.”

 “Really?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. “Really.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have turned away. But it suddenly dawns on me I don’t care. I don’t care about these problems of Hunter’s, or how he supposedly killed his parents. He’s no significant part of my life. There’s no reason as to why I’m even standing here, trying to find answers to questions which I don’t care about.

Yes. That’s right. I don’t care about Hunter.

I can hear a high pitched and low-pitched beep in his mind, immediately realising my statement was considered a thought. It must’ve hurt him. He’s probably thinking of a zillion things to say, but it’d interfere with his private life. Which immediately makes me frown, because surely him killing his parents is a “secret”?

But then how come that pitch didn’t happen? Why were all his words so free, as if letting air out of a balloon?

No. I’ve got to stop that. I don’t care about Hunter.

Especially since he betrayed Owen as a friend. And even if the disgusting, weird Owen forgives Hunter, we all know he’ll never forget. There’s always going to be a little lack of trust when asking to get an ice cream, or buy some groceries for him. If they ever planned on living in an apartment together, the plans are shattered. All because Hunter did something wrong and Owen can’t forget it.

And I won’t forget, either. Betrayal isn’t something easily forgotten.

I decide it’s best if I stop hanging around Hunter altogether. Like I thought before: why is he a significant part of my life, anyway? If it wasn’t for Arthur randomly putting our minds together, I would’ve continued loathing him for eternity. I sigh. Somehow, loathing him seems a lot better –a lot less personal– than considering him a friend.

Instead, I spend the rest of my morning away from Hunter, sitting by myself amongst the empty football field. School hasn’t started. Which is why I grip on my guitar and strum away at a song, my mind absorbed in the task. Every flick of string, every sound –it’s like a mesmerising, magical experience.

In fact, I’m so out of touch with reality, I don’t notice the football heading straight towards me.

 “Yo, short girl!” I distinctly hear a person yell. Which is insulting, because in a school so small, I’m more than sure their name-misplacing is purposeful. “Watch out for the ball!”

I’m just about to scream, react. Do something about it. But then I watch a dark shadow jump in front of me, catching the ball. For a second, my heart’s beating fast. Over and over. It’s as if something gave it a treadmill and expected it to run forever. Nothing could’ve prepared me for that shock.

When I look up at the figure, I surprise myself by hoping it’s Hunter. I disgust myself by hoping he was trying to tell me about his history. Most of all, I shame myself by realising it’s not Hunter.

It’s Owen.

 “Almost got hit, Bridge.” He grins at me. Stains of chocolate are stuck to his teeth. “Be careful, will ya? Wouldn’t want the only person who still cares ‘bout me to die.”

 “And I wouldn’t mind if you brushed your teeth, either.”

He kicks the football back to his friends, who’re in a frenzy trying to catch it. But not before giving me a playful poke of his tongue then jogging back to them.

While he’s having the time of his life, I’m sitting here and horrifying myself with every passing thought. What was that frenzy, that horrifying incident when I wished Owen was Hunter? Seriously? And that’s when I realise I’m not different from other girls. Just the truth alone gives me a whole range of shivers.

I’m a Damsel in Distress.

That’s why Hunter always saved me repeatedly, because I must’ve been giving people the impression I needed saving. I’m the last one to know of this, of course, about my external influences on people. Why have I given the impression I’m weak? Sure, I cry during races and complain about almost everything. But that’s not weakness, right?

Most of all, the thought causing my stomach to reflex is how Owen might actually be right. I’ve always spent an abnormal amount of time thinking about popularity, and how much Hunter has opposed to me. I’ve always admired his popularity. Maybe it’s just a cover-up towards how I admired him.

Oh no. This is bad. This is really bad. Owen’s discovery has turned my entire word around. Perhaps I should tell his parents to make preparations for his future. Maybe even send him to Harvard, where he’ll study psychiatry. He understood my feelings before I could: surely that has some sort of value?

The bell rings. Dazed, I pick up my guitar and leave it beside my bag, which is beside my locker. Then I walk towards my next class. I’m just in time to see the puffing face of Sarah, my best friend. If she still is my best friend, anyway.

 “We broke up,” Sarah says, clutching at her knees. I fight a smile. Perhaps she’s independent, outspoken and strong –but she can’t run for her life. Ever. “Hunter… and… I… broke up.”

Somehow, informing her that her ex-boyfriend exchanges thoughts with me on a regular basis doesn’t seem like a good conversation-starter. Or that he already told me, unintentionally, about their break-up. And the idea I even communicated with Hunter will lead Sarah to believe I like him or something. Which I don’t. Not really.

Deciding to stay on the safe side, I feign a surprised expression. “Really?”

 “Yeah.” She doesn’t see through my casual lie. I can’t believe she’s still puffing –she barely ran a hundred metres. “We broke up. But it’s mainly ‘cause you two –like, you and Owen– mean more to us.”

 “Oh joy. My best friend forever suddenly found the brains to realise she doesn’t have complete feelings for a boy she barely knows.”

Sarah grins and pats my hair. She purposely does this knowing she’ll have to bend down, causing me realise just how short I am. Which I never forget when Hunter’s around, ‘cause the guy’s a giant. Ignoring my death-glare, she continues patting my hair. I feel like a particularly small dog, getting my fur ruffled.

 “Technically, I have known Hunter for a long time.” Her patting slows down to something more absentminded. “Yeah. I have known him for a long time. And I guess, deep down, I always knew he liked me ‘in that way.’ But…”

 “But you didn’t want to believe it?”

 “That’s right. I didn’t want to. It seemed so complicated to change from family to friends to something more. Y’know?”

 “Nah, I actually don’t.” I grab her hand and pull it away from me, just to cease the miserable patting. “But y’know what my feeble mind has realised? I shouldn’t be the one you apologise to.”

Sarah’s mouth forms into a thin line when she sees where I’m directing. I’m pointing at Owen’s locker, which stands out because there’s green slime drooping from it. And he wonders why the world thinks him disgusting: seriously, somebody would have issues if they didn’t repulse from the fake slime.

 “For somebody so short, you do make valid points.” She grins at me. “See ya, Bridge.”

I watch her walk to her next class. And suddenly, I’m noting a difference between the way she walked before and how she’s walking now. There’s a slight aura of confidence, filling the whole room. She walks in such a carefree manner, I suspiciously wonder if she did something with my hair. Maybe she had orange marker on her hand, rubbing off into my blonde bunch of mess.

But I don’t care. She’s happy.

Somehow, it’s all that matters.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Since I heard Hunter’s thoughts, a month passed by.

The world changed so much in these five weeks. I no longer require crutches; Sarah and Owen are back to being friends, but not as close as they were before; and Hunter’s avoiding me at all costs. This is probably for the best, because I’m finding it difficult to stop thinking about his sudden outburst of emotion.

What does he mean “he stabbed his parents”? How can a normal person listen to this and not feel the slightest tinge of curiosity. It’s abnormal not to wonder, But I’ve convinced myself Hunter Steele means absolutely nothing to me. Most of my pathetic life was spent abhorring this giant, and I have a hunch the rest of eternity will apply to this task.

The talent-show’s tomorrow, and I have a song all planned out. Sure, I can just learn a random song and perform it, but it’ll take too much time. Plus, the advantages of making up a song is that nobody can correct me. It’s my own music, it’s my own sound. Nobody knows it better than me, even if I make a small mistake.

Feeling my heart thumping, I knock on the door.

 “Coming,” says a distant voice. It sounds like a female, but the extra throatiness make me think “elderly.” The door opens and an old woman with glasses looks down at me. “Can I help you?”

 “Ah, yeah. Is Hunter here?”

The woman looks as if experiencing a heart attack. “Please don’t tell me he got you preg–”

 “I did no such thing!” says a voice form behind, saving me from a very awkward conversation. Hunter looks down at me. Ugh, why does everybody look down at me? “McAdams?” He seems unsure of himself. “Hi?”

 “Hi. You know that English assignment we had to do in pairs?”

 “Yeah…?”

 “It’s due tomorrow.”

His eyes widen. “Seriously?”

 “Seriously. And we haven’t even started.”

 “Come on in,” says the old woman, who I assume is Hunter’s grandmother.

She really has aged since Hunter’s last pool-party. There are dark circles under her eyes and her smile suddenly seems a little lifeless. It’s as if she’s been under pressure for a long time, or perhaps anticipating her death. Just looking at her makes my stomach churn, because it scares me to think myself as growing old.

Taking a seat on one of their many tilted couches, I face Hunter. He’s in sweat-pants and a t-shirt with the slogan “Math is fun.” How expected. Like all other cliché teenagers, I completely loathe math. It makes no sense to me. And when it does, it’s only the basics before it starts heading towards no-sense-ville once more.

My hands are wrapped around the glass of juice his grandmother pours me. I take small sips from it, a little at a time, and ultimately finish the whole glass. Hunter, who still hasn’t finished half his glass, looks at me in horror. It’s a common reaction, and I almost expect him to say the typical, “For somebody so short, you have a large appetite!”

But he doesn’t.

Just beside my legs, there is a plastic bag with all the stationary required for our project. Some glitter pens just to make our presentation better, my pencil case, and a notebook for jotting down ideas. We have to choose a song and interpret it.

After we finish our glass of juice, we get straight down to work. Hunter begins by explaining what he thinks the meaning of Phoebe Clearwater’s “Breathe” is.

I inspect the lyrics of the chorus.

Closer, closer, closer.

Scattered voices telling me to breathe.

Scream, but not any scream.

Your scream.

Although I’m just staring at the lyrics, there’s a chill running up my spine. The music doesn’t suit the lyrics at all. It’s so upbeat and country-ish –the kind of folk-song people would hear at a Heinz Bash or something, while spinning around with cowboy hats. But the lyrics have this dark edge to it; this can’t be perceived when there’s music running in the background.

Hunter thinks it’s about a person buried alive before their death. He explains this further by saying, “Let’s say this person has this weird condition, and the doctor suddenly doesn’t know what to do with them. They mistake their death. They bury this person alive in a coffin. And this person’s going crazy, because, well, they’re underground. They’re screaming. But with their screaming, they’re losing their ability to breathe. Y’know?”

Having this entire history put behind this song doesn’t make me feel more comfortable. If anything, I begin debating whether now’s the time to catch the next plane to Alaska –just to get away from this dark-minded boy. There’s something so dark about this song, I can’t put my finger on it. There’s a part of it which speaks to me. I don’t want to say it aloud.

I’m having one of those crazy moments where I wished we could still exchange thoughts. Even now, I have no idea why the ability to exchange ideas disappears in certain situations. Maybe I should ask Arthur. Immediately, I picture his gleaming eyes. Or maybe not.

One thing’s for sure: I don’t want to share my interpretation to this song. It’s too personal.

 “I reckon it’s about a… singer. Yeah. And she’s so terrible at singing, that her voice sounds like she’s screaming. And all these voices are the audience, telling her to stop and breathe for a second.”

 “What, are we predicting your performance at the talent-show tomorrow?”

I almost knock him unconscious. “No. We’re not predicting anything.”

It’s obvious Hunter doesn’t believe me when I expose my interpretation of this song. To be honest, I don’t believe it myself. How can somebody connect something so dark to singing? It’s possible, yes, to include that meaning under a whole list of interpretations, but never the first one. There’s always something dark which hits me.

Eva’s voice booms in my mind.

 “Bridgette? Bridgette, there’s a man downstairs. He’s coming up.”

I’m breathing abnormally. Hunter notices and stares at me. But I’m too caught up in my own horrifying fears to assure him there’s nothing wrong.

 “Bridgette? Pick up the phone! Pick it up!”

Everything’s wrong.

 “I don’t like the way he’s coming up. Bridgette, I don’t like how he’s coming up. I don’t like it. Bridgette! Bridgette!”

The phone went dead there. Right there. But not before I endured her scream. That ear-piercing scream which made me almost deaf. Why couldn’t the message end earlier? Just a little earlier. Only so I don’t hear that scream or terror every-time I’m absentminded. Why didn’t I have that phone with me?

I could’ve saved a life. I really could’ve.

But I didn’t.

 “You’re crying, McAdams.”

What makes Hunter pat me on the back, I have no clue. I’ve cried a million times in front of him. When it comes to the waterworks, no pride exists in my case. It doesn’t matter whether I’m running or trying to get away from something –tears are my escape route to everything. Hunter never sits beside me, patting my back.

He must’ve sensed there’s something serious about this time. I suppose his grandmother must’ve as well, because when he enters the room, she shakes her head and begins something about how “Hunty” is so insensitive and deserves a place in jail. If I wasn’t blubbering like an idiot, I’d comment and burst out laughing at little “Hunty.”

But reality is, I’m crying. I’m blubbering. I’m sobbing.

All because I’m broken and messed-up.

After Hunter’s grandmother leaves the house to get more ice cream, I stop crying. Tears are still streaking down my cheeks, but I’m no longer held hostage by them. My pride returns, and I’m a little brash as to how Hunter must think of me now. There’s no doubt he sees me as a Damsel in Distress. How can I possibly convince him I don’t need saving after today?

 “Do you wanna talk about it?”

 “No.”

 “Is it about Eva?”

 “Yeah.” A grimace plays on my lips. “And don’t you dare tell me it’s not my fault. Because let  me tell you something, Steele, I’ve been told that a zillion times. And it doesn’t help. It doesn’t help the fact I should’ve had my phone with me. It doesn’t help the fact Eva would still be alive if it wasn’t for me.”

 “Why wouldn’t it be your fault?” This shocks me. He seizes the opportunity to look me straight in the eye, and I have difficulty holding the gaze. It makes me feel so uncomfortable, so bare. “You should’ve had your phone on. You should’ve had it with you. Eva came to you as a last resort, and thanks to your carelessness, she died.”

 “Exactly,” I say, but it comes out as a whisper.

In all these months, there’s another person who boldly acknowledges the truth. My parents always scolded me about how none of it’s my fault, but they blamed me. I could see it in the way they looked at me. Eva’s death is my entire responsibility, no matter who decides to see it in a different way. Opinion doesn’t change the facts.

Her voice is everywhere. There are always singers who sound exactly like her. Wild but sweet at the same time. Eva was thinking of becoming a part-time singer –but all her fantasies disappeared when I betrayed her. I should’ve listened to her. Why didn’t I listen to her?

I’m just about to start crying when Hunter starts speaking again.

 “But.” He pauses, cocking his head as if mustering up the way to translate his feelings into words. “I think Eva forgives ya.”

 “What?”

 “Eva forgives you. Even in her ghostly state, don’t you reckon it’d be a little stubborn of her to hold it against you? I mean, sure, it was your fault. I’m not gonna lie about that. But I have a feeling you’d be forgiven anyway.”

My mouth opens. Then closes. Because there aren’t any words coming out of my mouth, I just smile. It’s not an open smile or something displaying comfort. It’s more of a sad one, a regretful one. Somehow, Hunter doesn’t see the depressing side of the smile and he grins back, metal attached to all of his teeth. But he’s smiling widely, as if hoping it’s contagious for me to see his exposed braces.

It’s so endearing, I just have to smile a little wider.

The rest of the day is spent as we find one of Phoebe’s songs which aren’t completely dark, which is hard work. All of her songs are so catchy and upbeat, but that’s because nobody ever takes notice of her lyrics by themselves. Looking at the lyrics alone is like being presented with some dosage of darkness, a sort of poem made for a completely different purpose.

We decide upon Phoebe Clearwater’s “Dancing in the Rain.”

Dancing in the rain

Shaking off the pain

Clearer, clearer

Looking no further

We decide it’s about a girl, seeing as Hunter put the valid point of boys being too macho to dance in public. In the rain, anyway. It’s not a problem when they’re break-dancing, because it’s pretty much a form of showing off.

After we’ve decided on the main character, we give her a history of being a ballet-dancer, but everybody thinks she’s deluded. Everybody else, like her relatives, see dancing as a hobby and not a profession. But this girl loves ballet and continues dancing. She’s “shaking off the pain” because nobody takes her seriously.

Just like all of Phoebe Clearwater’s songs, this one touches my heart as well. Not quite as dark and daunting as the last one. I don’t feel as if somebody’s pointing a large, bony finger straight at me. Accusing me.

By the way Hunter’s reading the lyrics over and over again, I’m given the impression he sees the song as something else. Just like me, he doesn’t see it as a girl dancing in the rain. He sees it as his own life story. Identical to how I perceive the dancing as a way of letting go of all my pain. Except I don’t dance to run towards a new sort of hope and neither does he.

Instead of dancing, we run.

But I don’t know what he’s running from.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Waking up, I’m awaited by unfamiliar surroundings.

Not exactly unfamiliar, but not my bedroom. When I look around, I see the whole house in another perspective. There is flawless paint on the ceiling, different to the cracked tiled one I wake up to everyday. We don’t have enough money to repair anything around my house.

Unless Mum and Dad decided to have a renovation overnight (which is completely implausible regarding our financial condition), this isn’t our house at all. Not my house.

When I finally sit up properly, I’m aware of sitting on a couch. There’s a blanket draped on me and a pillow underneath. Nothing looks familiar to what I’ve seen throughout my whole life. But at the same time, this place is not completely unrecognisable. I’ve seen it once –that’s enough to put a label on this location.

This is Hunter’s house.

Rather panicked, I rampage through my schoolbag beside me for my mobile. I’m surprised yet relieved to acknowledge objects belonging to me. It makes this place not look as unfamiliar as it first did when waking up. Although the newness of the sofa still freaks me out. I’m certain Dad only ever bought hand-me-downs and second-hand –a brand new leather sofa is completely out of reason.

I dial the home number immediately, biting the inside of my lip. Three rings go by and nobody answers. When I look outside, I know why. The windows aren’t covered with the curtains, and the darkness outside is noticeable. It’s either very early in the morning or very late at night.

When I check my phone, I groan at the time. 3:21 am.

I hear footsteps. Although it shouldn’t scare me, it does. Now I’m aware of why I woke up in first place: there was a high and low pitched noise in my head. Kind of like the ones I had when Hunter and I still exchanged thoughts.

Naturally, I couldn’t sleep any longer with that insane racket continuing in my head. It woke me up. We don’t exchange thoughts anymore. So it really is a shock with the sudden reminder of our past haunts us once more. Can Hunter hear my thoughts right now? Is he snickering as how pathetic and lowly I sound?

But when I peer over the couch, I see Hunter. Instead of laughing or snickering, he wears a poker-face. He’s all dressed up. It’s as if he’s going outside. Who goes outside at 3 am?

The door opens then shuts. All so quietly, it’s safe to assume his grandmother still thinks he’s in bed. Nobody suspects him of leaving the house.

Quickly, I put on my jacket and exit the house. My blood’s rushing to my brain. Somewhere in Health class, they said it’s a bad sign to feel blood pumping. But I have a feeling if I don’t die of a heart attack, I’ll die of curiosity.

Mum and Dad can be notified of my location later, but there’s something telling me to follow him. To follow Hunter. Even if it’s the sneakiest thing I’ll ever do, following a complete stranger. Didn’t I once tell myself I don’t

care about him? As it turns out, I do care about him. Well, either that or I really can’t handle a little bit of curiosity here and there.

I discreetly follow him as he strolls through the night. The trees aren’t swaying like they always do; the wind’s still. Dark shadows form above me in the shape of branches and leaves. I’ve never been out this late. A childish part of me is begging to go back home, where I’ll be safe. But that part is ignored as I continue taking steps. It’s beyond my control, this suspense that rules me.

He does it so casually, not wary at all. It’s obvious he doesn’t suspect anything, especially not me following him. Strange. He must do this on a regular basis to act as if it’s a mundane routine. This sparks up more questions. Where is he going and for what purpose? Is there a purpose? Or is it all just a wild-goose chase and Hunter’s just abnormally fond of very late-night walks?

My thoughts are interrupted when he speeds up. In order to match his pace, I quicken my steps as well. Then he starts running, and I’m suddenly thankful to Coach for all those extra hours of push ups and burpies. There’s no way a regular person could catch up to Hunter. Especially not the way he’s running now, which is the maximum sprinting-level for most un-running-suited people.

But I can.

He finally stops at a familiar place. I recognise it instantly. It’s the local cemetery. A sudden impulse overcomes me to pick up my pace and run back. Back to my own house and explain to my stern parents why I’m over at a boy’s house. Anything but experience the same dread, the same tension I had the last time I saw Eva’s body.

Eva’s body is here. Right at this cemetery.

Somehow, I take a deep breath and walk straight behind him. I don’t run away. Pacing behind him is difficult, because he doesn’t seem to know where he’s going either. It’s as if he’s revolving in circles, trying to find the right grave. And then he stops in front of one, his expression softening as he kneels down.

 “What’re you doing?” I say, unable to stop myself.

His arm muscles tense from behind. “What’re you doing here?” He turns around to face me. “Go home. You’re still dreaming.”

 “How stupid do you think I am?”

 “Very.”

I resist the urge to whack him. “Instead of going all ‘mysterious’ on me, could you at least tell me what’s going on?”

There’s silence. But he’s in his own little world, his hands and feet crouched all together. Getting him out of this absentminded state screams impossible. Especially when he turns his back to me and traces along the lines of the grave in front, possibly the name of the person who’s deceased.

The gravestone is a dark grey underneath the gleaming moonlight. It’s so dark. How am I managing to stay out this late? My eyes divert towards the gravestone once more. I just find the two words sketched on the stone.

Maria Josie Steele

As if by magic, I hear the high-and-then-low pitched sound once more. But it’s increasing in volume. It’s rising up. Up. Up. Until my eardrums can barely hold onto reality, and my brain feels as if somebody’s flicked the “off” switch on my mental health.

Then, as suddenly as it begun, it finishes.

 “You knoooow, if it weren’t for yoooou we’d have actual lives. Stewpid Maaaria. Getting pregnant like that.” Hunter’s father’s words are slurring. He can barely stand up. But this doesn’t stop him from glugging more alcohol down. “Your mother is a baaaad woman. A baaaaad woman.”

Hunter, who looks about eight in the flashback judging by the chubbiness of his cheeks, looks up at his father. He’s smiling but also confused. Obviously, eight-year-olds know what drunk people do; they realise the insanity when alcohol is in a person’s bloodstream. But how is one to figure out whether the words coming out are true or false?

They’re in a plain living room, decorated with almost nothing. No pictures on the wall, no attempts to show the world how happy the family is. Instead, it’s as if they’re trying to give a different impression. It’s like they’re screaming for help with the emptiness of their house.

 “Bad woman? Seriously, Dad?” Hunter’s laughing uncomfortably, if not on the verge of hysteria. He’s desperately wishing this is a terribly-planned joke.

But it’s not.

The man shoves the boy down. It’s not hard enough to knock little-Hunter down, but enough to give him a fright. “Don’t ‘Daaaad’ me, you lil brat. Your mother can’t tell you. She can’t damn tell you ‘cause she don’t wanna hurt you.” He takes a couple of breaths. The next words are surprisingly fluent and slut-free. “But here’s the truth: she’s a prostitute I hired. You were a mistake she couldn’t let go of. And I’m the stupid man who ended up in this hell.”

 “But–”

He’s interrupted by a gunshot. One which knocks him to the floor. When Hunter’s eyes finally avert upwards, he sees his mother standing there. Her dark hair is in masses of curls, her eyes lacking about a year’s worth of sleep.

Maybe it’s because of the lack of sleep she blurts out, “What have I done?”

Then shoots herself, bringing eternal silence.

My eyes are fixed on reality. Hunter’s mouth is open. Neither of us speak, and I have the feeling we don’t have the words. What did I just see? The brace-teethed boy obviously realises I saw his memories, because he’s looking down. Avoiding my eyes in every aspect possible.

I need to get out of here. This isn’t my scene. I’m not the kind of person who comforts people; it’s usually the other way around. Scratch that: comforting people is so not one of my strong points. And it suddenly won’t develop. Anything I say will make things worse. It’s only logical that I take the first step and somehow pace myself back home.

But my feet are planted to the ground, as if resembling the roots of a tree. I can’t move.

What kind of person would I be to not try at all? My talents are limited when it comes to assuring people of the truth. However, Hunter made me feel a million times better about Eva dying with his bluntness. Surely I can at least try –after all, I can’t make the situation worse, can I?

So I sit down beside him. “Wanna talk about it?”

 “Clearly not. But I guess I don’t get a choice as to who reads my thoughts, eh?” He sighs. There’s a pause. “I don’t know what to say. Mum was a prostitute, Dad’s just a regular costumer and I’m a mistake Mum couldn’t let go off.”

 “I don’t see how you ‘stabbed’ either of them…”

 “Not physically, but mentally. I was the reason they died, right? If they didn’t stay together, they would’ve lived their separate lives.”

 “Hunter, you can’t blame yourself for something you couldn’t control.”

 “I shouldn’t have talked to Dad that day. He was drunk. If I didn’t persuade him to tell me about Mum, they might’ve…” he trails off, but I know the exact ending to that sentence.

 “Fine. I’ll give you that. You shouldn’t have made your father go with the conversation, ‘cause it just pulled on your mother’s last string.” This causes him to look straight at me. I swallow a mouthful of spit, dizzy and unable to muster up some other words of comfort. But I manage to find some at the last minute. “That’s in the past, okay? They would’ve died anyway. Heck, I think it’s best they both died like that. And though it’s not much, you got a last-minute glimpse of how much your mum really does care.”

 “What?”

 “Yeah. When she shot herself, I doubt she was just thinking of jail-time and possibly getting fired from her job. I have a hunch it went all the way to how you’d feel without a father and how much she really did care about your dad.” I look around the graveyard, a little more freaked out since the sun’s starting to rise. Everything is more visible. This isn’t a good thing for the easily-frightened. “Speaking of, where’s your father’s graveyard?”

Hunter points to the one right next to his mother’s, and I feel slightly stupid. Why didn’t I see it? Engraved in the headstone are the words, “Paul Steele.” His mother and his father are together. Although their ending was bittersweet, I think it’s one of the most realistic love-stories ever told. Sure, they hated each other: but this “Paul” must’ve had some sort of feelings for his child in order to leave everything behind and start a family.

My mouth opens to tell him this. But then I close it. If I expose my feelings about their bond, it might just cause Hunter to roll his eyes. He’ll never see it in the way I do –it’s useless to raise a topic like this with such touchiness added.

I turn to the memoriser of pi. “Can I ask you something?”

He shrugs. “Sure. Though I’m kind of surprised as to why we don’t thought-exchange like we used to…”

 “That’s what I wanted to talk about. Have you ever wished you could tell somebody your problems and have them listen to your ones in return?”

 “Yeah.” He frowns. “Now that you mention it, a lot of times. But you don’t think…”

I nod. Yeah, that’s exactly what I think. Somebody up there heard both of us wishing for the same thing. They sent the message to Arthur, who conveniently arrived as a substitute teacher just in case the whole mind-reading thing goes wrong. At a Christian school, we’re never out of religion teachers: yet, it’s kind of coincidental a complete random started teaching one of the only classes Hunter and I are both in.

Perhaps this kind of incident happens a lot. People probably wake up, suddenly reading another person’s ideas, but don’t expose their feelings about it to the outside world. For all I know, every single person on Earth experienced this exchange of thoughts.

But the fragility of the topic is so breakable, so delicate. I feel that if I tell somebody, the whole bondage will break. That abruptly, I will no longer discuss my issues and dreams with another person. So it’s best to keep this entire presence a secret –just like other people on this Earth are probably doing.

This isn’t an unseen sorcery to torture two different students and rip them apart.

It’s invisible magic to bring two strangers together.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Yawning, I stumble out of the sofa.

The sound of the microwaves fills my ears. Somehow, the sound is so comforting, I don’t want to wake up. This is the place I can lie for eternity. These thoughts, however, disappear once I recognise the oddly-shaped clock on the wall. No, this isn’t my wall.

How can I hear the sound of the kitchen? My bedroom is the furthest from the main room and the kitchen. It’s basically impossible to hear any sounds from the main room. What’s more, there’s a grandfather clock in the living room –something all our live-savings can’t afford.

I sit up with a start.

“About time you took a break from sleeping,” says an all-too-familiar voice. He grins and hands me a glass of orange juice. “Here. Oh, and you should really go home soon.”

Almost choking on my orange juice, I place it on the table and begin hunting for my phone. I check all my pockets. Nope, nothing. Since I’m not answering my phone, I can’t call my parents. Naturally, they’ll assume I’m dead and tell the school. Everybody will mourn for me –Bridgette McAdams, who they wished they could’ve known.

And when I come to school, all bright-eyed and perky, all my non-existent popularity will disappear. I will be known as “The Death-Faker” and all the girls will turn their noses up at me and all the guys will–

“Don’t worry,” cuts in Hunter, causing me to lose my train of thought. “I called your parents at around five. I looked in the phonebook for your number.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“No problem.” There’s a short pause as he heads to the kitchen. “It’s 7:30, by the way. You still have school today.”

Sure enough, the time glares at me on a digital clock. I groan internally. There’s not enough time for me to head home and get my un-English-related books. My heart skips a beat. Today’s the talent show, isn’t it? This means I can’t have sheet music in front of me, or my guitar pick.

I can pick any old guitar from school, but picks are always a minority. People always smuggle them under their coats during music lessons. Whether there’s any left is a question all by itself. Why did I have to come today? Oh wait, that’s right: the assignment’s due tomorrow. Obviously I didn’t have any other choice.

Why didn’t the teacher give us more time during class? I need somebody to blame this difficult situation on. Unfortunately, our English teacher gave us more than enough time –it was all consumed by Hunter babbling on about his philosophical interpretations and me zoning out each time, making him frown and repeat the useless babble all over again.

In other words, neither of us made much use of the allocated time. No, that’s a lie: Hunter did perfectly well, pulling random interpretations out of nowhere. It was me who slowed him down. Why am I such a failure at life? Couldn’t I have tried to concentrate on whatever gibberish escaped his mouth?

Perhaps, but it’s too late to think about it now. Those wasted English lessons were merely the start to all my problems. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep in between interpreting lyrics of Phoebe Clearwater’s songs –that’s the job of the majority of my classmates, not me. Instead, I let myself snooze and miss the opportunity of a lifetime: the one road to popularity.

Ugh, I’m such a loser.

“You ‘kay?” Hunter says between mouthfuls of pancakes. He places his plate on the bench and then brings over another one for me. My pancakes have a drizzle of maple syrup running through them, but my appetite is lost. “You look as if you’re deep in thought.”

“I am. And I’ve concluded I’m a loser.”

He pats my head like I’m a dog. “Good-wittle Bridgette. Now, if only you’d come to these right conclusions a wittle more quickly.”

Screams escape his mouth as I take his arm and twist it behind his back. Well, thighs is more like –my height can never resort to a fully menacing attack. “Stop be a jerk for one second and help me out!”

“Ah-ah-ah… finnneee,” he says, trying to break free of my grip. He finally manages it, looking at me under a new horrified light. I smile deviously. It’s always the same: people think little people are all innocent, I merely walk into their lives to prove them wrong. “What do you need help with?”

“I need some sort of song which will make me… popular.”

The word sounds so bitter and pathetic on my mouth. Hunter doesn’t completely know about my ridiculous ambition to be liked by everyone. Maybe I should withdraw the statement with a, “Ha! Just joking. Really.” But I leave the words hanging in the air. As if thinking deeply, he cocks his head to the side. My lips press into a line.

Here comes the teasing, the humiliation. This is what I experienced when I told Sarah about my wild desire. She thought I was joking, because in her words, “Who cares if you’re liked or not?” If only it were that simple. Sarah never has to worry about anything out of the ordinary –she has one of the most popular boys in school falling head-for-heels for her, and another popular-but-disgusting one who probably still hasn’t forgiven her.

Obviously, she has no problems in the social-chain.

“Sure.”

I wasn’t sure if I heard right. “What?”

He shrugs. “Sure. I’ll help you write a song. But…”

Evidently, I knew a “but” will come up. I sigh, unsurprised. “But what?”

“You need to help me train for the next race.”

I blink. “That’s it?”

“It may not seem like much, but ever since grandma started baking her rainbow cake three times a week, I’ve gained enough kilos to outweigh an elephant. I’ll probably bring one home next week and somehow convince the

mammal to be my girlfriend. But something tells me we don’t speak the same language, so I’ll probably end up dating her against her will. Oh well.”

For the second time in ten minutes, I blink. Except this time, it’s one of disgust. “Gee, thanks for the nightmares.”

He grins. “You’re welcome.”

I shudder. Do people see this side of Hunter when they respect him and flash him smiles? Is this the side of him they see –the wacky, weird, lazy and dark side? The answer hits me the minute I ask the internal question. Of course this side isn’t showed. Nobody knows this strange, unknown side to him.

If this is what popular people are like, I’m not sure joining them is a good idea.

*

I’m on stage.

My hands are shaking. This definitely isn’t a good sign, especially since this performance is supposed to change my life forever. What if my teeth fall out in the middle of nowhere? Won’t I be ridiculed? My life will be over. Truly, truly over. This performance can really go two ways: extremely well or bad enough for Owen to roll his eyes.

The thought of Owen rolling his eyes at somebody else but himself still makes me shake my head in disbelief. But I don’t make a positive impact, that’s exactly what’s going to happen. He’ll laugh at me. And he won’t be the only one cackling like a witch finalising a potion: the whole world will throw their hands up in defeat, wondering how they could associated themselves with anybody like Bridgette McAdams.

These negative thoughts sure aren’t helping. The guitar in my hand doesn’t feel right. It’s too bright, too pink. It was the only one left in the music room as I dashed past to grab it. Why are they such popular instruments? If they weren’t, I wouldn’t be on stage with an instrument blinding me with its flashy colours.

But it’s too late to jump of stage. It’s too late to feign a cough and slump home. There’s no other choice.

I have to play.

So I sing the song Hunter wrote. I stuff up two lines and my face looks extremely worried for a second, filled with frustration. But then I realise none of the audience members know the song: none of them are informed of the exact lyrics. I can sing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star and they’ll think it’s all part of the act.

This relaxes me. The microphone is close. I sing into it, the second verse of Hunter’s written song.

There’s so much more to you

So much more, so much more

Why can’t you see?

You are the world

Somehow, that makes all the difference. I don’t know how, though. I’m just as surprised as the audience, as they focus on me with their undiverting attention. They’re looking at me, some of their jaws dropping and others who’re lazing about start to sit up properly. It’s not the first verse that pulls them into the song: it’s the whole song in general.

Only Hunter doesn’t seem surprised. He’s just sitting at the back, giving me a thumbs-up and trying to speak to Sarah. Unfortunately, she isn’t informed of his existence, and her eyes remain glued on my guitar and microphone. Her thoughts are already spinning around my head: When did Bridgette learn how to play the guitar?

Although I’d love to think my amazing singing voice does this song justice, it doesn’t. My voice isn’t the kind found on a singer, or even a musician. My voice is simply plain, weak and a little out of pitch at times. But it’s the guitar accompanying me and the lyrics I sing which make all the difference.

When I strum the last few chords, there is a huge applause. Something so big, so spectacular. I was expecting a few hands, but it seems so dream-like for all these people to clap. For me. Just for me.

There’s the biggest smile pasted on my face as I step off stage.

When I go down the stairs, nobody approaches me. The audience has moved on to the next girl, who’s showing her talent by playing the piano with her toes (quite slowly, mind you). But as I make myself through the crowd, there are a couple of pats on my back. A few more smiles here and there, before they turn their attention to the one on stage.

Hunter is sitting with his head resting lazily on his elbow. “What did I tell you?”

“You were right.” I look around. Some people are staring at me, whispering about me. But I suddenly don’t care. On stage, I gave my very best and expect nothing more than respect. I drag Hunter around the corner to the refreshments’ table, where there’s very few people –they all got their drinks and crackers before the show started. “How did you know exactly what to write down? And don’t tell me it was natural instinct, ‘cause I’ll punch you.”

“Aren’t you just a ray of sunshine, McAdams?” He helps himself to a cracker. “And as for the song, everybody likes attention. Everybody wants to be special. And you just did that, with the whole ‘you’re so much better than I’ll ever be’ performance.”

“Smart.”

“Indeed.” He helps himself to another cracker. I smirk, finding a similar connection between him and a parrot. “So, do I get a thanks?”

“Yeah. You do. Thanks. By the way, how come we can’t read each other’s thoughts anymore? It’s been a long time, don’t you think?”

There’s a pause. He munches on his cracker and, as if I’ve never asked the question, turns towards the front of the hall. There, a boy is singing a love-song and gathering all the hearts of the young ladies with his floppy hair. I silently gag. All somebody needs is good-looks and they’re the centre of attention.

Only when I pay a little more attention to the guy singing do I realise it’s Rick Jakerson. I blink. The Rick Jakerson? Somehow the school science-champion seems like a misfit for the stage. But I guess anything’s possible. Judging by the way his voice echoes off walls, I’m awaited by the fact there really are a lot of people like Hunter.

A lot of popular people who have another side to them.

A sudden thought attacks me: why do I concentrate only on Hunter?

Out of nowhere, Hunter says, “I think it has a lot to do with friendship.”

“What?” Oh no. Please don’t tell me he read my mind. How embarrassing would that be? “What do you mean?”

“When you asked about how we never hear each other’s thoughts anymore. I think it’s ‘cause we don’t have to. We’re considered friends.”

“Friends?”

“Yeah, friends.” He grins at me.

Although not giving him the satisfaction of a full grin, I smile back at him.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Hunter’s probably out there, running with his new shoes attached to his feet.

Unless he kicks them off during his course. Which I highly discourage, seeing as he’s most likely going to end up with a sprained ankle. And as an account of his recklessness, he might end up on crutches –something I don’t want to suffer through ever again. It was the worst six-to-seven weeks of my life. No running. How do the doctors expect me to live without running?

It’s like telling a stamp collector to stop observing stamps, or a tree-hugger to chop down a forest. But the doctor doesn’t know me. I doubt he hardly cares about anything except whether any of his patients carry a contagious disease. He’d hardly care if I a disease he could catch; I’m so short that I might as well be invisible.

Instead of focussing on the negativity, my thoughts turn back to Hunter and how he’s running past every obstacle in his way.

According to his grandmother, he gets new shoes before every race. About a week before, just so he gets used to them. I find this unfair. He’ll have the latest comfort-grips while I’m stuck with old, battered running shoes passed down from my older sisters. None of them –except Becca– like sport, so the shoes are all mine.

But there was somebody else who liked sport. She loved basketball, despite being only a couple of centimetres taller than me. She was loud, she was independent. At one point, she used to be my sister. And I can’t stop using past-tense. I gulp, realising where this is going.

I steer myself away from the topic. My mind’s wondering over things I don’t want to think about. All I want to do is throw on a pair of joggers and run. This horrible feeling on the inside; it’s the sort of groggy feeling one gets after drinking a little too much coffee or waking up on the wrong side of the bed.

But instead, Hunter’s the one with the freedom.

Meanwhile, I’m at Naomi’s restaurant and washing the dishes. When I’m off work in about an hour, Hunter promised he’d wait for me outside. Together, we’re going to run. I predict “running” isn’t an accurate word to use. Instead, anger each other beyond belief and release the tension on the ground seems more applicable.

But we both have a race next Wednesday. We both need to practice to our ability. And with only three days left –and my crutches have cut out the regularity of fitness in my life– there isn’t much hope for me. Maybe I can teach my amazing running skills to the freakishly tall villain.

Maybe I won’t.

As I’m drying the plates in a circular motion, there’s a tap on my shoulder. I almost drop the plate.

 “Naomi!” I exhale loudly. “Don’t do that!”

 “Oh, I’m sorry.” She pokes out her tongue at me, clearly indicating she doesn’t mean it. “But I just gotta ask: you ready for the big race this Wednesday?”

 “I was actually seeing if I could get out of it. Coach probably will break my knuckles and twist my neck until it snaps, but I can’t do it. Not this time–”

 “What kind of negative attitude is that?” The sharpness of her voice startles me. “You get a little minor injury and you forfeit? What’s wrong with you?”

My hand tightens around the washcloth. Honestly, I don’t have time for this. Turning my back to her, I begin cleaning all the plates once more. Naomi doesn’t shut up –in fact, I have full reason to believe her accusing me of being a slouch is only the beginning. I hum a little loudly than normal, just to block her tiny, irritating voice out of my head.

She leaves within five minutes –right after spluttering about what a failure I am. It doesn’t sound like much, but it was the worst five minutes of my life. It was even worse than the public-speaking speech I did in English in Year Nine, and dropped all my cue-cards. I watched helplessly as they got blown away by the voracious fan. Pitiful looks filled the room that day: it was also the last time I made cue-cards out of paper.

Nowadays, I use cardboard to prevent a repeat of the incident.

To say I’m completely surprised by Naomi’s outburst would be a lie. I’m honestly not surprised at all. She’s just like that: jealous and unforgiving. Maybe I’m doing her a favour by just being there, standing awkwardly.

Finally, the hour passes by. I say goodbye to the manager. He’s in his office, working away at the laptop and only gives me a quick smile before working again. Just seeing his office makes me rethink the day I first came for the interview.

He hands me a mobile phone. “Here. The number I told you is for this one. Keep it, just in case he calls.”

Taking it in my hands, I examine all the scratches. It’s not brand new, but it’s obvious it hadn’t been used much. I’m about to refuse –mostly out of pride– but something makes me stop. I hesitate and then hold my hand back in. “Thanks.”

 “It used to be my mum’s,” he says nonchalantly.

Now I know how it all fits together. As a prostitute, she needs those fake identities to keep moving forward. She needs them from exposing het true self to the world. Suddenly, I find myself imagining myself in her place. Would I have any dignity left? Would I be able to walk through the streets without that buzzing feeling of guilt?

It suddenly occurs to me how horrible Mrs Steele’s life must’ve been. Money was most likely the only thing she wanted: unfortunately, along came pregnancy and a child who’s always accused as a mistake.

My life’s child’s play compared to Hunter’s.

There’s a weird sort of echoing sound. An exposing kind of sensation in my head, and I have this sudden idea he heard this. That one thought wasn’t in my head.

Sure enough, a reply comes back.

It’s not whether your life’s better or worse than somebody. It doesn’t matter if one small thing is enough to get you depressed. All that matters is how you feel about it.

The thought’s over. When I’m outside, I’m awaited by metal-covered teeth grinning at me. He gives me a quick wave as I expected. I wave back, ignoring the rise of butterflies in my stomach. Maybe I’m always angry, but this makes me more frustrated than usual: since when does he give me an entire bucket-full of crawling creatures in my stomach?

Since now, apparently. Thank God he can’t hear my thoughts –I’d never hear the end of it. Me thinking he’s attractive? What’s wrong with me? Did that creepy Arthur do something else to see the world in another world? No, it’s unfair to blame him, even know I’m pretty much doing that for all the mind-reading business.

 “Heya, McAdams. Ready?”

 “As always.”

Our previous and sudden thought-exchange isn’t acknowledged. It also makes me a little more cautious as to what I think about, especially since our peculiar power may return anytime. Hunter might catch me thinking inappropriate things, and the last thing I need is him judging me.

Him, the messed-up idiot who never stops smiling properly around me.

Ever since our heart-to-heart encounter at his mother’s graveyard, his smiles are noticeably frequent. He always waves to me in class, and doesn’t take the hint when I turn away. What’s more, he actually patched things up with both Sarah and Owen. Although both of them are having trouble adjusting, Hunter’s laughing and chatting with them as if nothing’s happened.

Stupid boy. Even after exposing his entire life-story, he still manages to maintain a perfect mask on the outside.

Whenever we’re in classes where neither Sarah nor Owen is in, he always comes to me in hopes of pairing or sitting next to me. I always blabber some lame excuse about promising somebody else and slowly shift out of the scene. Why I’m doing this, I have no idea. But the guy just can’t take the hint.

I don’t want to spend more time than necessary. Just like him, I don’t want to get too close to people. It just gives them power to break me apart; into little pieces. First comes a sort of friendship, and within a couple of months, they’ll start scolding me. Finally, I’ll ignore some sort of advice they give me.

And then they die. The end. Full-stop.

My arms are getting weaker. The wind’s blowing so vastly, my eyes are almost shut. Maybe it’s not the wind as much as me running faster. Faster towards some sort of hope, some sort of justice act. This theory is confirmed when I finally turn back and see Hunter a good hundred metres behind me.

To be honest, I want to keep running. But all my energy is drained. It’s all released into the ground by the clutter of my feet. I stand there, huffing and hoping my face isn’t too red. Hunter slows down his pace and stands next to me.

 “Whoa. You can run freakishly fast, you know?”

 “That’s because… I’m running… towards something….” I put my hands on my head to stabilise my breathing and don’t talk until I get my breath back. “No matter how many times you experiment with different

people, the ones running away are always slower –that’s because they just want to get away. They have no purpose. They’re a little more scared.”

 “That’s me, right?”

 “Yeah. That’s you.” I pause. “And then there are others who wanna run towards something. They have this perfect picture painted in their head and when they don’t find it, they freak out. This freaking out of theirs causes them to run a little faster; with a little more desperation. They have a purpose. But they never find it.”

Hunter points to a bench around fifty metres from where we’re standing. I nod. Although my legs aren’t up for a little gambling, I somehow drag myself to the bench and take a seat, exhausted. Hunter sits beside me, tying his shoes. Flinching a little, I move the opposite direction. Because his concentration is only on his shoes, he doesn’t realise how close he’s sitting.

He doesn’t notice my flinching. Instead, he smiles at me. Again. With those metal-teeth. For the second time in a row, I’m embarrassed by the betrayal of my stomach. Another bunch of butterflies swarm around in it. Ugh. What is with this? This is the reason I tend to avoid him. Because if I don’t, all these crazy ideas blow up in my head.

I sigh. This is ridiculous. Why am I so flustered around him? He seems perfectly at each, because he’s picking food out of his braces. Right in front of me. Ah, such a turn-on.

 “Hey, Bridgette!” It’s Stacy Wellington from Science. She waves at me and grins, her freckled arms looking particularly tan. “Congrats on the talent-show!”

Her best friend, Caroline, smiles at us. Her glasses are fogged up, so she takes them off and wipes them before placing them on her nose once more. Hunter jumps up at that instant and takes the glasses from her face. Caroline grins. It’s the first time I’ve seen her smile.

But I guess it’s acceptable, because Hunter’s doing all sorts of stunts while wearing her glasses. Jumping up and down, throwing his hands in the air –he’s the monkey that fully never evaluated.

Stacy is laughing so hard, she’s gasping for air. I stare at Hunter for a long time. This is the kind of effect he has on the school population. How does he do it? He then takes the pearl-bracelet from Stacy’s hand and places it below his nose to symbolise a moustache. They’re all laughing like idiots, even Hunter.

Then Hunter starts up this random conversation about evolution and how Christian schools purposely leave it out of the curriculum. The three of them share their thoughts, exchange ideas for homework and assignments. Long story short, I’m being excluded. Not on purpose, because Caroline sometimes brings me up but then the topic starts going too fast.

I can’t keep up with any of them. Instead, I just hear their laughter. Ringing, ringing, ringing.

Finally, the two of them wave their goodbyes with their smiles a little brighter and their eyes a little more awake. They both look so alive.

Hunter sits back down. He stares straight ahead while I gaze at him. His posture is lazy, but his smile is genuine. And suddenly, I know what’s been bothering me for so long.

But before I can word it properly in my head, he suddenly sits up straight. “Oh no, I forgot to give Stacy back her bracelet.”

I take the pearl-bracelet from his hand and say, “I’ll give it back. Don’t go anywhere.” 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Jogging through the pavement, I finally catch up to Stacy and Caroline.

My feet don’t make much of a sound –well, not louder than their voices. They can’t hear me. I’m just about to give them the bracelet, when I hear the two of them having a conversation. I overhear from about one metre behind him. Since I’m short, the two of them can’t even see my shadow.

I realise this isn’t the right thing to do. They’re both incredibly nice people who’re a little more friendly to me since the talent-show. They don’t deserve to be eavesdropped like this. But because I’m an awful person, I can’t bring myself to stop overhearing this snippet of conversation.

So I trail behind them, standing a little lower than I usually do. Both of them are too engrossed in their conversation to take notice of their environment. They’re the perfect target for murderers and psychos.

 “Hunter’s really changed, right?” Caroline puts the glasses on her nose for the fifth time.

 “Mmm.” Stacy grins. “What, you into him or something?” She nudges her best friend.

To my surprise, Caroline blushes. “Well, he is cute. Scratch that, he’s adorable! Such a weirdo, though.”

 “Nobody’s perfect, eh, Carol?”

 “Nobody’s perfect.” Caroline stops at her track and I have this horrifying suspicion she saw some sort of non-existent shadow. But she probably thinks her eyes are playing tricks on her, because she keeps walking. “But even you gotta admit, he’s smiling a little more brightly. I mean, his smiles are more genuine.”

 “Yeah? You noticed that too?”

 “How can you not? He’s not as closed-off anymore. He’s more outgoing.”

 “He’s somebody everybody wants to be friends with.”

 “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s off the market soon.”

 “Better get your claws into him quick, Carol.”

 “Shut up, Stace,” she says, slapping her best friend playfully.

I stop at my tracks. They’re still moving, talking, but I can’t take another step. Actually, it’s more my ears don’t want to hear more of their conversation. My heart’s beating fast and Stacy’s pearl necklace feels like a tonne of bricks in my palm.

Waiting for them to continue walking another twenty metres, I count the beads on Carol’s pearl bracelet. Then, I race up to them, puffing and huffing. I purposely make my footsteps heavy and hit the ground many times to they hear me approaching. Both of them turn around and I hand Stacy the bracelet with a quick, “You left it behind.”

And she grins at me, saying she hopes to see me at school tomorrow. I somehow grin and tell her the feeling’s mutual before getting myself out of the scene.

So many thoughts fill my head as I run back to Hunter.

He’s somebody everybody wants to be friends with.

He’s not closed-off.

He’s more outgoing.

Scratch that, he’s adorable!

These are the characteristics of the new version. The new and improved version.

Hunter’s really changed.

I didn’t want to acknowledge it. But the truth’s staring at me, mocking me. Of course he has changed. High school changes all of us, and he happens to be one of the fortunate ones who have it all. His popularity must’ve increased since he started smiling a little more often.

Why does he have to smile? Why couldn’t he stay the same Hunter?

Finally, the line I’ve been dreading to fill my mind with.

He’ll be off the market soon.

Yeah, he will. By Sarah. Her only complaint about Hunter was how closed-off he is, and now with that flaw out of the way, they’ll be perfect. Two high-schoolers desperately in love. One with a dark past and a bright future, another with a good head on their shoulders and independence. They’ll be the perfect couple. They’ll be together until they die.

My hands clench into fists against my will. Just thinking about it makes my stomach do backflips. Thank God nobody’s around, because I’d knock them unconscious. Out of anger. Out of frustration. But most of all, out of confusion.

Sharing him isn’t an option.

I just want Hunter all to myself.

*

I avoid his eyes throughout History.

The teacher looks on me expectantly when asking about the French Revolution, but my mind’s somewhere else. Defeated, the teacher chooses another student in the class, only to find the reason for their raised hand was permission to go to the toilet. The class then bursts out in an argument over why the student didn’t go to the toilet earlier.

Unfortunately for the student –I think his name’s Paul– he happens to be one of the worst History students. This causes the teacher to raise concerns over whether he’s just doing this to skip class. Apparently he can get suspended for such a deceiving plan. The teacher continues raging about this when I put my hand up.

For a second, she just stares at me. “Bridgette? You’ve got something to say?”

 “Yeah. The French Revolution started because the peasants wanted change. And they ultimately got their way, thanks to the power of quantities of people. Unfortunately, their revolution got out of hand. Anybody who spoke against the revolution was instantly killed. So were anybody else who accused another.”

Everybody’s staring at me. But my face isn’t growing hot. Instead, I sit as tall as I possibly can –which kind of isn’t much– and have my chin tilted upwards. Lastly, Hunter turns around to look at me. All my confidence vanishes and I feel as if there’s something wrong with me. What am I doing? This isn’t the kind of thing I do.

However, instead of telling me off and giving me a lecture on how I could’ve supplied the answer earlier, the teacher cocks her head. “Thanks, Bridgette. Sorry, guys. I lost track of time.” She grimaces and points to Paul. “Go to the toilet before you drench the carpet.”

He hobbles through the desks and tables. The teacher’s writing something on the board, her back to the class. Paul taps my shoulder with his bony fingers and grins. “Thanks, Bridgette. You’re a lifesaver. My internal water-supplies salute you.”

Only when does he exit the room do I allow myself to voice the two words circulating my mind:

 “Ewww! Gross!”

Hunter’s cracks up laughing.

Stunned, I turn to him. He stops laughing, but there’s still a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. My face snaps back to the front. I can feel my cheeks reddening. Why can’t I look him the eyes anymore? It’s kind of startling me how embarrassed and cautious I get around him. Not to mention beyond confusing.

 “Yo, Bridgette.” I spin around to see Mac with a pencil tucked behind his ear. “I don’t understand Question Four.”

 “Didn’t think you would,” I say, after a few seconds. Mac rolls his eyes and asks for a thorough explanation. “It’s asking you what your opinion is.”

 “Well, I reckon the peasants shouldn’t have killed all those people just ‘cause they weren’t part of the revolution.”

 “I’m here to tell you that your opinion is wrong. Don’t you think they have full rights? Like, the king took away all of their freedom: it’s not overreacting.”

 “Bridgette,” says the teacher, not turning away from the board. “I don’t think it was noble of you to put down Mac’s ideas because of your own opinions.”

 “Yes, Miss.” I turn to Mac. “Sorry, Mac.”

He shrugs. “Whatever.”

I’m hoping nobody saw this incident. Mac forgot about this later, because he was rapping to some song he heard on television. It’s an embarrassing sort of thing, having the teacher pick out on the best student. Sighing in relief, I realise nobody remembers the event that took place a few minutes ago.

But that relief disappears when I see Hunter staring at me.

He remembers.

Somehow, that’s enough to throw me off-guard for the rest of the day.

When History’s over, I walk to my locker and enter the combination. I throw an apple in my mouth and shove all my books in, regardless of whether they’re in neat piles or not. It just means I’ll have a little more work to do when it’s time for the next period. This makes me crinkle my nose. I would’ve loved to stay home.

A lot of people pass by my locker. Some of them say hello, several invite me to parties. I’ve always been invited to parties, but not with the same attitude after my talent-show performance. Instead of a simple, “Wanna come?” I get a cheery and formal, “Can you come to my party?” with a desperate plea of the eyes.

This is the life. This is popularity. But somehow, I expected a lot more out of it. It seemed a lot different; a lot more appealing, a lot life-changing in my head. Curse my unfair ability to invent ideas that reality doesn’t touch.

Sarah approaches me with a wide smile. She tries to act chatty and confident, but there’s obvious wariness in her eyes. I guess nobody knows how to approach a friend after betraying them for a love-interest.

 “Hey, Bridge.”

 “Hey, Sarah.” I munch on my apple. “How’re things with you?”

 “Good, good.”

 “Yeah, we’re getting our marks back for English,” says Owen, throwing his fist in the air in victory. Sarah giggles. “We’re so getting an A, right Saz?”

She blinks. “Um, yeah. We’re getting an A. ‘Cause we put in a lot of effort. What do you reckon you and Hunter will get?”

 “For my half of the project, an A. What he gets is beyond me. He’ll probably weigh me down.”

Sarah laughs, a little nervously. Owen just stares at me. It’s as if some demented alien decided to use my body as a safekeeping place. For the second time in the same day, I realise I’m not acting like myself. Hunter saw it first. Sarah and Owen saw it second. I recognised at last, having no clue where these sudden un-Bridgette-like comments are coming from.

 “What a lovely thing to say about the old Huntsman.” Owen slaps me on the back, a grin forming on his lips. “I can always count on you to bring out the worst in him.”

 “She likes him, right?” Sarah’s mouth is twitching.

Sarah and Owen exchange a look. One which I don’t like, so I simply stick out my tongue at both of them and get out of their way. While I’m cruising down the hallway, I see Arthur closing the sliding door to one of the

classrooms. A part of me wants to keep running so I don’t ever encounter something as awkward as talking –not to him, anyway.

But my feet remain glued to the spot.

Arthur turns around and gives me a warm smile. It suddenly causes all his creepiness to disappear, while I stand, gobsmacked, as he says, “Got a question for the ‘teach’?”

I can’t help grinning. “I’ve got more of a statement: I don’t really understand the whole mind-reading thing.”

 “Yeah? Well, what do you want to know?”

 “How would we get rid of it?”

 “Just ask.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

 “We’re not going to do anything beyond your will, you know. Us angels don’t work that way. Sure, we’re heard you two whinge about how much you hate the whole mind-reading thing and wish it’d be over, but neither of you actually asked for it to be over.”

 “So if I wanted it to be over, all I had to do was ask?”

 “Um, yeah.” He says “yeah” like it’s the most obvious thing in the entire world. “It was really creepy. I mean, several of me angel-friends were drinking cola and thinking, ‘Those teens are loonies,’ because despite all the whinging and knowing I’m behind it, neither of you asked for it to be over.”

I’m not entirely sure what I find more unbelievable: the fact neither of us found the common sense to ask for the whole scene to be over, or how angels in his world drank cola. Surely there must be some other more “paranormal” drink for them to consume? Heck, I didn’t even know they could drink.

There are too many questions spinning around my head.

 “But–”

 “I’ve gotta go.” He glances at his watch. “Some kid’s stuck in a rubbish bin down at Patrick Drive. Angel to the rescue: go me.” He sighs at my mortified face. “Look, girlie, do you want the whole ‘mind-reading’ thing to be over?”

It astonishes me how quickly the word escapes my mouth. “No.”

A soft smile breaks through his face. “Didn’t think so.”

Within a blink of an eye, he’s gone. Vanished into thin air without a trace. I begin wondering if I’m hallucinating about the whole angel-thing –it’s extremely likely this is all just a weird, wacky dream I’ll wake up from in a couple of minutes or so. But it doesn’t feel like a dream. It sure doesn’t seem like a dream.

So it mustn’t be one.

 “McAdams. We’ve gotta talk,” says a voice behind me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I spin around to meet Hunter’s face. “Oh. Hi.”

 “Yeah, hi.” There’s a pause. He shuffles his feet, unintentionally reminding me of a penguin. “Look, I know this is none of my business, but are you okay?”

Somehow, I expect Arthur to reappear amongst nowhere and start droning on about things nobody cares about. I’m surprised he doesn’t creep up on me. Instead, I’m left staring at Hunter and wondering why he’s standing so close to me. Why is he targeting me? Asking me if I’m okay? Why?

 “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

 “It’s kind of scaring me how you’re acting lately. You just aren’t being yourself.”

 “I’m not being myself? How do you have any clue who Bridgette McAdams is?”

 “Let me cut to the chase: you’re acting like Sarah. Like, exactly like her. Now, my question is why are you acting like her?”

My jaw drops. I can’t answer this question. But the answer is clear in my head. Of course –I’m subconsciously acting like Sarah. Deep down, I always knew it’d happen. She has one of those contagious personalities that nobody notices is affecting them until others point it out. But I’ve been with her since diapers without my personality changing.

What changed?

 “I don’t have to answer you.”

He sighs in defeat. Just as he’s about to start walking home, he says, “Are we still on for the training?”

 “Yeah. A deal’s a deal.”

Turning around, he walks up to me wordlessly. Something I notice is how that really ugly bracelet of his isn’t there. Although I’m kind of relieved he got rid of it, his arm looks bare without the ugly thing. When I ask him about it, he shrugs and says he lost it. Personally, I think he’s lying –he loved that band: there’s no way he would’ve talked about losing it without any emotion.

But I keep my mouth shut.

We stroll down the corridors with heavy backpacks on our backs, but Hunter claims it’s good for speed –adding extra weight to a person’s body while running at the same time. He probably practises it all the time, seeing as he’s somebody who runs away. One day he’s going to run away from home; he’ll be carrying all sorts of luggage.

I’m tempted to drop my bag. Stop listening to him blabber on about the wonders of life. Turn the other way and flash the “loser” sign at him for no apparent reason.

But somehow, I stop myself.

*

Back home, I’m sitting beside the air-conditioner and reading a book.

Becca enters the house first, giving me a quick wave before engrossing me in a bear-hug. She takes out some weird-looking mixture from the fridge and gulps the entire glass down, holding her nose. It must be some more of her “super-effective” protein-shakes. Her last boyfriend, Matt, once complained about how bad her breath was when they kissed.

And, well, let’s say he didn’t exactly have the time of his life on crutches.

 “Hey, Becs.” I pick out an envelope. “Mail for you.”

She takes it from my hand. Drinking a glass with one hand, she uses the other to smooth the paper out until she can read it properly. Her eyes skim through the words as if she’s dancing hip-hop. Finally, her eyes grow wide as watermelons.

 “Bridgette, they found a lead!”

I sit up at once. “What?”

 “A lead. On the Eva case.” She scrambles to the ground, her hands shaking with surprise, confusion and excitement. “The police all thought there were no cameras at that time. Turns out they were wrong.” She shows me a picture. “This is the suspected car of the killer.”

The car is a bright blue; the type somebody looks twice at on the roads. But the most notable feature is how there’s a slight dent in the car headlights. It’s not noticeable. At the same time, the most I look at it, the more I realise how no other cars I’ve seen in my sixteen years has a dent quite like this one. 

It’s like bite-marks rather than something done from a pole or casual collision.

The numberplate isn’t visible. I have the feeling the murderer knew exactly where the cameras were. This wasn’t a random attack: it was a very purposeful one. What had Eva ever done to cause somebody to want her dead? To kill her? She always had a smile on her face and cheered everybody surrounding her. I never knew she had enemies.

 “So the police randomly realises there are cameras?”

 “It says down here that the tapes were skilfully taken out and chucked in the dumpster where nobody would bother looking for it.”

 “Why not just destroy it?”

She shrugs. “They kind of didn’t need to. Even after finding the tape, there isn’t much the police found out. The cameras are pointed at such an angle that you can’t even see the people getting out. And the ones taken at the right angle are destroyed for sure.”

All this is too much to wrap my head around. So I give Becca a weary smile before taking my book back to my bedroom, throwing myself on the bed. I think about a lot of things, but the main thought circulating my head is why Eva would get murdered. She was happy, she was nice, she always did her best to help people.

I realise with a thud I never really knew her. All my other sisters grew up looking up to her. Being the youngest, I spent the least amount of time around her –she was too cool for the rest of us. None of my family quite understood her. She must’ve felt so lonely: being forced to look after her younger sisters when she was barely growing up herself.

Were we that selfish? Didn’t we ever care about her feelings?

 “Mum, Dad!” Eva runs to the dinner-table, bringing out her math exam paper. “A plus! Can you see it properly?” She’s smiling so widely, her cheekbones look as if they hurt. “A plus! Not a single thing wrong!”

 “That’s wonderful, Eva.” Mum turns to me. “Tell us the good news, Bridgette.”

Although at that time, I was only in fifth grade and didn’t take much notice of everybody around me. It’s hardly fair to blame myself. But it’s my fault.

I take a deep breath and make drumming noises on the kitchen table, counting up to the moment. Mum and Dad both laugh quietly. “I got first place in the school cross-country!”

They all applauded. Barbara was grinning like an idiot, saying something about telling the entire school how her younger sister accomplished so much. Becca was pumping the air with her fist, making boisterous noises. Even Breena left the dinner table to get her camera to “capture” this moment. Only Eva sat there silently.

Back then, I thought she was thunderstruck. She was probably stunned about my amazing accomplishment and hoping I achieve it again. It was her wordless reaction which affected me the most out of all my family –I loved how my doings could be so tremendous, she was rendered speechless.

Maybe I should’ve taken the expression on her face as a hint. She wasn’t smiling; her face was flat and her eyes slightly twitching. Because I didn’t know Eva’s personality, I thought this was her way of congratulating me.

Only now do I realise she wasn’t silent out of happiness and proudness.

She was thinking up ways to kill me.

I jump up at the thought, my breathing staggering. It’s such a scary thought. Unable to face the silence any longer, I exit my room and feign a smile at my family. They’re all doing separate things. Mum’s in the kitchen, making some apple pie.

 “I’ll be back, Mum. Just going out for a jog.”

 “Okay,” I hear her call out, as I exit the house.

Running. Running. Running. Somehow, my feet are just collapsing today. I guess this is the side-effect of being on crutches for too long. My entire body’s struggling as if it can’t take another step. What’s wrong with me? The race is on the day after tomorrow and my entire life’s going down the drain.

Not only do I find a lead for the murder of my sister, I’ve got Hunter to worry about. Stupid Hunter who can’t even take a hint. Stupid Hunter who confronts me about things he doesn’t know about. He’s speaking garbage about me acting like somebody else. Does he even know what I feel? How I think?

Of course he doesn’t. Despite being able to read my mind, he doesn’t know anything about me, while I know most things about him. Which is a good thing. He doesn’t have any sort of advantage over me; no forms of blackmail. It’s a brilliant thing. I’m trying to convince myself I don’t want him to get close to me, to know me.

My feet are aching after merely two minutes. This is a terrible sign. There’s no way I’ll be able to win cross-country with this kind of footing. Whether I even make it to the field alive is a worry. So I stop. This is something I usually do, but mostly because I’m breaking down and need to have a small weep.

I smile. Hunter once pointed this out. He said something along the lines of, “You break down, you cry and yet you still win cross country. What’s wrong with you?”

A wistful smile breaks through my face. Yeah, there are a lot of things wrong with me. The first thing is that I’m acting like my best friend. It takes a lot of courage to admit it to myself, but I hate how Hunter’s slowly drifting apart from me.

Once upon a time, there were two teenagers who could read each other’s minds. No matter how much we complained or caused uproars, this paranormal ability wouldn’t disappear. So we learned to cope it. Even within school, we’d communicate using our minds and have irrational argument with what we really want to say.

It was uncontrollable. It was annoying. And yet, it’s one of the best memories of my pathetic life. Just waking up in the mornings, groaning because I’m reading some random person’s thoughts –it’s one of those pleasurable things. I didn’t realise how close I became with Hunter until we slowly began drifting apart.

He and Sarah are the perfect couple. Two perfect people in a perfect world. I’m just an invader who got stuck in their business like a pesky fly in a piece of pizza.

And with our ability of reading each other’s thoughts, we were inseparable. Maybe Hunter has his own life and I have mine, but with our supernatural power, we were always together. Bonded like paper and glue. Now that our ability no longer works, what am I to him?

I’m not the girl he’d run to when he’s in trouble. I’m not the person he’ll tell more about himself to. No, these would be all of Sarah’s duties. While I’m stuck here, as a once-close but now-useless friend. Nothing but a friend. Since Hunter’s friends with everybody at school, it doesn’t put my position above any of the teachers.

It bothers me. It really, really bothers me.

Suddenly, something catches my eye. There’s a twenty-four-hour/seven-days-a-week material store for people sewing and knitting. Surprisingly, the shop makes enough profits due to the increasing number of elderly people relocating to this small, peaceful town. Though I’ve never found the urge to enter –sewing and cooking are not my strongest points– I open the door.

Sure enough, I turn around to see what caught my eye in first place. Fabric of awful colour and structure. What caused the shopkeepers to put it at the window must revolve around death-threats by mysterious masked men. But the fabric is so familiar.

I purchase the fabric. The expression of horror on the shopkeeper’s face is priceless, because she has no clue why anybody would buy such hideous cloth. She’s probably thinking I’m colour-blind. Or has really bad taste in materials. Or just blind. But I take the small shopping bag with a smile, thanking the shopkeeper.

Back home, I ask Breena to come to my room. She sits down beside me and somehow gets the sewing machine started. I guess before using an electrical appliance, it’s essential for the plug to be switched on. She pretty much does all the work for me: converting the materials into an even more hideous band. Of course, in return, she gets to control the television for the next fortnight. It was a strict but fair condition.

When she’s finally finished, she looks at me for a long minute. “Bridgette, no offence, but this band is ugly.”

I grin. “Yeah, I figured.”

 “Then why…?” She looks confused. “No offence, but I don’t know anybody who’d like this band.”

 “You’d be surprised.”

She doesn’t ask for a clarification.

Invisible Magic

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

My heart’s clenched into knots.

It’s as if some sailor lost their way through the sea and decided my heart was a piece of string. Using their fancy knots and securing positions, they turned it into an unidentifiable shape –an organ without purpose. Something which is just there.

Not to mention, the stomach is working in response to the failure in my heart. Too much blood is going upwards; too much blood my heart cannot control. Ultimately, I feel it weakening like a zillion bees are singing the insides of my organs at the same time. It’s a horrible feeling. I loathe it.

Yet, I overlook it as I knock on the door of the Steele residence.

Hunter’s grandmother opens the door. Her eyebrows rise and then fall. “Oh, look who we have here…” She turns around. “Hunter, there’s a visitor for you!”

“Coming, Mee-mah.” He arrives at the door. His “mee-mah” disappears as if she knows we need time alone or something. First, he sees me. Then, he does the classic act of pretending to overlook my existence. “I swear I heard a voice here.” He scratches his head comically. “Hmm. Must be hearing things again.”

Just as he’s about to slam the door shut, I grab his elbow. He seems ready for it. Although it shouldn’t relieve me, I can’t help feeling a little happy. Merely, it means he wasn’t really going to slam the door in my face –he was just waiting for me to react to his tiny, unfunny skit. When he looks down at me and grins, I reach into my purse.

“Here.” I can’t meet his eyes. Instead, I hand him the band without a word. “I… I found this.”

“What?”

“I found this on the ground,” I repeat. “Since you lost it and all, I thought you might want it back.”

There’s silence. This causes my head to snap back up. Instead of me avoiding his eyes, he’s avoiding mine. His fingers run through all the stiches of the awfully coloured material, the texture horrible enough to blind a perfectly-sighted person. Maybe he feels a slight bump here and there. This makes me gulp. Of course he’ll be able to tell the difference; he’s been wearing that thing for several years in a row.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, not looking up from the band. He walks slowly through the corridor and takes a left.

I can no longer see him.

Finally, within minutes which seem like hours, he holds up two bands. “The funny thing is, I found my band. Would you mind explaining where you got this other one from?”

The smugness of his expression annoys me. He can tell mine’s not one bought from the shop. Also, I hate how his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. That’s what annoys me most of all: he’s smiling like he did to Caroline and Stacy –lightly and “I’m not a stranger, but not your friend either” kind of way. He didn’t used to smile like that. Not around me.

He really has changed.

By reflex, I leap and grab the hand-made one from his left hand. It’s obvious to tell which one’s machine-made and which one’s manmade because of the lack of perfection in Breena’s hands. Somehow, all the dents and the mistakes cause the imperfections to stay perfect.

“Maybe it was just some other person’s,” I hiss. “I don’t need to give you an explanation.”

“…You’re acting like Ortego again.”

“And you’re acting like an absolute jerk!”

I start walking away, catching my breath. But I’m not a walker –which is why I pick up speed and run all the way back home. The band is in my hand; my fingers wrapped around it like glue to paper. Why did I make it for him? What pushed me to the limit so I was desperate to get his attention?

Ugh, how embarrassing. I’ll never live this down.

Something which troubles me more than anything else is how he referred to Sarah by her last name. Ortego. Didn’t he used to, once upon a time, use her first name? Maybe they’ve adopted Japanese routines and using last names. Bitter thoughts overwhelm my mind. Maybe one day, after they’ve carved their name into a gravestone, they’ll start using each other’s first names.

Maybe I should’ve checked back to certify Hunter slammed the door in my face instead of assuming it. Because now, footsteps are pacing behind me.

Then I hear panting and a, “Wait… stop.”

I obey the voice. When I turn around, I see Hunter bending down and holding his knees, panting. He says something about being so unfit. Also, something about dessert being too good for him to resist and how his grandmother should be forbidden to ever bake chocolate cake again. Really, I think he’s having the closest thing to a mental breakdown to an ego-deflate.

“Hello, Hunter.”

When he finally catches his breath, he slowly stands up. He takes the band gently from my hand. “You made this?”

“No.”

He looks confused. “But–”

“Breena made it.”

“Oh.” He runs his fingers through the stiches. “At what price?”

“Control of the television for a whole couple of weeks.” I make a face. “Honestly, it’s no big deal. I didn’t know what I was doing and I guarantee you–”

“Bridgette’s back.”

Honestly, I’m surprised at him mentioning my first name than to say anything else. So for a long, awkward moment I just gape at him. He says something about flies being popular in summer. Then he gives a gruesome explanation about how they can multiply in my mouth, seeing as it’s the right temperature and mating conditions.

But all his words are going in our ear and coming out the other. Bridgette’s back. He doesn’t use Sarah’s first name anymore. I don’t mean to raise hopes about our friendship being back on track, however, it’s got to mean something. He said I’m back: and he wasn’t smug, annoyed or even bored at it. Relief’s dripping through every pore on his face.

My heart’s pounding. Why he has this effect on me, all of a sudden, I have no clue. And there’s one specific question on my mind. Although I don’t want to voice it, I also want to. If I don’t, my entire night’s sleep will be ruined.

So I ask it. “Why would you even want me back? I mean, what’s wrong with me acting like Sarah? You like her, right?”

“I like Ortego.” It’s a statement: I can’t help noticing he still uses her last name. He looks thoughtful. “But… I don’t know.”

“You must know. You were pretty desperate to date her a couple of weeks back.”

He gives me a lazy smile. “Do I detect a hint of jealousy?”

“No, I believe it’s just your brain making up rubbish.”

He rolls his eyes skywards. Then his expression turns to a serious one. “I don’t know how to put it: I didn’t like Sarah because of her personality, that’s for sure.”

“You didn’t?”

“No. I mean, sure, I told you once how I liked her independence but that’s about it. I don’t like how she criticises my opinion; I don’t like how she casually uses people; I don’t like how she never thinks of anybody but herself. I guess I liked the idea of her.”

It must be the longest speech I heard from him. My mouth’s slightly agape.

But he’s still going.

“I guess I remember all the good things about her. Then I somehow made up this whole new personality where she wears these positive things, but the truth is, she’s just the same. She tries to stand above us all; she tries to control us. But she’s equally helpless. She’s just the same as everyone else.”

I clear my throat. “She doesn’t exactly have things easy at home, you know. Her mum’s always drunk; her stepfather’s just plain crazy.”

“So?” Hunter looks at me. “Life sucks. Now, you can’t tell me having a dead sister makes things easier for you.” He adds a “sorry” when I wince. “And I’m pretty much adopted and was a mistake, all at the same time. It doesn’t give either one of us the right to put other people down, just to bring ourselves up.”

“Wow. Are you some sort of inspirational talker?”

He groans. “Fine. You take the spotlight.”

“Happily. First and furthermore, I think Sarah’s not at fault –it’s mainly you. You had this perfect picture painted in her head, and since she didn’t meet your standards, you decided she was the bad guy.” He’s about to interrupt, but I continue first. “And secondly, you’re so a girl!”

“Am not!”

“Is too!”

“Whatever.” Deciding our argument isn’t going anywhere, he adds, “Wanna head down to Pete’s Ice Cream Parlour? My treat.”

I shrug. “Why not?”

The name’s exactly what it suggests. At the corner of the street is a small, multi-coloured building that looks like a shed rather than a building. Red velvet stools are evenly spaced out with a long bench in front. Some of the seats are occupied. Most of the people are talking, and there are always the occasional bunch who’re staring at the television with loneliness shielding their eyes.

“Oh, hey, Bridgette!” It’s Sandy Rutherford, the know-it-all. I give her a quick smile before resorting back to ordering a caramel sundae. “It’s Hunter! Hi there, Hunter.”

“Oh wow, she’s annoying,” I say.

“Stop the negativity! She’s a nice girl,” he replies, taking his strawberry sundae and my caramel sundae with a flash of his metal teeth. The girl behind the counter winks at him before serving the next customer. “And anyway,” he continues, “she only lives three blocks down. I’ve known her since, like, forever.”

“I’m so jealous.”

“You should be.” He digs into his strawberry sundae, ignoring the sarcasm in my voice. “She really is a nice girl.”

This is where I want to be stuck. Here. Frozen in time. If somebody ever invents a time-machine in my generation, I’ll stay at this moment. Stuck here among these weird people, all sharing the same interest in ice cream. With Sandy Rutherford making faces at small children, making them cry while their mothers scold them.

A couple more people from my school come into the parlour. Most people don’t stay here, due to some reviewer claiming rats roamed the place, but I get a lot of hellos and quick smiles. There are always more party invitations arriving in my backpack, which is already full, and I doubt I’d ever attend one. Still, the feeling of belonging is wonderful.

Most of all, I want to be stuck here with Hunter opposite of me, licking his dripping ice cream and acting as if strawberry isn’t a feminine flavour. It’s pink –and yet, he’s eating away at it with pride. This is also the moment where I realise popularity isn’t what it’s set out to be.

People think of it as some sort of instant thing where everybody’s chasing them; everybody’s trying to be like them. Unfortunately, that’s not what it’s like. There’s so much pressure. Along with the people who like me, I also build new enemies. People who I’ve never seen before; people who judge me before they know me.

Quite frankly, I’m starting to wish the whole popularity-thing could be over. I need some sort of distraction from my astonishing, enlightening talent-show performance. Just to get a break from all these smiles, these party invites, these random snippers of conversation throughout the hallways. After a while, it gets tedious. Annoying, even. An invasion of privacy? It’s all there.

Now I’m starting to, grudgingly, see what Sarah meant by her incredulous look. Although it’s nice to get attention sometimes, after a while, it gets old. Perhaps it’s because I’m shorter than most, I’m usually overlooked –perhaps that was the reason behind my obsessive desire to be known –acknowledged. After getting an idea of this type of life, I don’t have much to say. Really, it’s overrated.

Popularity isn’t that great.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

 We’re still at the ice-cream parlour.

It’s getting late, but I’ve already phoned Mum to tell her I’m not abducted by aliens… yet. She’s just happy to see me spending time with somebody instead of punching bags or running laps. Whether this should be taken as an insult, I have no clue, but I put the phone down with a cheery smile anyway.

“So.” I put my empty plastic cup down. Hunter points at my mouth, hiding a grin. I feel sticky ice cream smeared all over my face and laugh. “You never really answered my question: what’s wrong with having two Sarahs?”

“Besides that fact one of her is bad enough?” He rests his head on his elbow, spooning at his sundae-cup. “Hmm. I don’t know. Don’t get me wrong, your personality’s pretty bad too.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“But somehow, I prefer it over hers. You always cry and complain. You’re deathly stubborn. God forbid me from ever meeting the last person who got a point across to you –they’re probably six feet underground by now.”

“In a hospital bed, actually. Stuck with a coma. Becca helped me with that one.”

He blinks, as if not sure whether I’m joking or not. It’s really the former, but I love to see him confused. It reminds me I overestimate him most of the time. “Anyway, so you’re this really annoying chick who gets on everybody’s nerves. You’re impatient, angry and have some sort of hatred for everybody taller than you –a.k.a, the whole entire world.”

“Aren’t you just full of compliments today?”

“But in all honesty, I don’t know anyone who’d get their sister to sew a band –only because some guy was stupid enough to lose it. And to lose television privileges as well.”

 “By the way, the band doesn’t mean I like you. So don’t get ideas.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you wouldn’t give presents to somebody you hate, right?”

Damn, he’s good. I sigh. “Fine.”

“What I’m trying to say is, deep down inside –like, aside from the trauma and merciless irritation you put people through– you’re just a little girl with a big heart.” When he grins, there’s a glint in his eye. “Exaggerations on the little.”

He ruffles my hair.

“Hmph,” I reply, taking his arm and biting it.

Then he laughs.

An old teacher of mine once told me how a sound is perceived by how the person thinks. To elephant-obsessed Sarah, his laugh would be like a thousand elephants stuck in a trumpet and trying to break free. To Owen, his laugh would be a million footballs all heading towards his goal, resulting him in losing the game by countless points. To Hunter’s grandmother, it’d be like some weird government declared cooking was illegal.

His laugh’s so weird, all of the people around look at him. Some of them break away from their sundaes simply to glare at him. They’re disgusted by how he sounds as if choking and screaming at the same time –the screaming’s most likely for the pain of me biting his arm; it’s leaving a mark there.

But to me, it’s the most beautiful sound ever.

*

It shouldn’t make me feel giddy, but the fact he accepted my awfully-made band makes my entire morning.

I stretch my arms out along with my legs. Then I stop. Why am I so happy whether a certain person accepted something from me or not? Suddenly, I feel foolish. Embarrassed. Count on me to make the little things in life seem like a big deal. Just because he refers to me by my first name doesn’t change the fact I’m still his friend.

Then there’s another voice in my mind. One I try avoiding, but it bites at my brain. What do you mean by “still his friend”? My teeth clench as I try to fight it. But it somehow resists my internal war. What would be “more than his friend”? And why do you want it?

This voice is ignored. Even if I didn’t avoid the question, there’s no answer. How do I react to a question querying about my feelings? There’s no proper way for me to approach them. Certainly, this must be a sign of insanity. First there was the awful realisation of how I find Hunter’s laugh –quite possibly the sound slaughtering all of Amazon’s wildlife– beautiful.

And now, I’m talking to myself. Just by admitting this, another part of me expects a reply. What’s wrong with me? It must be the whole mind-reading thing taking a peak. Arthur must’ve done something to toy with my emotions. Isn’t having full control over who hears my thoughts bad enough?

In a way, I brought it on myself. When I had the chance, I should’ve wished for the whole mind-reading thing to disappear. If I never started hearing every thought running through that brain, I wouldn’t be in this situation, feeling brash and stupid.

Suddenly, the home-phone rings to interrupt any further thoughts.

 “Hello?”

 “Bridgette? It’s Sarah.”

 “Oh. Hi, Sarah.”

 “I tried calling you on your mobile, but it was unavailable.” There’s a pause. “Do you still leave if off? Even after what happened?”

I wince at her words. She doesn’t take notice. Instead, I reply with, “Yeah, I leave it off.” Strategically, I prevent any further discussion into the topic of “what happened.”

Unfortunately, Sarah Ortego can’t take subtle hints. “Anyway, how’re things on the Eva case?”

This is where I stand up. The minute I do, I’m facing a mirror on my dressing table. My face is ten years older. There are lines at the tips of my mouth and dark shadows under my eyes. Quite frankly, I’m the exact replica of Frankenstein’s bride. If some hideous monster jumped out of a book and claimed me as the most beautiful creature they’ve ever laid eyes on, I wouldn’t doubt them for a second.

To them, I’m family. To myself, I’m my worst nightmare. To the world, my head should be concealed under a plastic bag.

All because one person can’t take hints.

 “Sarah.” My voice is surprisingly confident. It’s loud, certain. “No offence, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

 “Oh.” There’s a pause. “I… I’m sorry, Bridgette. That was insensitive of me.”

I exhale loudly. A smile breaks through my face. “Nah, it’s okay.”

This is why Sarah’s still one of my closest friends. She’s overconfident, snobby and slightly haughty at her worst moments –but she’s always sensitive to other people’s feelings. When it’s clear, that is. She can’t take hints to save her life. But when people are as direct with her as she is with them, the whole relationship moves forward.

Somehow, I love that about her. Her logical set-mind, carefree personality and the ability to speak any argument with a lowered, calm voice and still win. I missed her while Hunter and I were still going through the, “Gee, do I have to know that? Can’t you keep your thoughts to yourself?” stage.

 “Wanna come over?”

My jaw drops. “Now?”

 “Sure. Why not? Just ask Barbara to drop you off at my place.” If possible, I hear her grin. “By the way, what’s up with that crazy sister of yours? Doomsday coming near? Any sudden volcanic explosions and natural traumas?”

 “Very close. Friday the Thirteenth is coming up. I guess we kind of all saw it coming; she marked in every Friday the Thirteenth for the next fifty years in a small notebook of hers, which she puts on the calendar every time we get a new one.”

 “She’s insane.”

I laugh. “Yeah, but she’s my driver. Insanity is a small price to pay. See you in fifteen.”

 “See ya.”

Clicking the phone shut, I resort to all my regular morning preparations. Throw random books into my bag, put on ankle supports, brush my teeth, gulp down a glass of orange juice –it gets tedious after a while. Especially when Mum gives me the same stern glare she gives every day, while informing me how terrible skipping breakfast is.

Then she embarrasses me by saying I shouldn’t worry about my weight. That although I might think I’m fat, starving myself won’t shed a few kilos. What am I supposed to say to that? So I don’t correct her –I pretend she’s right in me slowly starving myself to lose non-existent kilos. In fact, I’m almost underweight.

It’s just that I never feel hungry in the mornings. My dinners are, however, filled with random scraps of food. This makes all my sisters gape and wonder whether I’m a stray dog on the inside. I try my hardest not to stick my tongue out at them.

When I knock on Barbara’s room, she tells me to go in. In fact, judging by the intense dark shading of her eyes, I doubt she had a hint of sleep the previous night. Her mouth’s opening and closing like a goldfish. In fact, all this makes my stomach queasy –it’s kind of scaring me.

 “Barbara? Barb, you need to take me to school.”

 “Yes.” She picks up the crystal ball in her lap. Then, she places it on the table and gives me a wry smile as if to assure me. However, it has the opposite effect –how is she supposed to drive me to school? This smile slowly vanishes as she yawns. “I’ll just… take another nap.”

Before I can protest, she falls back in her comfy bed without another word. Her soft snoring echoes through the entire room. Not only will I feel bad for ruining her peaceful sleep, there’s no way I’d get in a car with a half-sleeping person.

When I get to the kitchen, Dad’s doing the buttons of his t-shirt. He sees me and grins. “Oh, look.” He does the classic act of shielding his eyes and rotating his head around. Finally, he gazes at the ground and waves. “It’s Bridgette!”

 “Ha-ha. You’re hilarious, Dad.”

 “I know. Shoulda been a comedian.”

 “Can you drive me to Sarah’s?”

He shrugs. “Sure. I woke up early. Even if it does take ten minutes for the detour, I’d still get there on time.”

Because he keeps his word, I’m able to jump out of the car in front of Sarah’s house. It’s the same. But somehow, I find it different. It’s an odd feeling. I’ve been here countless times before. Everything seems newer, shinier. Dazzling, almost.

 “Bridgette!” We exchange the secret handshake. “What’s up?”

 “Nothing much. Crazy old sister couldn’t get up. She probably stayed up the whole night.”

 “Oh? To be honest, I’m not surprised. I was kinda waiting for her to break down and show her true insane self.”

 “While you were waiting, I saw that side of her three years ago. She got a sample of my blood and made sure I wasn’t carrying the ‘devil’s blood.’ It was horrible.”

She shudders. “I can imagine.”

We’re at a cross-section between the streets. Right around there is where Hunter lives. I feel guilty because I’ve been to his house more recently than Sarah’s –it makes me wonder who I really consider my best friend. This must be was betrayal feels like. Or how “that girl” among a love-triangle reacts. Who will she choose? And at what cost?

Just thinking about it causes sniggers to escape my mouth. Why am I thinking about this? They’re both my best friends. Equally. Except one of them is a boy –it automatically means he lacks common sense and doesn’t know I consider him a friend. Telling him he’s one of my best friends won’t help the “you’re joking, aren’t you, McAdams?” retort bound to come out of his mouth.

 “Oh, look. It’s Sandy Rutherford’s house.”

My whole body instinctively turns away. That girl annoys me so much with her know-it-all attitude (although once Sarah pointed out that I may be jealous of her: I told her she needed a brain recap) and the ability to suck up to all teachers. While, at the same time, obtaining perfect posture in her ballet classes.

But something makes me turn around.

There’s a car in front. It’s a white car, however, as I creep closer to it, I realise the coat isn’t even all over. It’s clearly painted. It looks normal enough: there’s a small piece of paper tucked at the front, most likely a phone number; the brand is a small logo, proudly displaying itself.

What catches my eye is a dent on the headlights. Bite-like and original, causing it to stand out among cars bumping into poles or brick walls.

A dent I once saw in a photograph.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

My body is in position for the race.

 “Ready?”

No. I’m not ready. Why am I here? I should be beside Sandy Rutherford’s house, calling up the police to inform them of a possible suspect. My leg is slightly bent. I feel dizzy. Somehow, Sarah convinced me to walk away from the car. She said the whole thing was still a shock, and that I was just seeing things.

But I’m not seeing things. That was the car. I’d recognise that bump anywhere.

Why did I let her convince me to enter the race? Even after the million thoughts swarming my mind like pesky bees. Does she have this much power over me and my intentions?

 “Set?”

My leg feels numb. Not only does it feel awkward, I’m certain I can’t run. It’s one of those moments where running can’t save me. Something is pulling at my leg until I tire, unable to proceed with my daily tasks. The buzzing noise in my head doesn’t disappear. There’s only one thing I need.

I need justice.

 “Go!”

Hunter is beside me. The minute the teacher declares the signal, he’s off. There’s no denying the energy in his stride, the lightness of his feet. All I can do is stare at him. Even if there are fifteen other competitors, all running in front of me, I feel as if we’re the only two people in the world. It’s surreal.

Only when I realise how even Reid Milarty, who walks in the races only so because his mother forces him, is front of me, do I realise I’m not moving.

I curse under my breath and run. My leg still feels awkward. I’m not sure if I’ll make it to the front. To my surprise, none of my competitors trained heavily for this event. I bypass each of them easily, watching their puffing faces. My heart still manages to beat normally, although pumping a little more blood every few seconds.

When I’m in front of everyone, my vision stops at Hunter, running at a constant speed. He’s so far away. I can’t even see him. That’s when I boost off into a full sprint, catching up to him in merely a couple of minutes, and then continuing pacing at my normal speed.

There’s a teacher with an orange t-shirt on, grinning from ear-to-ear as she claps loudly. We’ve made the halfway mark. Normally, this is where I’d take a rest-stop and begin crying. Crying because there’s nothing in front of me to run to. And the poor teacher at the halfway mark would bend down and uncomfortably pat my hair –which has so many split-ends, it jabs them in the eye.

Then I’d scramble up before Hunter could catch up to me, winning the race once and for all. He always sees me from a distance, crying, and he once told me about how he rolls his eyes every time. But then he admitted, with a smile, that he looks up to me –because no matter how tough the situation is, I build a bridge and get over it.

However, this might be the exception. We’re running head-to-head, with nothing but the gleaming sun guiding our way. My vision’s getting blurry from all the tears I’m withholding. It suddenly occurs to me how much that cry at the mid-track is worth. Without it, I’m a watery mess.

Then it happens so fast. Suddenly, my ankle gives way. It doesn’t completely stop, but I feel a huge cramp in my thigh. And we’re no longer running head-to-head –Hunter’s in front of me, still jogging at that constant speed. Part of me is angry. Why doesn’t he turn around and help me out? But I know how, when somebody’s running with concentration, the entire world is out of reach.

I feel the abrupt change of wind as Naomi slides past me. Concentration is written all over her face. She doesn’t realise she’s in front of me –in fact, I’m willing to bet that look of concentration will be replaced with a smirk at the end of this race. But it doesn’t matter. Suddenly, running doesn’t matter so much.

So I jog to the end. I finish at third place, receiving a bronze medal for the first time.

 “Sheesh, Bridge,” says Barbara. She hands me a glass of red cordial. “You don’t look like you’ve even walked!”

 “Yeah, well, I kinda slowed down at the last minute.”

I’m distracted. All I want to do is get home. Another look at Sandy’s car is all I need –and the last thing people are willing to supply me. Why doesn’t anybody think like me?

She shakes her head. “This kids at this school are really unfit, eh?”

I grin. “Oh yeah.”

Then I take my glass of cordial and tap Naomi on the shoulder. “Congrats! Second place!”

That’s right. I’ll congratulate everyone and run home. Or catch a bus. I need to find that car.

She flicks her hair. “I know. It’s awesome, isn’t it?” But she loses the pompous attitude and says in the same, normal Naomi voice, “Good job to you. Third place. How does that feel?”

 “I feel as if I coulda done better.”

She grins. “Whatever. Either way, you’ve got competition next year.”

I grin in return –it’s mainly forced. But there’s only one person left who I need to congratulate.

To my annoyance, I can’t find him anywhere. I look through the school, the buildings and find only some students getting ready for their next class. On days we have cross-country, we still have school –but my parents are considerate enough to let me come home.

 “Tell me about this school, Hunter,” a voice of a little boy says. “Aunty Mel said you would.”

The voice is coming from the room on my left. Instead of intruding, I lean against the wall and listen. That sudden feeling of urgency is gone. The car can wait. And just this feeling alone makes me grimace, because there’s a small detail in my life I wanted to ignore. But I can’t, can I?

I have a crush on this freakishly-tall, annoying, weird and clumsy boy. He has no idea, because clueless is among his many personality quirks.

 “I dunno what to tell you… This is a Christian school, I guess?” There’s a bang. “Hey, stop that! Ethan! Stop it! Now, put that chair back where you got– No, don’t give me that attitude.” There’s a plopping sound of a chair. “Throwing a chair at me? Are you trying to kill me?”

The room erupts in giggles. Just not Hunter’s. “Tell me about this school.”

 “Fine. But only if you don’t throw any more objects at me. Promise?”

 “Promise.”

 “Okay. I’ll tell you the story they told us on our first day…”

And of course, I know immediately what this story is. But I still can’t find the heart to walk in. My insides are all swelled up; clashing together, almost. I’m suddenly realised it’s not so much the right-timing that’s preventing me from entering, it’s the fact I’ll be staring at Hunter. And he’ll look back. Just the thought of him talking to me makes me all tingy and shaky.

I’ve never been like this before. I’m the one who sets the first impressions with my shortness and straightforwardness. People look at me as an example of how not every short person is sweet and innocent –some can be as vicious as snakes. Suddenly, I’m the one sitting back quietly as Hunter does weird skits with Caroline and Stacy, who can’t help laughing.

It occurs to me how much I’ve changed. I’ve become more like him; just like he became more like me. Of course, he still hasn’t realised this. So I’m left with this information. One that involves both of us being each other. And it’ll be tucked in my soul forever, because I can’t even stay in the same room as him.

Suddenly, I’m wishing we could read each other’s minds again.

 “There was a robber. He would steal from people on the spot, because he had no job and a family to feed. He was well-known for his heinous crimes,” begins Hunter. “One day, he pulled a gun to a man. The man was pious and had a slight smile on his face. He said, ‘All these crimes you’re committing –do you realise that it’s worthless? You’re disloyal to God. Your family’s not going to be responsible for your actions.’

 “The man, refusing to believe the pious man, snorted. ‘Nice try,’ he said. ‘I know that you’re going to escape if I try and confirm it.’ The man promised he wouldn’t. And just to make sure, the robber tied him with rope.”

 “This is boring,” whines Ethan, the sound of kicking filling my ears.

 “Hold on, haven’t finished yet.” Hunter clears his throat. “The robber went home and asked his family if they were responsible for their actions. He didn’t get the answer he wanted. His wife said, ‘You married me –it’s your responsibility to feed me. How you do that is completely up to you.’ His children said, ‘Why would we be responsible for anything you do? It’s your problem, not ours.’

 “Astounded by the response, the robber went back to where he tied the man with rope. To his amazement, he found the man bowing down and praying. He broke free of all the ropes, but kept his promise. The robber bowed his head, confirming it. ‘I have sinned,’ he said.

 “The man smiled and looked at the sky. He then found a small dead branch. ‘When this dead branch forms a flower, you will be forgiven.’ The man accepted this. He prayed, he cried, he asked for forgiveness. He donated money, got a proper job and did everything in the path of religion.”

I find myself sinking to the ground, my knees to my chest. Just a little while longer before this story finishes. Maybe I’ll talk to him then. But the story itself made me remember the very first day of school, and how a priest started this story. He finished it, but I didn’t remember the ending –I was too busy talking to surrounding friends.

Hunter, however, heard the whole story from start to finish.

 “One day, he saw a man at the graveyard. This man was digging holes and breaking coffins open, stealing the white cloth of the dead. The robber felt outraged –how low did the man sink, stealing clothes from dead people?– and got a shovel, whacking the man dead. The man was sure he sinned. But when he saw the dead branch, he saw it was no longer dead. A flower bloomed.”

The story was over. Ended. Finished. Even after so many years, I still haven’t found the moral of this narrative. It was such a weird, unreadable tale. A part of me emerges, and suddenly, I’m not engrossed in Hunter’s story anymore. All my patience disappears, and all I want to do is get home and make sure I wasn’t seeing things with the dent of that car. My heart’s beating faster. Why am I still here?

 “That was booooring,” grumbles Ethan. “What does it even mean?”

There’s a small electric shock running through me. And suddenly, I knew. It’s like something struck me –possibly a form of thunder, except without the storm.

I walk in the room, not taking notice of Hunter’s surprised expression. “I reckon it means that forgiveness comes when you least expect it. And how if you have good intentions, everything’s okay in the end. The robber murdered that man because he wanted to protect the dead. Although murdering wasn’t the best option, it was all due to his good intentions.”

Ethan looks at me with his blue eyes. Maybe they wouldn’t be so blue without the contrast of his tanned skin. Then he cocks his head, as if intelligently thinking. Finally, he says, “You’re really short. I’m willing to bet I’m taller.”

Hunter cracks up laughing and only stops when I glare at him. Even so, his giggles haven’t submerged. After getting his breath back, he turns to Ethan with a lazy smile. “She might be short, but she knows exactly what she’s talking about.”

When he winks at me, I have a hard time not blushing. This annoys me. Especially the recognisation of his power over me. If he asked me to stay here for the next century or so, I probably would –just to be around him.

What a sickening, horrible and irritating realisation.

I hate crushes.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The police say they’d investigate the case.

It’s the best response we got, as we huddled beside the telephone. Mum is clutching at my arm so tightly, doubts about whether I’ll see sunrise tomorrow overwhelm me. Dad’s beside me, his heavy breathing halted for once.

Everybody else is at university, unaware of the changed circumstances.

Finally, the phone clicks dead.

 “Thanks for telling us, Bridge,” says Mum, holding me tightly. “I know how teens are all locked up in their own world –heck, I was like you when I was my age. But there are some stuff we need to know right away; things we don’t want you to be involved in.”

She buries her face in my hair. Two days ago, I’d push away in embarrassment of the intimacy, but today I’m sitting as still as a potato. Not that my current state of shock would allow me to do anything else. Instead, I play with my fingernails, pretending not to see how low my dad’s head is sunken.

I know exactly what he’s thinking. Even if Sandy Rutherford’s family is involved with the murdering of Eva McAdams, it doesn’t change the fact she’s dead. Dead. She’s never coming back. So who cares who the murderer is? We just want somebody to blame for the death of somebody we loved. We want some sort of justice done.

Even if it means a tiny jail sentence –something which doesn’t even compare to getting the eldest sister/daughter back– is given to the murderer. Honestly, justice isn’t served. Honestly, I believe the police won’t even search for somebody, especially someone involved in a crime so long ago. This isn’t a fancy murder case anymore; it’s merely a boring task of detective work.

Nobody’s going to do that. Not for us, anyway.

 “I’m just gunna go out for a run,” I say.

Neither of them stop me. So I dash out the door, straight down the rocky, bumpy road to town. I keep a constant pacing. Normally, I’d think about things like what Mum’s making for dinner. But today’s different. My mind is, grudgingly, set on a boy with braces and an annoying new personality –one reminding me too much of myself.

I hear a sudden voice in my head.

Hey, Bridgette, can you hear me?

Hell has entered.

I steer away from all thoughts about him. Especially not my lovesick obsessions, because not only would it be a waste of time and effort, he’d also get a big head. And having a crush on a guy with a big head will only lead to him living a short life, due to the compressing of tumours in his brain.

So I stay casual. Well, my type of casual, which involves hysterically laughing and nervously stuttering, Yeah, I can hear you. Why wouldn’t I be? Is there any reason?

Have you heard a weird sort of biting noise lately? It’s annoying me so much.

Care to describe it?

It’s like a shark’s trying to bite my head off.

There’s a pause. He sighs. Yeah, I didn’t think you’d have heard it. I’m just gonna ring Arthur and ask him.

A minute passes by. I can hear his breathing. Suddenly, it’s not so much an exchange of thought than dialogue. Whenever he wants to talk, I can hear him; whenever I want to talk, he can hear me. It’s like the mundane conversation through a telephone. We no longer have supernatural powers other than not requiring reception on mobile phones/landlines.

Although the question strikes my mind, it answers itself immediately. Obviously, we have no secrets from one another. We’re pretty good friends –even if I want to be more, while he fails to notice my intentions. How frustrating. Maybe I should get a permanent marker and write it all over my forehead.

Then again, Hunter can suddenly declare to being illiterate, and I’d have to read it out to him. Which pretty much fails the whole purpose of writing it down.

So while I’m running, I’m thinking of many unfriendly thoughts. Not in the aspect of mean, but more in the aspect of out-of-friendship thoughts. What would it be like to hug him? And just the thought alone sends a series of shudders down my back, while I shake my head violently, trying to get the inappropriate thoughts out of my mind for good.

It’s bad enough I’m thinking these thoughts. It’s a worse situation when there’s a possibility of him reading my mind. For all I know, Arthur can suddenly decide he needs a little more spark in the air, and remove the barrier separating our thought-exchange from a casual phone-call.

I hear Hunter’s voice again. I asked Hunter what it meant.

Yeah?  This is usually where I start puffing. Halfway through town, where my running is a little more half-paced. To my surprise, I manage another twenty metres before the puffing begins. Accomplishment. What did it mean?

It meant you were thinking of me.

How I manage to keep running is beyond me. Sweat breaks through my neck, but it has nothing to do with the raging heat. Or the glistening sun. Or any factors in my current environment. Instead, it’s a breakage of swear relating to fear. What’s going to happen now? Is he going to find me out? Will Arthur ever stop being creepy?

Instead, his voice is unexpectedly quiet. I guess I’m kinda flattered. But also kinda scared.

Why would you be scared?

Perhaps I’m the one ready to dig my own grave, but he has no excuse to be frightened. I’m the one with a hopeless crush on him. Of course, I don’t voice this fact aloud.

Because I always counted on you. He sighs. Yeah, yeah. It’s embarrassing. (Really? I have a feeling admitting to love a monster such as Hunter breaks the humiliation scale, but that’s probably just my opinion.) I always looked to you on how to act, how to speak. You always came first. You always made a first impression with your shortness. You stood out, even if it wasn’t for the right reasons.

Are you kidding me? There’s no way I can run anymore. I find the nearest bench a couple of metres away, and take my seat there. You are the popular one. You have all the privileges. I’m just your good old–

Don’t you dare say “nobody.” Seriously, Bridgette, stop being so negative. It’s pissing me off. The way he’s speaking to me. It’s exactly how I speak to him. Well, how I once spoke to him –now, my personality has changed for the worse. Still, I can’t help gawking a little at his assertive attitude. You spend all this time thinking nobody likes you. And maybe that’s true: maybe you’re not exactly well-liked because you never show your true personality. But you know what? At least you’re not fake.

I snort. As if you’d understand. You know what, don’t dwell on situations and things you don’t know about. You’ve never been unpopular. You can’t ever empathise with me.

Whatever. But I do know one thing: it was a huge mistake of mine to let you sing that popularity-gaining song. Seriously, what was I thinking? That’s not you.

And this new, confident person who suddenly overpowered the old popular but socially-awkward Hunter isn’t fake?

There’s a pause. And an exasperated yet defeated sigh.

I hate it when you’re right. Tell you what: when we go to school tomorrow, promise me you’ll act like the old Bridgette.

Me promise you? What about you?

Fine. I promise I’ll act like my old and true self again.

Deal?

Deal.

Maybe this is what I like about him. For some reason, I can’t stop the usage of my impatient tongue around him. Telling him how promises should be returned and how he doesn’t understand me. Any other girl with a crush would feign a smile and admit problems she doesn’t have.

I’m not any other girl. Maybe this will make the whole journey of getting Hunter to notice me a little more complicated. It might take a lot of getting used to, seeing me as more than a friend. Heck, he probably sees me a little cry-baby of a sister –which is a horrible image to withhold, but possibly accurate with my reactions to life.

But we understand each other. I shout out what I really think, and he agrees. It dawns on me how he usually agrees –in fact, it’s a minority of the time where he chooses to argue with me. Even so, it’s on little things that nobody cares about, such as which cartoon is better or preferences in ice-cream flavours.

I guess it’s proof he really does look up to me.

*

As promised, I do my very best to return to the old Bridgette.

The one who cared who everybody thought about her, but didn’t try and change her ways. This Bridgette thought the whole world was the problem for not liking her, instead of ever considering maybe her personality alone was driving away any possible acquaintances.

Suddenly, it’s like fitting back into an old body. This must be what a crab feels like if it gains weight and requires a new but uncomfortable shell. Perhaps when the creature loses weight once more, he’ll find himself racing back to his old shell. The old, familiar one.

Instead of starting up conversations with everybody, only to have them return the gesture a couple of hours or days later, I keep to myself. I only smile when people talk to me, and like the old Bridgette, keep my head up high –as if I’m too busy to talk to anybody. People get the idea quite quickly, and though there are still hellos, they’re half-hearted.

Soon, the numbers of greetings are down to a maximum of five per day. It took a whole week to get here.

All this returning-back-to-my-old-self work was making me exhausted, so I feast on an apple and head towards the girls’ toilet to check up on my hair. Whenever summer attacks, my hair goes all dry and tends to look more frizzy than usual. I’m not the type of girl to dwell by the mirror, but there are always desperate cases.

A girl is standing next to another one. I recognise them as two girls who Hunter sometimes says hello to. Granted, there are a lot of girls he says hello to.

 “He really changed, didn’t he?” says one, applying more lip-gloss and ultimately puckering her lips.

 “Who, Hunter?”

 “Yeah. I mean, he said hello and everything. But it no longer seemed genuine. His smiles didn’t reach his eyes. He looked kinda occupied; like he wanted to be somewhere else.”

That’s because he’s shy, I feel like screaming, and I find myself realising it’s not true. No, he’s not shy. He’s just quiet because he’s afraid of getting too close to people. It dawns on me how contrasted we are.

 “Really? I thought he looked the same,” says the second one, tugging at her scarlet locks. “Maybe I’m not as observant as you, Gin.”

She grins. The lip-gloss have full-effect, and shine a little too brightly. “Only figured that one out?”

They walk out, occupied in their own conversation to cast me a side-glance. I guess I’m kind of relieved, because many people see Hunter and I as closely-related people with the whole running-addiction and the sudden popularity among the both of us. Oh, and how we were pretty much scoffing down the entire food-table at the talent-show, once upon a time.

The minute I check my reflection, I recognise something’s not right. The person looking back at me is missing something. Not something vital like teeth or eyebrows, but just something.

Then I realise it.

It’s my earrings. Technically not my earrings, but the pearl ones Eva bought. She then concluded they looked better on me, and I had a new present for my birthday. Back then, I wailed and grumbled about how second-hand-things should be forbidden as presents. Now, I can’t imagine a life without those plain pearl earrings, with tiny little cracks from overuse.

And now they’re gone.

I head out of the bathroom and scramble through the hallways, my eyes fixed on the floor. It’s got to be somewhere. The earrings were pretty big. Surely somebody would use some common sense and not step on them. The thought alone causes a strike of pain in my chest. Oh no, now I’m getting a heart attack.

Which is overdramatic and not even accurate, but everything seems out of proportion today. A lot of things are happening. Way too fast.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and spin around.

 “Hey.” It’s Owen. “I wanna give you these.” He hand me my peal earrings with a smile.

 “Thanks,” I call out, surprised, but he’s already walking away.

How strange.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Things don’t seem that peculiar when I see Hunter behind a bin.

He notices me staring at him, and ducks. I still see his dark hair peeking out from over the bin. He obviously has no future at being a ninja. Although I have the impression he’d be good for peekaboo at a young level.

 “What’d you give him?”

 “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He starts walking off into the hallway and out the door.

I grab his arm. “I know Owen. He’s a huge believer in the finders-keepers theory. There’s no way he’d ever agree to giving something he finds unless he gets something in return.”

He breaks free from my grip. “Sheesh, Bridgette. Let it go. Can’t you believe people can change sometimes?”

 “Yeah, I believe people can change. Just not Owen.” Then I notice his arm. “Where’s your ugly band?”

 “Sport band, which energises all the power to the maximum.” He holds up his fist as if it’s some sort of national anthem. I exhale loudly. “Okay, fine. You caught me. He found them, I knew they were yours, so I gave him a sport band in return.”

He sits down on one of the many the benches outside. I mimic him.

I narrow my eyes. “Which sport band?”

 “Thankfully, the store-bought one. I had the feeling you’d be stabbing me endlessly with a knife if I gave him that handmade one. Turns out I was right.” He grins at me. The grin soon dims into a smile. “Jokes aside, I gave it to him. Plus, I already have your awfully handmade one –I don’t need two.”

Before I’m using my conscience to think, I step forward and hug him. He seems startled at first but then pats my head. No, he’s still startled. And obviously a little awkward at how straight he’s standing, as if he can’t move his body without crushing me into tiny little pieces. Sensing his uncomfortableness, I pull away quickly.

Fortunately, he cuts me off before I can offer him an awkwardly worded “I’m sorry I hugged you” apology.

Unfortunately, what he cuts me off with is yet another short-joke.

 “Thank God we were sitting down. If I was standing up, you’d be hugging my ankles.”

I whack him playfully with my fist. He still flinches anyway.

 “You’re still such a girl.”

 “I’d rather be a girl than a savage beast.”

 “Don’t worry about choosing between options, ‘cause you’re already both.”

We crack up laughing. A few heads turn our way, but the gazes are quickly diverted. Nobody looks at us for too long. It might be perceived as a contagious disease; laughing like an idiot until our lungs feel like collapsing. My heart’s beating so fast, it’s abnormal. It’s not exactly the laughing but the presence of Hunter. Just there.

It makes me so lightheaded and dizzy. I’m a teenager. And there’s always one person who I’m crazy about. I just never expected to like somebody so quickly –I always supposed my relationships with males consisted around the same as Becca’s, which included knocking down her old ex-boyfriends and recruiting new romantic partners with developed biceps and thighs.

Unfortunately, I’m like everybody else in the romance department. I’m all gooey and unable to stand on my two feet. Suddenly, all that talk about not being Hunter’s Damsel in Distress seems unnecessary, because it seems nice to be saved once in a while.

Ugh, what am I even saying? That creep Arthur might–

You should really stop blaming me for everything in your life, says a bored voice. It takes me a while to realise it’s not my own. It’s a familiar voice of a very creepy person. I am so not creepy! I’m your religious teach, yo. Learn some respect, ‘cause I got none for you ‘til you got some for me. Word.

If that horrible replica of rapping isn’t enough to make innocent bones rattle, I don’t know what is.

 “Guess what?” says Hunter, taking my mind off Arthur.

I swear, every-time that guy smiles, a kitten dies somewhere in the world.

That so does not happen! There’s a pause. I’ve checked.

Ignoring him, I reply to Hunter with, “What?”

 “I’m getting my braces off tomorrow!” He grins, revealing his metallic teeth. It’s kind of sad thinking it’s the last time I’ll ever see him with braces –unless I’m to unleash the horrors of school photos and torture him with them. But that won’t happen. Not while I’m obsessing over him, anyway. “Everything’s going according to plan.”

 “Everything’s going according to plan?”

 “This year seems so much easier than last year. Granted, it’s probably because Louis –my grandmother’s best friend’s son– died, and his wife, Rose, was heartbroken. And though it might not seem like much, it really tore up my own life. I wasn’t used to grandma shedding a tear, and there she was, babbling like a baby because she lost Louis. Not that I don’t blame her, ‘cause she watched Louis grow up.” He turns to me slightly. “Sorry, am I boring you?”

 “Nah, not at all.” I do have to admit, however, I’d rather be sleeping in a warm comfy bed. But nobody gets their first preferences, do they? “Although it does explain your relationship with Ethan.”

 “Believe it or not, Ethan’s actually Aunt Rose’s son.”

 “Oh?”

 “Yeah. Except he sees me calling Rose as ‘Aunt’ –well, not in biological terms, but me and Aunt Rose are pretty close– and so he learnt off me.” He leans back. “I just fed you a whole minute’s worth of useless information. Have a wonderful, productive day.”

 “Why am I even friends with you?”

 “’Cause you love me.” He smiles at me. It’s weird, because yesterday he would’ve winked. But today he’s himself –it’s kind of shocking how much he’s changed, and how I’m only noticing differences because I’ve started looking for them.

Yet, I blush anyway with his little joke which hits too close to home. “Whatever.”

 “I guess what I’m trying to say is,” he says, leaning back, “that tomorrow’s going to be a great day. And not only because it’s the last day of school before summer vacation.”

*

Tomorrow, however, isn’t a great day for me.

First off, I wake up late because of a power shortage in the middle of the night. My electricity-powered alarm clock automatically turns off and I’m left without a ringing sound to remind me it’s morning. School starts in fifteen minutes, and it takes around half an hour to get there.

So Mum calls up the school, letting them know I’ll be late, and I hop next to Barbara in the car. She seems a lot more energised than the last time I asked her to drive me. Which is a pretty good indicator. As it turns out, she was running some sort of hocus-pocus sleep test which I didn’t care enough about to request more info.

 “Having a good week, Bridge?”

She’s steering the wheel with both hands. Her elbows are trembling, as if ready to spring out and save herself any minute. Barbara did some sort of internet quiz on how she’s going to die. She actually did it around eleven times, and some of the main “causes” were car-accidents, plane-crashes and slipping on bananas. I’ve never seen her eat the curved yellow fruit since.

 “Oh, you know. The usual.”

Barbara then pulls over into a parking space. Completely at random. While I’m about to inquire on what she’s doing –especially when I’m already late in going to school– she hands her mobile to me. She tells me to dial a three-digit number, and without looking at me, she says it’s voicemail.

We both know why it’s important to check voicemail.

When I go through her messages, I’m surprised at how there’s one from Sarah.

 “Hey, Bridgette. Yeah, hi. It’s me, Saz.” Her voice is so shaken up. I’ve never heard it like this. “I… I need to talk to you. Badly. But I don’t want to speak through the phone. So I’m gonna meet you in the morning, okay? I know how you always get there early and all. So. Bye.”

I curse internally. The one day of her entire life Sarah needs somebody to depend on, I’m not there. How could this happen? So I ask Barbara to speed up –and for her, speeding up is going one more kilometre per hour, but

it’s still better than nothing. She doesn’t understand the urgency of this call. She probably thinks Sarah’s always whiny and needs people to talk to.

But that’s not like her. Sarah never needs somebody to talk to. She’s always the one dishing out advice on a silver platter –although her words are a little too brutal and bluntly told, and usually taken in an offended manner.

When I get to school, everybody’s in classes. I somehow run through the classrooms until I find the right one, but not digesting any new material. My mind’s on Sarah. And only until break-time do I find the opportunity to come in a three-metre radius among her.

Unfortunately, I didn’t need to.

I see her sitting at a bench, about two away from the one Hunter and I sat at yesterday. And she’s not alone. She has the boy of my dreams, nodding and touching her lightly on the shoulder. Then they inch towards each other until they’re engrossed in a hug that goes for at least five beats.

I feel sick. It’s the kind of hug nobody can slip a toothpick between the two of them. And a level of intimacy banned globally in religion-orientated countries. Here I am, witnessing two of my friends hugging. Without me. Leaving me behind.

My hands clench. My jaw trembles before finally falling, and I’m breathing deep gasps of air. I lick my lips, aware of how dry they are.

I know one girl who’ll be crying this summer vacation.

And when the bell rings, I make sure the boy involved knows. I’ve had enough of this. Whatever relationship Hunter and Sarah have, I don’t like it. Mainly because I want both of them to myself. Heck, if it wasn’t for my outrageous ideas of “stop being a girl, Hunter, ask her out” between exchanged thoughts, they might still be acting as friends.

Only because I’m Bridgette McAdams, I let him know by grabbing his arm when the bell rings. Students scoot past from either side of us, but we stay in the one spot. We’re not moving.

 “I like you.”

This automatically produces a raised eyebrow from Hunter. “Gee, I know you love me and all. How can you not? I’m absolutely–”

 “No. Not as a friend. The other way.”

There’s a pause. Mr Grimmit (although most of the students call him Grinch behind his back) is yelling at children to get to class and quit wasting time. His beady eyes flash at Hunter and I, so we pretend to head towards the lockers. It clearly ruins the dramatic moment I’ve hoped for.

When a whole minute passes without a response, I decide to speak up once more. “You… you don’t like me back, do you?”

 “No.” He doesn’t appear awkward or uncomfortable, but just exasperated. It suddenly dawns on me this wouldn’t be his first confession. He probably has an entire response planned out and a secret technique to make the

broken-hearted girl feel much better. He’s about to give me the whole explanation. “You see, you’re a great person–”

 “Save it. And don’t talk to me again.”

With those words hanging in the air, I race off to my next classroom. A part of me is buzzing. What have I done? Will I survive a life without speaking to him? Possibly not. And stupid old me asked him to keep a promise I can’t keep myself. How typical of Bridgette McAdams.

When the bell rings for home-time, I walk past Arthur’s office. He’s cackling with The Grinch, and I automatically have another perspective of what his friends are like. Looking surprised to see me, he approaches me but I simply tell him to cut off all forms of mental communication between Hunter and I.

This confuses him. But he doesn’t say so –he doesn’t need to, because it’s written all over his face. Then, he grimaces before granting the wish. I don’t notice any difference. But I’ll know it when I never hear his voice in my head once more.

I need time to get over him. The idea of “us” clearly isn’t going to happen. So once I stop seeing him as a potential romantic partner, I’ll go back to him. We’ll sort it out. We’ll talk like we used to, when we were friends.

Perhaps I’m being overdramatic and childish. But I can’t stand to get hurt again. The idea of another person choosing someone else over me. Sarah already did that at the start of this year –I don’t know who she is anymore, whether she considers Owen a better then than me. It hurts. Been there, done that.

I don’t want a repeat of the incident.

That night, I’m surprised by my phone ringing. A part of me is jumping up and down, hoping it’s Hunter.

My happiness fades quickly when I hear Sarah’s voice.

 “Hey, Bridgette.”

 “Oh. Hi.”

 “Hunter told me about… you know.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. How dare he tell someone about my exposed feelings? I’m just about the deny the whole thing. Tell her it’s all lies: I don’t have romantic feelings for him at all. It’s just a phase. Maybe I can convince her it’s an April Fool’s joke.

But she interrupts my thoughts with a, “He pointed out to me how you always considered yourself my best friend, and how you might’ve been hurt when you saw him hugging me. He thought you might’ve felt as if you were replaced.”

Huh? I thought I’d been replaced, but not in that way.

Perhaps I shouldn’t inquire to avoid arousing suspicion, but my tongue can’t help it: I ask the one-million-dollar question. “Are you and Hunter dating?”

To my surprise, she snorts. “Nah. Way past that. He said, and I quote, that ‘there’s some idiot girl who’d spend her entire summer crying if I dated you. Though I shouldn’t really care, things wouldn’t feel right. I’d have to sleep with one eye open, just in case she jumps through my window and attacks me. So, um, sorry.’” She does the perfect imitation of his voice. “Can you believe that? What a girl! Anyway, I’ve moved onto Owen. He’s much more mature, intelligent…”

She drones on, but I don’t hear a single word she says.

I put the receiver down to catch my breath.

EPILOGUE

The police found Eva’s murderer.

It wasn’t Sandy Rutherford like I suspected, but her uncle who regularly drove by. The police were a little reluctant to my observation, claiming a lot of cars have similar dents, but still checked anyway. I was right. Sandy’s uncle confessed to the murdering and is in prison. As it turns out, he was sorry for our loss, but it doesn’t quite cut it.

Just because he was on drugs at the time of the killing doesn’t mean he’s innocent. He shouldn’t have taken them in first place.

My hands are wrapped around a cordless phone. Hunter has been keeping his promise for a whole week, avoiding me when we go training for track. He never used to run so seriously; now, however, it’s like his entire perspective has changed.

But I’m about to break the promise myself.

The phone rings. Once, twice. It goes straight to voicemail, and I’m just about to disconnect the line when I hear a familiar, “Hello?”

My heart’s beating, and my lips are sealed as if they can’t move. No sound escapes them.

“Hello? Is this a prank call? ‘Cause if it is, joke’s on you, ‘cause you’re the one with a running fridge.”

 “It’s me, Bridgette.”

 “Oh.” There’s a pause. “Don’t I feel stupid for the whole fridge joke?”

 “Yeah. You should. Listen, Eva’s murderer has been found.”

 “You serious?”

 “Uh-huh. And guess what? They guilty-party was Sandy Rutherford’s uncle.”

 “Whoa. What a small town. And I’m still really sorry for your loss.” There’s a pause. “I know this is gonna sound girly–”

 “You don’t have to worry, ‘cause you always sound like a girl.”

 “Thanks for the heads up. But I miss talking to you. Not just through our mind, but just talking normally to you.” Another awkward silence. I’m waiting for him to continue; he’s waiting for me to interrupt. “We really need to talk.”

 “We do. But face-to-face.”

 “I’m coming within an hour. Expect me, okay?”

He hangs up the line before I reply. Becca is in her room, crying. It’s weird to see her so down, big whale-tears rolling down her cheeks and her eyes all red and puffy. I can’t imagine her being upset. But the news about the murderer set her off the normal level. She’s hysterical.

To my surprise, Barbara’s the one hugging her and comforting her. I always assumed the idea of sitting too close and risking deathly viruses meant more to her, but I guess I never truly know anyone.

Not even my own sisters.

As time ticks by, I can’t help looking back at how many things changed this year. Summer vacation is approaching. An entire year has passed, nevertheless, with us reading each other’s minds.

If none of it happened, Hunter wouldn’t have found courage to ask Sarah out. I wouldn’t have a taste of what popularity feels like. He would still strike people as friendly but distant. I’d come first; he’d come second, without all my brilliant training. My eyes wouldn’t be following him wherever he goes, like the moon trailing behind a car.

Things would’ve been so much different. Without Arthur, admittedly, I wouldn’t ever consider a teacher as anything more of “lame.”

Thank you, says a smug Arthur in my mind. It suddenly dawns on me he can read my every thought also. He’s so creepy. I’m just that awesome. Don’t call me creepy: you know you love me.

Actually, I kind of don’t.

And yet, you found no need to deny it when Hunter said it to you?

Shut up. Anyway, “we” are never going to happen.

I wouldn’t hold that conclusion. God works in mysterious ways.

I let those words hang in the air. Although I still don’t believe in all this religion trash, I still can’t ignore the fact Hunter and I could exchange thoughts once upon a time. There’s no logical explanation for this –it’d baffle scientists, and they possibly won’t believe us.

Suddenly, I hear Breena say, “Look, there’s some kid running towards this building. Is he stupid? Who runs in this heat?”

I can think of one person.

So I race down the stairs, deciding my theory was completely wrong. Hunter doesn’t always run away, and I don’t always run towards. We’re different people, yes, but we have the same destination of peace. Maybe one day he’ll return my unrequited love for him. Perhaps we’ll suddenly find we’re able to exchange thoughts for another year.

Despite having supernatural abilities to comprehend a particular’s person thoughts, I can’t tell the future. There’s no point worrying about something I can’t control or plan to absolute precision.

So I stick to the one thing I can do.

I run all the way out the door.