Boundless
Page 22
“You never agreed to that,” I point out. “You had the biggest secret of us all, and you never breathed a word.”
“Is there anything else I don’t know?” he asks, ignoring my very good point about his blatant hypocrisy. “Besides the stuff with this Phen guy that you can’t tell me about?”
“I saw my dad,” I say. “But this only happened yesterday, okay? I was going to tell you today. Right now, as a matter of a fact. See, I’m telling you.”
Christian pulls back, surprise all over his face, his mind reeling with it in a way that makes me feel surprised all over again by what happened. “Your dad? Michael?”
“No, my other dad, Larry. Yes, my dad, Michael. He said he’s been given”—I inflate my voice to sound all authoritative and official—“the task of training me. We went back to my house and spent a couple hours in the backyard whacking each other with broomsticks.”
“You were in Jackson yesterday?” Christian looks dazed. He’s in that phase where he’s repeating everything I say because he can’t process it fast enough. “Training?” he says. “Training you to what?”
I become aware that we’re sitting in a public place and we shouldn’t be openly discussing any of this. I shift to talking in his mind. To use a sword.
His eyes widen. I look away, sip the last dregs of my cold coffee. The enormity of what I just told him—that I’m going to be expected to use a sword, too, to fight, maybe even to kill somebody—is really settling in for the first time.
This is the part where my life becomes all apocalyptic, I think.
Which sucks, quite frankly. I remember how good it felt to help Amy that night, to use my power to fix her ankle even the little bit that I did. How happy I was with the idea that I could use my power to heal hurts and right wrongs. Now it all feels like a silly pipe dream. I’m going to fight. Possibly die.
You were right, I say bleakly. We’re never going to be allowed to live normal lives.
I’m sorry, Christian says. He wishes something better for me, something easier.
I shrug it off. It’s what we’re supposed to do, right? Maybe that’s our purpose, to become fighters. That makes sense, if you think about it. Maybe it’s what all the Triplare are meant for. We’re like warriors.
Maybe, Christian says, although I can sense that he doesn’t want to accept this any more than I do.
Oh. And I asked my dad if you could train with us, since you’ve been seeing yourself wielding a sword in your vision (the sword’s made of glory, not flame, by the way), and he said yes, probably around winter break. FYI.
He gives an incredulous laugh at the idea that he could be taking lessons from the archangel Michael. “Wow,” he says out loud. “That is—thank you.”
“At least we can do this together,” I say, reaching across the table and laying my hand on his, which sends that familiar spark between us.
We belong together. The words come to mind immediately, and this time, instead of fighting the idea or worrying about what it might mean, I accept it. Whatever our fate is, we’re clearly in it together. Through thick and thin.
Come hell or high water, he adds in my mind.
I smile. Preferably high water, right? I have no intention of going to hell.
Agreed. He slides his fingers up through mine so we’re clasping hands. I get a nervous quivery sensation in the pit of my stomach. “In the meantime,” I say to get back to the topic at hand, remembering what my dad said about watching out for Angela, “let’s figure out what’s going on with Angela. Maybe we can help her.”
“If she’ll let us.”
“True, that.” I check my watch. “I should go. I’ve got a paper to write on The Waste Land by Tuesday. Worth twenty percent of my grade, so no pressure there.”
He squeezes before he lets go of my hand. “Thanks for hanging out with me this afternoon. I know you’re busy.”
“Christian, there’s nobody on earth, seriously, who I’d rather hang out with than you,” I tell him, and it’s absolutely true. Whatever we are—soul mates, friends, whatever—there’s that.
It isn’t until later that I realize I didn’t tell him about seeing Tucker. But then, I think, he really wouldn’t want to know.
I take a detour on the way back to the dorm to check out Memorial Church on the off chance that I might find Angela there. The church is empty. I make my way up the center aisle to the front of the sanctuary, where the labyrinth is still laid out on the altar. There’s a sign posted that says, SILENCE, PLEASE, WHILE VIEWING THE CHURCH. Somebody right outside is trimming the hedges with a weed whacker, but it still feels quiet in this place, a stillness that transcends noise.
Angela’s obviously not here, but I don’t leave yet. I stand looking at the twisting paths of the labyrinth.
What the heck, I think. I’ll give it a try.
I take a minute to read the pamphlet about the labyrinth, which I find in a small woven basket in the front pew. Does life have you wandering aimlessly in circles? it reads. Embark on a personal journey that’s stood the test of time for thousands of years. I slip my shoes off and position myself at the starting point, then begin to walk. The hems of my jeans scuff against the fabric on the floor. I try to make myself slow down and take deep breaths, the way I learned in happiness class: cleansing breaths from the belly. As you enter the labyrinth, the pamphlet says, let go of the details of your life; shed thoughts and distractions. Open your heart and quiet your mind.
I do my best, but part of me is already tensing, bracing for the vision, the blackness of the room, the terror I feel. I keep walking, trying to clear my head, the way I always do to call glory, which is coming so easily these days. You’d think this would be easy, too, but for whatever reason, maybe because having the vision is a bit like being slapped in the face, it’s not the same.
I reach the center of the pattern. I’m supposed to stop here and pray. Receive, the pamphlet says.
I bow my head. I’ve never learned how to talk to God. The concept seems as far away for me as making a personal phone call to the president of the United States or having a conversation with the Dalai Lama. Which is ironic, I know. I have angel blood in my veins, the strength of the Almighty worked right into my cells, God’s intent for me, His plan. Whenever I call glory, I feel that power, that connection to everything that Dad talks about, the warmth and joy and beauty that I know must be where God is. But I don’t know how to communicate in words with that presence. I can’t.
“Is there anything else I don’t know?” he asks, ignoring my very good point about his blatant hypocrisy. “Besides the stuff with this Phen guy that you can’t tell me about?”
“I saw my dad,” I say. “But this only happened yesterday, okay? I was going to tell you today. Right now, as a matter of a fact. See, I’m telling you.”
Christian pulls back, surprise all over his face, his mind reeling with it in a way that makes me feel surprised all over again by what happened. “Your dad? Michael?”
“No, my other dad, Larry. Yes, my dad, Michael. He said he’s been given”—I inflate my voice to sound all authoritative and official—“the task of training me. We went back to my house and spent a couple hours in the backyard whacking each other with broomsticks.”
“You were in Jackson yesterday?” Christian looks dazed. He’s in that phase where he’s repeating everything I say because he can’t process it fast enough. “Training?” he says. “Training you to what?”
I become aware that we’re sitting in a public place and we shouldn’t be openly discussing any of this. I shift to talking in his mind. To use a sword.
His eyes widen. I look away, sip the last dregs of my cold coffee. The enormity of what I just told him—that I’m going to be expected to use a sword, too, to fight, maybe even to kill somebody—is really settling in for the first time.
This is the part where my life becomes all apocalyptic, I think.
Which sucks, quite frankly. I remember how good it felt to help Amy that night, to use my power to fix her ankle even the little bit that I did. How happy I was with the idea that I could use my power to heal hurts and right wrongs. Now it all feels like a silly pipe dream. I’m going to fight. Possibly die.
You were right, I say bleakly. We’re never going to be allowed to live normal lives.
I’m sorry, Christian says. He wishes something better for me, something easier.
I shrug it off. It’s what we’re supposed to do, right? Maybe that’s our purpose, to become fighters. That makes sense, if you think about it. Maybe it’s what all the Triplare are meant for. We’re like warriors.
Maybe, Christian says, although I can sense that he doesn’t want to accept this any more than I do.
Oh. And I asked my dad if you could train with us, since you’ve been seeing yourself wielding a sword in your vision (the sword’s made of glory, not flame, by the way), and he said yes, probably around winter break. FYI.
He gives an incredulous laugh at the idea that he could be taking lessons from the archangel Michael. “Wow,” he says out loud. “That is—thank you.”
“At least we can do this together,” I say, reaching across the table and laying my hand on his, which sends that familiar spark between us.
We belong together. The words come to mind immediately, and this time, instead of fighting the idea or worrying about what it might mean, I accept it. Whatever our fate is, we’re clearly in it together. Through thick and thin.
Come hell or high water, he adds in my mind.
I smile. Preferably high water, right? I have no intention of going to hell.
Agreed. He slides his fingers up through mine so we’re clasping hands. I get a nervous quivery sensation in the pit of my stomach. “In the meantime,” I say to get back to the topic at hand, remembering what my dad said about watching out for Angela, “let’s figure out what’s going on with Angela. Maybe we can help her.”
“If she’ll let us.”
“True, that.” I check my watch. “I should go. I’ve got a paper to write on The Waste Land by Tuesday. Worth twenty percent of my grade, so no pressure there.”
He squeezes before he lets go of my hand. “Thanks for hanging out with me this afternoon. I know you’re busy.”
“Christian, there’s nobody on earth, seriously, who I’d rather hang out with than you,” I tell him, and it’s absolutely true. Whatever we are—soul mates, friends, whatever—there’s that.
It isn’t until later that I realize I didn’t tell him about seeing Tucker. But then, I think, he really wouldn’t want to know.
I take a detour on the way back to the dorm to check out Memorial Church on the off chance that I might find Angela there. The church is empty. I make my way up the center aisle to the front of the sanctuary, where the labyrinth is still laid out on the altar. There’s a sign posted that says, SILENCE, PLEASE, WHILE VIEWING THE CHURCH. Somebody right outside is trimming the hedges with a weed whacker, but it still feels quiet in this place, a stillness that transcends noise.
Angela’s obviously not here, but I don’t leave yet. I stand looking at the twisting paths of the labyrinth.
What the heck, I think. I’ll give it a try.
I take a minute to read the pamphlet about the labyrinth, which I find in a small woven basket in the front pew. Does life have you wandering aimlessly in circles? it reads. Embark on a personal journey that’s stood the test of time for thousands of years. I slip my shoes off and position myself at the starting point, then begin to walk. The hems of my jeans scuff against the fabric on the floor. I try to make myself slow down and take deep breaths, the way I learned in happiness class: cleansing breaths from the belly. As you enter the labyrinth, the pamphlet says, let go of the details of your life; shed thoughts and distractions. Open your heart and quiet your mind.
I do my best, but part of me is already tensing, bracing for the vision, the blackness of the room, the terror I feel. I keep walking, trying to clear my head, the way I always do to call glory, which is coming so easily these days. You’d think this would be easy, too, but for whatever reason, maybe because having the vision is a bit like being slapped in the face, it’s not the same.
I reach the center of the pattern. I’m supposed to stop here and pray. Receive, the pamphlet says.
I bow my head. I’ve never learned how to talk to God. The concept seems as far away for me as making a personal phone call to the president of the United States or having a conversation with the Dalai Lama. Which is ironic, I know. I have angel blood in my veins, the strength of the Almighty worked right into my cells, God’s intent for me, His plan. Whenever I call glory, I feel that power, that connection to everything that Dad talks about, the warmth and joy and beauty that I know must be where God is. But I don’t know how to communicate in words with that presence. I can’t.
