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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Monday, January 6
Tuesday, January 7
Wednesday, January 8
Thursday, January 9
Friday, January 10
Saturday, January 11
Sunday, January 19
Monday, January 20
Saturday, January 25
Sunday, January 26
Monday, January 27
Tuesday, January 28
Wednesday, January 29
Thursday, January 30
Saturday, February 1
Sunday, February 2
Monday, February 3
Tuesday, February 4
Wednesday, February 5
Thursday, February 6
Friday, February 7
Saturday, February 8
About the Author
Copyright
To Keith, who has been teaching me about computers since he was eight and I was … uh … old enough to be his mother.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank my husband, David, for supporting me emotionally and financially as I went through the multiple rewrites of this book.
Thank you, Steven Chudney, my awesome agent, for believing in me.
Thank you, Deborah Brodie, my gentle editor, who made this whole process positive, affirming, and fun!
To my son and daughter, Keith and Kathryn—I can’t thank you enough for all the times you read my rough drafts, made suggestions, and helped me weed out the dialogue that didn’t ring true.
Thanks also to my (then) teen readers: Ashley Stocks, Erica Niemiec, J. Garnet Woodburn, and Lauren Jia, who were most gracious with their time and advice.
This novel went through many revisions, helped immensely by my critique partners in: Writers with Wings, the Newberries, Writers’ Ink, and OPUS.
A special thanks to Candace J. Tremps for taking me under her Wings.
MONDAY, JANUARY 6
Gwen
Every night, for seven nights, I dreamed of him. Every morning, for seven mornings, I awoke drenched in cold, slippery sweat, whispering to myself: just a dream.
But was it? It felt real, more like I’d lived it than dreamed it. The staccato rhythm of his boots, echoing down the corridor. His black leather trench coat, swooping behind him like a cape. The way he stood in the doorway of my English class—eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, his posture perfect, physically commanding.
In other words, he was an arrogant jerk. A fake. Outwardly confident; inwardly afraid. A dangerous combination; someone you can’t trust.
How did I know? I’m a Watcher, an observer of human behavior. Eighty percent of all communication is nonverbal. It’s what you don’t say that says the most—a shifting of the eyes, a gesture, a subtle intake of breath. As a Watcher, I can sum a person up in less than ten seconds. And I am never wrong.
The dream repeated each night, alternating with nightmarish images.
Night one: the stranger.
Night two: a house consumed by flames, lighting up the night sky.
Night three: a white skull, floating in inky blackness.
Night four: a child-sized casket, its lid up and waiting.
Night five, six, seven: a kaleidoscope—the stranger, the skull, a house on fire, a casket, all tied together.
I tell myself there is no reason to fear this person. His kind and my kind don’t mix. He won’t notice me. I’m wallpaper. On a bad day, linoleum.
But each morning I awaken, drenched in cold, slippery sweat.
Adrian
First impressions last two years.
That’s what Mrs. Ghee drummed into us, two years ago, back in ninth grade. Make a good first impression. Firm handshake. Good eye contact. Look confident, as if you can do the job. People believe what they see. Remember that.
I stare at the door of my new school. My fingers itch for a smoke. The sudden, intense craving takes me by surprise. I gave up smoking a year ago. Didn’t enjoy being a slave to my addiction. I like to be in control.
I go inside, wander the halls, searching for my locker. People flow past me. I’m lost, but I march along as if I know where I’m heading.
My gut twists in a killer of a cramp. Not again. I dry-swallow an antidiarrhea pill. It slips sideways, sticks like a piece of chalk in my throat. I gag. I sound like Cleo, my cat, coughing up a fur ball.
“Need help?” asks a girl. She’s tall, nearly my height, red hair, green eyes.
“Bubbler,” I gasp.
She giggles. “What?”
“Water.”
“Water fountain?” She leads me to a bubbler, not ten feet away. I gulp water and wash down the pill. “Thanks.”
She smiles. She’s wearing a short top and low jeans. In between is a smooth stretch of tanned skin. She wears a green jewel in her belly button. The same color as her eyes.
“I’m Melissa,” she says.
“Adrian Black.” I stick out my hand as if this is a job interview. Smooth move. But she doesn’t seem to notice. She slips her hand into mine, shakes it as though we were doing something completely normal.
She giggles again. “See you around.”
“See ya.” I keep my voice steady, hiding another gut spasm. I need a restroom, fast. And another pill.
By the time I find a restroom and take care of things, the bell rings. No time to find my locker or get rid of my coat.
I walk into my first class: English. Okay. Deep breath, shoulders back. Make it good. People believe what they see.
Gwen
Monday, January 6. I wrote the date in a fresh notebook. English 11. Second semester. Miss Bliss.
I rubbed my eyes and stared at the door of the classroom. I told myself Miss Bliss would be the next person through that door. She’d start the lesson and I would relax. The stranger wasn’t coming.
Then I heard it. The decisive rhythm of footsteps in the corridor. I strained my ears to detect the faint swoosh of a full-length leather coat. Then, he appeared in the doorway, exactly as I had dreamed him: black hair, high cheekbones, strong jaw, sensual lips.
The stranger pushed aside his coat, shoved his hands into his pockets in a seemingly casual gesture. But I knew there was nothing casual about it. He was drawing attention to himself, to his broad shoulders, narrow waist, lean torso.
People noticed. Most of the girls; some of the guys.
From the tiny movements of his head, I could tell he was surveying the room from behind the cover of his sunglasses. Putting us into two categories: worth his notice, and not worth his notice.
His survey slid past me. Good.
The stranger dropped into the desk behind Melissa. Big surprise, there, eh? He stuck one long leg out into the aisle, claiming his territory. He leaned toward Melissa, claiming her.
“We meet again,” he said in a radio announcer’s voice, practically dripping testosterone. Did he work at that? Practice to get the timbre just right?
Melissa flawlessly performed the first step of the human mating ritual. She tilted her chin down, then glanced up through her eyelashes. He responded by flicking off his sunglasses, hanging them on the front of his T-shirt, and leaning closer.
Melissa moved to step two, the invitation to touch, by running her hand down the length of her arm. The stranger didn’t hesitate. He reached out, briefly touched her hand with h
is own, then drew it back.
Unreal.
“We meet again,” Melissa said.
How original. I tried to stifle my laughter, but I let out a small sound despite my efforts.
Snake-quick, the stranger whipped his head around. Good one, Gwen. Break the cardinal rule. Let him know you’re Watching.
His eyes shone an unearthly blue, somewhere between topaz and turquoise. I’d seen that color only once before, when my parents took me to a glacier in the Rockies. The meltwater had run down the cracks in the ice, subzero, clear blue, and totally devoid of life.
Adrian
There’s one in every school. Some person who isn’t buying it. She gives me this look, like I’ve somehow broken some rule. She hates Melissa, you can tell. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve no illusions about Melissa. She’s probably been with a dozen guys. That doesn’t bother me. At least she’s honest. Offers the goods right up front.
But this other girl, totally different story. Long brown hair, parted in the middle so it half-hides her face. Big, thick glasses. Sloppy gray sweatshirt, which either hides a fat body or a gorgeous body.
A fat body, I’m guessing. Hates the pretty girls, like Melissa, because she has never felt pretty. Hates me already, for some unknown reason. But, that look she gave me. As if she’s almost afraid of me. Well, yeah, makes sense. Fat girls are always afraid of hot guys. That whole rejection scenario.
It bugs me, though. Her judging me. Like she has the right, living out here in the middle of nowhere, to judge anyone.
Of all the moves we’ve made, this is the worst. Rocky Waters, Ontario, Canada. Ten thousand people hunkered down in the middle of virgin forest and ice-locked lakes. One road in. One road out. Dad calls it God’s Country. Sure, I get it. No one else wanted it.
The teacher, what’s her name, Blissful or something, is droning on about our syllabus. My mind drifts back to this morning. I’d checked before breakfast to make sure my car, a vintage ’69 Mustang, would start. It didn’t.
“Mom, where’s the charger?” I yelled, stomping back into the house.
“Basement,” she called, from the kitchen.
“Basement,” I mumbled. “Not the garage. Figures.”
While the battery charged, I whipped up my usual breakfast—a yogurt, fruit, and protein-powder shake. Mom was wiping down the cupboards. She does that every time we move. You can’t tell by appearances, she says. Yeah, who knows what lurks in those cupboards. Cholera, dysentery, bubonic plague. Could be anything.
I poured my shake into a glass and set the blender down. Hard. It tipped over, spilling the last of my shake onto the counter. Swearing, I wiped it up.
“Why here,” I snapped, suddenly furious with everything—the move, Dad, Mom.
“I’m sorry?” Mom asked, poking her head out of the cupboard.
“Why here?” I repeated. “Why did you agree to move? Why couldn’t you back me up for once?”
Mom stripped off her rubber gloves, spoke as if she’d memorized the speech. “Your father has always wanted his own privately owned, family-operated business, Adrian—”
“Why here?” I interrupted.
She hesitated. “Your father felt compelled to move here. It was as if this place called to him.”
“What do you mean? Called to him?”
“He said it was for you. He said you belonged here.”
“That’s a load of—” I clamped my jaw shut. I have more control than to swear at my mother.
Mom came over, and put one hand on my face. It smelled like bleach. “It’s going to work out, Adrian. It always does.”
It never does, I thought, going back out to the garage. Moving every few years wasn’t the great adventure Mom made it out to be. Just when you start making friends, you move. You re-create yourself, over and over. After a while, you forget who you are. You make it up as you go. As long as it works, as long as it gets you what you want, that’s all that matters.
Gwen
“So, this new guy. Adrian Black. Is he the one?” Joanne asked, plunking down her plate of poutine. The combination of French fries layered with gravy and cheese curds looked like a dog’s dinner, but smelled fantastic.
“The one what?” I jabbed my fork into my so-called lunch, a salad with fat-free dressing. Why had my cousin inherited all the skinny genes? No justice, eh?
Joanne struggled to speak around her mouthful of fries. “Him. The man of your dreams.”
I stole one of her fries, slid it through half-congealed gravy, and devoured it before answering.
“The boy in my dreams,” I clarified.
“What does he look like?” Joanne finger-combed her sandy-blonde hair. It fell in layered waves, framing her delicate face and light brown eyes.
I shoved aside my own crap-brown hair and pushed my glasses up on my nose. “Ugly. Big yellow teeth. Acne. Bad acne.”
Joanne went into a coughing spasm. I leaned back as a shower of milkshake flew my way. “Not what I heard,” she said, once she stopped hacking.
“Well, you heard wrong.”
“What are you so afraid of?” Joanne asked.
“Him. I saw him. I saw houses on fire. Coffins. Skulls. It’s all connected. Ergo, he’s dangerous.”
Joanne sighed. “Honestly, Gwen, you are the only person on the planet who uses the word ‘ergo.’ In my opinion, you never got over Stone.”
That stung. Oh, did it sting. Stone. Grade eight. Back then, I was fat, not merely heavy, like now. Add to that braces and glasses. So I should have been suspicious when Stone, the cutest guy in the school, asked me to our grade eight graduation dance. “My parents and I will pick you up at six.” He didn’t show. You know what they say: if it seems too good to be true …
Later, Melissa told me that Joanne paid Stone twenty bucks to take me to the dance. He grabbed the money and ran. That hurt, to think my own cousin figured I was so pathetic that she had to buy me a date. My pride prevented me from confronting her.
“Joanne, I got over Stone a long time ago,” I told her. “Drop it, okay?”
Joanne wasn’t listening. I turned around, following her rapt gaze, to see Adrian swaggering through the cafeteria. He was coatless now, his muscles bulging under butt-tight jeans and a black T-shirt. He looked like a movie star in a sea of extras.
“Oh, wow,” Joanne said. “I’ve got to meet him.”
“You have a boyfriend. Conrad, remember?”
“I’m thinking of breaking it off.” She glanced two tables over to where Conrad ate lunch with his hockey friends. “He’s too possessive. And, he never opens up. I want a guy who can be real with me.”
“He’s already latched onto Melissa,” I said, now desperate.
“What?”
“English class. Had his hands all over her.”
Joanne looked over to the table beside us. Sure enough, Melissa was standing up, her eyes on Adrian.
“She’s moving in,” Joanne said. “Let me go!” She pulled free of my grasp and dashed to the front of the cafeteria. Adrian turned around, balancing a loaded tray, searching for a place to sit.
Melissa was fast, but Joanne was faster. From this distance, I couldn’t hear what she said to Adrian, but it must have worked. He followed her back to our table. Melissa veered off, acting as if she hadn’t been aiming for him after all.
Run. Run and hide.
“Adrian, this is my cousin, Gwen,” said Joanne, sitting down beside me.
“Yeah, Gwen’s in my first class.” Adrian sent me a smile. A pity smile, to make the fat girl’s day. What did he expect me to do? Swoon?
“So, Adrian, where are you living?” prompted Joanne.
“Eagle Lake Road.”
“You guys bought the Anderson place?” Joanne asked. “Hey, Gwen, you used to babysit for the Andersons, remember?”
I nodded.
“Wow,” Joanna continued, “we’re almost neighbors. Go another two klicks and you get to my place.”
“Klicks?”
Adrian raised an eyebrow.
“Gwen’s dad is gone,” Joanne explained. “Died like, what, three years ago, Gwen?”
“Yes.” Three years and four months ago. Heart attack. The day before my fourteenth birthday.
“I’m sorry,” Adrian said, but it sounded like the automatic “I’m sorry” that people always say.
I shrugged, as if it were no big deal.
“So, Adrian,” continued Joanne, “tell us all about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?” He spoke so quietly you had to strain to hear. Nice control tactic.
“Where are you from?”
“Milwaukee. Before that, Philadelphia, Chicago, other places.”
Milwaukee came out as Ma-wakee. His accent was a mix of eastern seaboard twang and midwestern drawl.
“Why’d you move around?” Joanne continued.
“My dad’s work.”
“What’s he do?” Joanne was a bulldog. Once she caught hold of a person, she didn’t let go. Adrian’s ears turned transparently pink.
“He bought the funeral home in town,” he said.
“Oh, so that explains Gwen’s dr—”
I kicked her under the table.
“Her what?” asked Adrian.
“Uh, nothing,” Joanne said, throwing me a dirty look. “So, your dad runs the business?”
“Yeah,” Adrian said, his accent turning it into two syllables. “I help out—shoveling snow, cleaning, greeting visitors, maintaining the vehicles. Dad does everything else. The arrangements. The embalming.”
“Gross,” said Joanne, then clapped her hand over her mouth. That’s Joanne for you: speak first, think later.
Adrian leaned toward her. “Jo, I’ll let you in on a little secret. The embalming? No big deal. Once they’re gone, they’re gone. They don’t complain.” He leaned back, folded his arms. “It’s the relatives who can be a real pain.”
“Very sympathetic, for an undertaker’s son,” I couldn’t help but say.
“It’s a business,” Adrian said. “At the end of the day, my dad goes home like anyone else. No need to get emotionally involved.”