“With what?” He let his irritation show. “I doubt your social calendar is completely full.”
The sting of insult wasn’t as strong as the sense of my friends silently closing ranks. Lily’s expression didn’t change, but Raphael glowered, and all the humor bled out of Jims. “Darcy,” he said, “why don’t you show your guest to the door?”
“No need.” Conn stood, and I wished that I had, too, because the way his gaze swept down on me from above was unsettling.
As Conn walked away, Jims said, “You sure know how to pick ’em, Darcy.”
“He chose her,” said Lily.
* * *
LATER, AFTER THE BELL announced the end of English class, Conn approached.
He wasn’t that attractive, I told myself.
He cocked his head, and his smile was charming. Brilliant. A sweet knife that sank into my heart and slashed my lie to pieces.
“Lunch didn’t go the way I’d planned,” he said. “I was too nosy, wasn’t I? And rude.”
I slid books into my battered backpack. “A little.”
“Sorry.” His brow rumpled into a rueful, slightly helpless look. “I’m worried about my grade, and want to get a jump-start on our project. College applications are coming up.”
I understood. I had hopes of going to art school, and no way to pay for it beyond my crap job and, maybe, a merit scholarship.
“I liked your answer the other day, about J. Alfred’s loneliness,” he continued. “I think you really understand the poem, and I could use your help. Can we meet soon?”
The mystical powers of the red sweater were, it seemed, nothing more than Conn’s very ordinary grade grubbing. I struggled against a sudden unhappiness and told myself that at least I was on familiar ground. “I’m free tomorrow after school.”
“Perfect.” He beamed.
Something about Conn made me feel in between everything—in between wariness and yearning, self-preservation and attraction—which gave me an idea. “We’ll need a car,” I said.
“I can arrange something.”
* * *
IF I WERE NORMAL, I would have fled school the instant classes were over, along with everyone else. But I slipped into the art room. Mr. Linden didn’t mind if I stuck around while he packed away the supplies.
I opened my sketchbook and began to draw.
I chose a thick-leaded pencil, so the lines were heavy, almost fuzzy. I sketched like someone obsessed, which was sort of absurd, since what I was drawing shouldn’t have stirred so much feeling. It was just a building. And yet … creepy. Or maybe it wasn’t the building itself that was creepy, with its twenty-seven steps and neo-Gothic touches. Maybe it was the way I recognized it, yet had no idea what it was.
I found myself gripping the pencil very tightly. I set it aside and reached into my case for a thinner one.
There should be an inscription on the building, I thought. I set the pencil to paper and felt a sensation inside, like something unbuttoning. Opening. I couldn’t name it. But it stole my breath.
Then my hand flickered. For one insane second, it seemed like I could see through it. I blinked, and breathed, and there were my fingers. Solid. Clutching the pencil so hard that it snapped.
Mr. Linden stepped out of the storage closet. He studied my face. “Darcy? Is something the matter?”
“No.” The broken pencil halves chopsticked in my hand. “Or … I don’t know. I guess I feel a little faint. Or something.” I forced a smile. “I’ve been staring at my sketchbook too long. My eyes are playing tricks on me.”
“That happens sometimes,” he said kindly. “Take a break.”
I nodded, but couldn’t tear my gaze away from the drawing. I didn’t know anymore what name I’d been about to give the building. But now I could name that feeling growing inside me.
Fear.
I shut the book.
* * *
I GLANCED AT JIMS’S HOUSE before knocking on Lily’s door, but it was almost four o’clock, the hour of his online role-playing game, and we were under strict orders not to interrupt.
Lily’s mom pointed to the basement, where I found Lily in front of a stretched canvas, gobbing on oil paint. She flipped the brush in her hand, sliced the wooden end across the paint, and looked really pissed off.
“What’s that?” I nodded at the painting.
“A waste of an entire tube of Prussian Blue.” She turned to the pool table, reached for a wooden triangle, and began to rack the pool balls. “Whatever You Want is harder than you’d think. What have you been working on?”
I hesitated. “Sketches. Of a city.”
“And you seem so thrilled about it. Problems?”
The first sketch had been the skyline I’d drawn the day Conn had asked me to be his partner, and the last was the government building today. But there had been plenty in between, all city scenes. My notebook was filling up. I looked at Lily, searching for a way to explain that the images I’d drawn recently looked familiar, yet I couldn’t identify them.
Except one. “I drew the Water Tower,” I told her. “You know, the old pumping station in Chicago that survived the Great Fire? My Water Tower looks like the real Water Tower. But everything around it is different. There’s no university campus. Instead, the tower’s surrounded by a park. When I sketched, it didn’t feel like I was making stuff up, but drawing from memory, and not a memory from last summer. A much older one.” I shook my head in frustration. “The cityscapes are strange. When I look at them, I’m sure they’re some imaginary city I’ve dreamed up. Then I blink, and I’m convinced I’ve drawn parts of Chicago. Which is impossible. None of the images completely matches up with anything I’ve seen.” I decided not to mention the knowing expression on Conn’s face when he’d seen my first drawing, or the way my hand had seemed to … vanish. To dart in and out of existence. Like lamplight from a dying bulb, going on and off and then on again.
Saying all that would make everything seem even weirder than it already was.
“Raphael could probably make sense of the drawings,” said Lily. “He’s such a Chicago history buff. Maybe you should show him your sketchbook.”
“Maybe,” I said, meaning “no.”