Blind Spot Page 6

  A purple car with huge windows and a rounded back end pulled up in front of me. It looked more alien than automotive. Fingers emerged from the passenger window. “Roz!”

  The sound of my name startled me. I bent down to look through the open window, half expecting a spindly gray creature with enormous eyes at the steering wheel. The fingers waved. “It’s Greg. You’re going into the city for the exhibit, aren’t you? You need a ride?”

  “Oh, hey!” I said. Of course he was going. What would that give him? An A++ in the class? The bus pulled up behind him and honked. “Thanks, but I already bought my ticket. Besides, I like taking the bus.” The bus honked again, the driver really laying on the horn this time. I stepped back. “You’d better move before he drives over you! See you there.”

  I settled into a seat near the back. I’d spent most of last night making a playlist for this trip: D. Can’t Mess with Me. It had a rather catchy title, I thought. Most of the tunes had bring-it-on lyrics, but I’d thrown a few love tracks on there too, to remind me of Jonathan. I had just pushed “play” when an all-too-familiar scent filled the air above me. I plucked the earphones from my ears. “What are you doing?”

  “You won’t ride with me, so I’ll ride with you.” Greg plopped down next to me.

  A man wearing an oil-stained bomber jacket shuffled by. The smell of dehydrated onions and body odor lingered in the aisle.

  Greg covered his nose. “You prefer this over my car?”

  I laughed. “Watermelon bubblegum runs a close second to city bus smell.”

  “You don’t like watermelon gum?”

  “Actually, I do now. I used to think it was a bit strong, but . . .” I didn’t finish. It would’ve sounded a bit come-on-ish if I’d said, “Now it reminds me of you.”

  He whipped the green pack of gum from his pocket and offered me a piece.

  “Thanks.” I took a square out and popped it in my mouth.

  Loud voices came from up front. I heard the driver tell someone to get off the bus. As hostile words and obscenities flew, I felt Greg’s body stiffen next to me.

  I caught the smell of dryer sheets as I leaned in to Greg and whispered, “The company’s much more appealing too,” to distract him.

  It worked. He put a hand on his heart. “I’m insulted.”

  “You should be.”

  A security guard jumped on and escorted someone off. Greg relaxed against the seat and grinned at me. “I think you were just chicken to drive in my hovercraft.”

  “Hovercraft!” I grinned at this. “It does have that otherworldly look to it. I bet even E.T. would hesitate to climb in for a ride.”

  His hand grabbed his chest again. “You’re killing me! I’ll have you know, it belonged to my grandmother. It’s a 1980 Pacer, but in mint condition. Well, as mint as any decades-old car with an infinite number of miles on it can be.”

  “I stand corrected.”

  The bus lurched forward, jostling us against each other. One of my ear phones fell on Greg’s shoulder.

  “‘Without music, life would be an error.’ Nietzsche. So what are we listening to?” He held it up to his ear and then gave a thumbs-up. “Nine Inch Nails!”

  I arched an eyebrow in surprise. I had him pegged as a Mozart or Bach guy; maybe B. B. King or Joe Satriani, if he was feeling dangerous, but Nine Inch Nails? Definitely would never have guessed that.

  “One of my favorite bands,” he said. “Nothing like screaming to ‘Head Like a Hole’ when things aren’t going my way, you know?”

  “Yeah,” I said, grinning, because I did know, all too well. I pushed the “shuffle” button. “How about this?”

  “I like that. Who is it?”

  “Shinedown.” I shuffled the player again. “How about this one?”

  He beamed at me. “Godsmack.”

  No way! I squinted at the player. With my playlists memorized, I simply had to decipher a letter or two to “see” the bands. “How about—”

  Greg laughed. “Is this a test? Because if it is”—he reached into his jacket pocket—“I have my own artillery. Care to play?” He handed me an earphone.

  “Try me.” I listened for a second, and then with smug certainty said, “Van Halen. Hagar, not Roth.”

  He shrugged. “Beginner’s luck. You’ll never get this one.”

  I let the music flood my ears. The voice sounded familiar. The lyrics I didn’t recognize. “Is it Buckcherry?”

  “Ha! I knew I’d baffle you!” He shook his head. “Tesla, although I will admit Buckcherry sounds a little like Tesla to the unfamiliar listener.” He pulled a notebook from his pocket. “Let’s keep track. The person with the most correct artists wins.”

  We spent the rest of the trip trying to stump each other. It was the most fun I’d had on a road trip. Ever.

  “I didn’t realize the characters in The Crucible were real people,” I said. Greg was reading a list of those executed during the 1692 Salem witch trials out loud to me.

  “You’ve read the play?”

  “Movie,” I said. “I don’t read that much outside of school.”

  “You should. Movies are never like the books. The Crucible is one of the High School Hundred.”

  “High School Hundred?” I pulled out my cell phone. No call from Jonathan.

  “One hundred literary works college-bound students should read before they graduate. That’s why I read it.”

  “Oh.” I put away my phone. “I watched the movie because I thought it was about witchcraft.”

  “And let me guess,” he said with a laugh. “You were disappointed?”

  “It was good, but some witchy, voodooish stuff would’ve made it better.” We reached the end of the exhibit. “But that was the point, right? They weren’t witches. Lies just spiraled out of control. So now what?” I wanted to suggest the planetarium exhibit. The bus wouldn’t be leaving for four hours. We had time. But I was too afraid he’d laugh at the idea.

  “Let’s go eat,” he said.

  “So,” Greg said after we’d bought a couple of hot dogs and sodas, “why don’t you like to read?”

  “It’s not that I don’t like to,” I said. We sat down on the edge of a fountain in the center of campus. “It’s just really frustrating sometimes. The print is usually too small and it takes too much effort.” I shrugged.

  “Most books come out on audio now. Or you could get yourself one of those readers like the one my grandmother has. It scans a book within minutes and reads it aloud.”

  It was one thing hearing this stuff from Dellian. But Greg? I breathed in the late September air. It smelled damp. “I think it might rain,” I said.

  We both looked up at the sky. The once-green leaves, now brilliant shades of orange and gold, created a striking contrast with its clear, cloudless blue.

  Greg shook his head. “Too clear.”

  “Smells like rain.” I sniffed the air again. “And fall. I love that smell.”

  “Decomposing foliage?” Greg shoved a bite of bun into his mouth. “Me too,” he said over the mouthful. “It’s actually methane and carbon dioxide released from rotting plants. The dead foliage feeds the fungi and bacteria living around it.” He finished his last bite. “Fall’s my favorite season.”

  He certainly had an endless supply of information. I finished eating my hot dog. “Winter’s my favorite season. Not the cold. I hate the ice fog and the below-zero weather. But I like how the world gets quiet and the snow covers everything with a soft white blanket that tricks you. It hides things, making even a dirty, cluttered dump beautiful.”

  “Like T. S. Eliot. ‘Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow.’”

  “The Hundred list again?” I opened my soda.

  He nodded. “The Waste Land. It’s a poem.”

  Tricia had mentioned a wasteland when I called her a wastoid freak. I thought she was being clever with her word choice; maybe under that cloak Tricia was a scholar?

  “We know I need the credit,�
�� I said after a while. “But why’d you come?”

  “The way Mr. Dellian has been lately? I figured a few extra points couldn’t hurt.” He held his can up, examining it. “Truth? I also figured you might like the company.”

  “How did you even know I’d go?”

  “I knew Roswell Hart wouldn’t back out of a challenge, especially one issued by Mr. Dellian.”

  “Really?” I was flattered. And embarrassed. And a little annoyed. “You think you know me that well?”

  “Well enough.” A smile played at the corner of his mouth. “When Heather said you’d be taking the bus by yourself, I thought—”

  And there it was. The real reason he’d come. “You thought you’d make sure the poor ‘impaired’ girl didn’t get lost? So this was what, a charity event?”

  “No!” He frowned. “It wasn’t like that at all! I didn’t come to assist you, just to hang out with you. I only asked Heather to make sure that, you know, Jonathan wasn’t going. Because I didn’t want to hang out with him. Just you.”

  Embarrassment replaced my anger. “Sorry. I get defensive sometimes.”

  “Apology accepted.” He set his soda can on the edge of the fountain. “Think we have time for the planetarium? I’ve been dying to see their We Are Not Alone! exhibit.”

  I choked on my soda. “Seriously? I’ve been dying to see that too.”

  A toothy grin spread across his face. “Then let’s stop killing ourselves and go.”

  The rain started on our way back to the bus station. It was sprinkling at first; then, in a sudden gust of cold air, huge pellets of hail began to fall. “You said it smelled like rain, not hail!” Greg joked as we ran the last two blocks, jackets over our heads.

  I rubbed at my arms when we’d finally made it inside. Even with my sweatshirt on, the tiny shards of ice managed to sting my skin. The terminal announced that departure would be delayed due to the weather. While Greg called his mom, I called Jonathan. Voice mail. He hadn’t returned any of my calls. I was beginning to think it wouldn’t matter what time I arrived. He wasn’t going to be there.

  “So.” Greg shoved his phone into his pocket. “What’s your theory on alien existence?”

  “My theory?” I shrugged. “I don’t have one.”

  “Sure you do.” He sat down, looked up at me, and waited.

  “Okay. Actually?” I sat down next to him. “The idea really freaks me out. But believing there are others out there somewhere, as if it’s a given or a truth . . .” I started to feel stupid. I stared down at the wet patches the hail had left on my jeans. “I don’t know. It makes it less frightening somehow.”

  “Believing takes the unknown element away, to avoid being blindsided later on?” Greg nodded. “That makes sense. My theory’s based on science. It takes the right conditions to support life. We’re pretty arrogant, though, if we believe those conditions occurred only on Earth. So our life forms can’t live on those other planets. There are microbes that can survive in toxic environments here on Earth. Why not intelligent life forms somewhere else? Man is so egocentric; we think we know everything. Arrogance, no, pride.” He stomped in frustration. “What is that quote?”

  I laughed. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  “Yeah, it’s a good one about arrogance being man’s downfall.”

  “You like quotes?” I pulled out my music. “I’ll find you a good one. Lyrics are full of them.”

  He gave a snort. “It’s not the same. My quotes come from world-renowned authors, philosophers, the Bible.”

  “Now who’s being arrogant?” I began scanning my playlists. “Come on, I bet I can find a lyric worth quoting.”

  We started listening to each other’s music in search of wisdom. By the time we boarded the bus, the game had mutated into “Name That Tune” or, as Greg called it, “Try to Stump Roz”—because he rarely could.

  The temperature yo-yoed the whole way home, causing downpours of alternating rain and hail. The road was a mess, keeping traffic at a crawl. It was well after ten o’clock when we arrived at the Birch bus terminal. “Is your mom picking you up?” Greg asked. “I can give you a ride.”

  I flipped open my phone. Still no call. What the hell? The damp cold bit through me. I shivered and hugged my jacket close. Should I call him again or just forget it?

  “That is, if you can brave it,” Greg said. “I’ve heard E.T. wouldn’t.”

  Jonathan was probably too drunk to drive anyway. I grinned at Greg. “I think I can handle it.”

  He opened the passenger door. I scooted in and buckled up. The interior of his car was spotless. Only the outlandish amount of room and the dashboard with its knobs, push buttons, and large gauges gave away its age. Everything else was in perfect condition. No rips or tears in the upholstery. No door handles falling off. It even had a new-car smell.

  “I think it’s going to snow soon—the pond by my house has already started to freeze over,” Greg said, cranking up the heat. “I’m not looking forward to playing football once that happens.”

  “Maybe it will hold off at least until homecoming. Did you nominate people for royalty in homeroom yesterday?” I slid my cell phone out again. Still nothing.

  “Is someone calling you? You keep looking at that thing.”

  I snapped the phone shut. “I thought Jonathan might. There was this party tonight.” I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “I can give you a ride to Ethan’s party, if that’s where you want to be.”

  “I don’t. I just want Jonathan to call me back. He was mad that I went to the museum.”

  “Mad? Doesn’t he realize you need the credit?”

  I shrugged. “I canceled our plans. He thought I was blowing him off.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did. I had fun today.” He smiled over at me.

  “Me too.” I smiled back at him—okay, at his ear. He tried to catch my eye, so I looked away. “My house is on the next street.”

  “Do I make you uncomfortable?” he asked. “You never make eye contact with me. You look at my ear or my shoulder, but never my face.”

  “No!” He’d caught me off-guard. “To see your eyes, I have to look at your ear.” I gave a nervous laugh. “Weird, I know, but dots block things straight on, so I focus on something else and use my peripheral vision. Missy was always so creeped out by it—I figured she told you.”

  “She only said you have a vision problem. Is it like a sunspot I’d have to blink to see around?”

  I laughed in surprise. “Yeah! That’s exactly what it’s like.” That was the first time someone had ever understood my explanation. It felt—I don’t know—freeing?

  He pulled into my driveway and parked. “I don’t think anyone’s home.”

  “Never is.” I started fishing through my purse for my keys.

  He flipped on the interior light. “How come you haven’t talked to Ratner yet about Dellian?”

  I sighed and looked up from my bag. “I thought it would get better.”

  “Well, it hasn’t. You should talk to him or sit in the back and let me take notes for you. I’m thorough. I record the lectures with my MP3 player for backup.”

  My fingers found the jagged edges of my keys. “I’d like that, actually. The notes.” Dellian had started writing very small on the board. Even though I was sitting up front, it was hard to decipher them. “I’m not moving to the back, though.” I opened the car door and lingered. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. The day had been too much fun. “You want to come in? I have some photos I think you’d like.”

  “If you don’t think your mom will mind.”

  “She won’t mind.” I unlocked the door. “The photos are downstairs, on my bedroom ceiling.”

  Greg kicked his shoes off and jumped up on my bed, standing on his tippy toes to examine each of the UFO photographs plastered on my ceiling. “These are amazing. Where’d you get them?”

  “My dad.” I leaned back against my headboard. “He sends them in lieu
of child support. Mom tried to sell one on eBay once, but no one bid. So she lets me have them.”

  “How does he find all these?”

  “People give them to him. He’s a . . . ufologist.”

  “Ufologist? Is that a real job?” He looked down at me. “He gets paid to study UFOs?”

  I laughed. “Don’t be too impressed. Mom made the same mistake—she heard the ‘ologist’ and saw dollar signs. Not sure if it’s a legit title. But I know he doesn’t make money doing it, just a grant here and there.” I pulled my cell phone out. It was a habit by now. I didn’t want to talk to Jonathan or go to the party anymore—I simply wanted to see if he’d called. So I could ignore it. “What’s your verdict? Do aliens exist?” I turned my eyes back up to Greg.

  He was watching me. “Did he call?” There was a tinge of annoyance in his voice.

  “No, just . . . checking.”

  His hands left the ceiling. “Well, some of these probably are overexposure or sunspots. I’d have to look at where each was taken, the circumstances surrounding each incident, that sort of thing. They’re definitely awesome.” He stepped off the bed and leaned in an awkward pose against the dresser. “Your name, Roswell, makes sense now. I always wondered.”

  “My dad’s idea. He said it was a family name. Mom says if she’d known it was a town in New Mexico, she never would’ve agreed.” I fiddled with the phone in my hand.

  “I should get going.” He slipped his shoes back on and headed up the stairs.

  “I had fun today,” I said when we reached the door.

  “Did you?” He turned around. “You seem really eager to call him.”

  “No! I mean, yes, I had fun. A lot of fun.” I tried to give him a reassuring smile. “I’m not eager. I just”—I rubbed my thumb across the face of my phone—“wanted to see if he’d called, if he was”—I shrugged—“missing me.”

  “Roz, why—” Greg paused. “Never mind.” He pushed the screen door open. “I’ll get those notes to you Monday.”

  Five days before

  An insane desperation came over me on Sunday. I called Jonathan’s cell every half hour. I walked by his house. I became the stalker I’d accused Greg of being. My heart pounded; my body shook. I could focus on nothing but making things right with him. I had to know that he still wanted me. That I was still beautiful.