Strange
Girl
Christopher
Pike
Publisher:
Simon Pulse
Release
Date: November 17, 2015
Genre:
Paranormal Mystery
ISBN-10:
1481450581
ISBN-13:
978-1481450584
Paperback:
432 pages
From
#1 New York Times bestselling author Christopher Pike comes a
brand-new fascinating and seductive new novel about a girl with a
mysterious ability—but one that carries an unimaginable cost.
From
the moment Fred meets Aja, he knows she’s different. She’s
pretty, soft-spoken, shy—yet seems to radiate an unusual peace.
Fred quickly finds himself falling in love with her.
Then
strange things begin to happen around Aja. A riot breaks out that Aja
is able to stop by merely speaking a few words. A friend of Fred’s
suffers a serious head injury and has a miraculous recovery.
Yet
Aja swears she has done nothing.
Unfortunately,
Fred is not the only one who notices Aja’s unique gifts. As more
and more people begin to question who Aja is and what she can do,
she’s soon in grave danger. Because none of them truly understands
the source of Aja’s precious abilities—or their devastating cost.
Love
Aja or hate her—you will never forget her.
In
Strange Girl, #1 bestselling author Christopher Pike has created the
rarest of novels—a love story that swings between a heart-pounding
mystery and a stirring mystical journey.
CHAPTER
ONE
I
STILL GET asked about Aja, where she came from, what it was like to
be her friend, to actually date her, whether the stories about her
were true, and who—or what—I really thought she was.
The
last question makes me smile, probably because I understand it’s
hard to talk about Aja without sounding like a nut. That’s what I
try telling people who want to know about her. She was a mystery, a
genuine enigma, in a world that has more trouble each day believing
in such things. And now that she’s gone, I think she’ll forever
remain a mystery.
At
least to those who loved her.
And
to those who feared her.
My
name’s Fred Allen, and I was a seventeen-year-old senior in high
school when I met Aja. I was heading home on a hot Friday afternoon
after a boring two weeks of classes when I spotted her sitting in the
park across the street from campus. I’d like to say I saw something
special about her from the start but I’d be lying, although later I
wondered if she might have been kind of strange.
There
was a perfectly fine bench five feet off to her left but instead of
sitting on it like a normal person she was kneeling in the grass and
plucking at a few scrawny daisies, while occasionally looking up at
Elder High’s sweaty student body as they poured into the side
streets or else cut across the park toward their homes.
The
sweat was because of the humidity. From June until October, it
hovered around 90 percent. But the stickiness was usually vanquished
by a brief autumn that blew by in a month or less, and was replaced
by bitter winter winds that were so cold they’d bite your ass
off—even if you had the bad taste to wear long underwear to school,
which only the principal and the teachers did.
I
suppose it could have been worse. Elder could have been located in
North Dakota instead of South Dakota. Our northern neighbors were
something of a mystery to most of us. I mean, it’s not like anyone
went to vacation up there. All we really knew about them was that
they were always lobbying to change their name to just plain
“Dakota.” For some reason they thought that would make their
state sound more inviting. Go figure.
Anyway,
the thing that struck me about Aja at the start, besides her love of
grass and daisies, was that she stared at many of the students who
walked by. She didn’t smile at them, didn’t say hi or bat her
long lashes or anything seductive like that. She just looked straight
at them, which probably made most of them feel uncomfortable. I
noticed the majority looked away as they strode by.
I
mentioned her long lashes, and yeah, I did happen to notice she was
pretty. Not beautiful in the usual social-media way, but an easy
eight or nine on Fred Allen’s relatively generous scale of one to
ten. Even at a distance of a hundred yards I could see her hair was
dark brown, shiny, and that her skin was the same color as my
favorite ice cream—Häagen-Dazs Coffee.
Yet
I didn’t equate her with ice cream because I wanted to take a bite
out of her or anything gross like that. It’s not like I felt some
mad rush of seventeen-year-old hormones and experienced first love
for the twentieth time. I just sort of, you know, noticed that she
looked nice, very nice, and that her long lashes framed a pair of
large, dark eyes that were, sadly, not looking anywhere in my
direction.
That
was it; that was my first impression of Aja. Oh, there was one other
thing. I did happen to notice that she had on a simple white dress
that didn’t quite reach to her knees. The thing that struck me
about the dress was—not that it was filthy—it looked like it
could have used a wash.
Introduction
to Aja complete. I went home and didn’t give her more than a few
hours of thought all weekend. And no, honestly, my fantasies were not
a hundred percent sexual. I mainly wondered why a girl her age, if
she was new to town, wasn’t going to school. It was just a thought.
Elder High, my school, was the only one in town for someone our age.
Monday
morning I heard about Aja from my best friend, Janet Shell, five
minutes before our first period, calculus, started. I was taking
calculus because it was an AP class and my parents were obsessed that
I ace as many hard classes as possible so I’d go to college and not
grow up to be as miserable as they were.
That
was sort of a joke in our household but, unfortunately, it was mostly
true. My dad sold new and used cars at a Toyota dealership in a
neighboring town of ours, Balen, which actually had a multiplex where
the speaker system didn’t sound like a jukebox and there was a
generous selection of eight movies. Unlike Elder’s sole theater,
where you had to wear 3-D glasses just to keep from squinting at the
sagging screen.
My
mom also worked in Balen as an executive secretary for a boss that
couldn’t have spelled her job title. My parents were both smart,
and they loved each other, I think, but when I asked why they hadn’t
moved away from Elder—like, say, before I was born—they just told
me to pass the salt. What I mean is, the way they fell silent
whenever I asked about their past made me feel like I was somehow
rubbing salt in old wounds. I joke about it now—a bad habit, I
still joke about most things—but it did worry me that they weren’t
happy.
Janet
Shell, on the other hand, was super happy, or else she knew how to
act the part, which according to her was all that mattered. She was
taking calculus because she was smart and loved math. But she was
cool, too. For example, although a straight-A student, she intended
to get a C in calculus simply because she didn’t want to get
elected our class valedictorian.
Besides
hating the spotlight, Janet knew if she was required to give a speech
to us graduating seniors, there was no way she’d be able to resist
telling us that virtually our whole class would still be living in
Elder when our ten- and twenty-year high school reunions rolled
around—her way of saying that the majority of us were destined to
be losers.
“Have
you seen the new girl yet?” Janet asked before Mr. Simon showed up
his usual five minutes late. We’d had him as our math teacher three
years running. The guy came into class reeking of pot almost every
morning until Halloween rolled around, when he’d switch over to
some kind of mysterious blue pill—Janet swore it was the stimulant
Adderall—and lecture us on three chapters a week instead of his
normal three pages.
Naturally,
Janet’s question about the “new girl” piqued my interest. I’d
been looking for her since I’d arrived at school. Still, I acted
cool.
“Nope,”
I said, adding a shrug.
“Bullshit.
You must have seen her. You just blushed.”
“I
don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Janet
looked me over. “Her name’s Aja—A-J-A. It’s pronounced like
Asia but with more of a J sound. She’s a total fox, super
exotic-looking. She just moved here from a remote village in Brazil.
Everyone’s talking about her but I hear she’s not talking much.
The word is—she’s not stuck-up, just quiet.” Janet paused.
“What do you think? Want to ask her out?”
“How
about I meet her first, then decide?” I said.
“Okay.
But I think with this one you’re going to have to act fast. She’s
no Nicole. You can’t wait two years to get up your nerve. She’ll
go quick.”
I
felt a stab of pain that Janet had so carelessly brought up Nicole
but hid it. “What makes you so sure? She might be picky.”
Janet
wavered. “True. But a ton of guys are going to hit on her. She’s
a looker and she’s got money and she knows how to dress.”
Recalling
the plain, dusty dress Aja had been wearing in the park, that
surprised me. “Really?”
Janet
caught the note in my voice. “You have seen her, you bastard. Why
do you lie to me when you’re such a shitty liar? Tell me the truth,
have you talked to her?”
I
sighed. “I saw a new girl last Friday while walking home from
school. She was sitting in the park, plucking flowers. I’m not sure
she’s the same person you’re talking about.”
“Right.
Like this town has a surplus of beautiful girls.”
“Hold
on a sec. You’re the one who says us guys are always judging a book
by its cover. Well, what are you doing? So she’s pretty. So she’s
got expensive clothes. She could still be a jerk.”
“She’s
not, she’s cool.” Janet leaned closer, lowered her voice. “I
met her, I spoke to her.”
“When?”
“Ten
minutes ago. We only exchanged a few words but I sensed something
unique about her.” Janet paused. “You know the last time I said
that, don’t you?”
“Ages
ago. When you met me.”
“That’s
right. That’s why you need to ask her out.”
“I’ll
think about it.”
Mr.
Simon stumbled in right then, smelling like Colombian Gold, and told
us to open our textbooks to chapter three. It was Janet who had to
remind him that we hadn’t covered chapter two yet.
I
spent most of the class digesting what Janet had said. I’d learned
long ago to take her insights seriously. Janet was not merely smart;
she had an uncanny intuition when it came to people. She said 99.99
percent of the population were sheep. If she liked Aja, it meant she
was more than a pretty face.
I
saw Aja in third period, before lunch, in American History.
We
were in the same class. Just my luck.
Maybe,
I thought, maybe not. My usual seat was in the corner, all the way in
the back. Aja came in two minutes after me and sat down in the first
row, but the last seat, by the windows. Basically, even though we
occupied the same room, she was pretty far away. I couldn’t help
but think she’d somehow spotted me, remembered me staring at her
the previous Friday afternoon, and had gone out of her way to keep
her distance.
Of
course, given the fact that she hadn’t even glanced in my direction
when she’d entered the classroom, I was probably just being
paranoid.
She
looked good, better than good. There were plenty of heads between me
and her and all I could see was Aja’s. Her dark hair appeared a
little shorter than last Friday, like she’d gotten a trim over the
weekend. But the shine was still there. And her long eyelashes, seen
in profile, were amazing.
Our
teacher, Mrs. Nancy Billard, came into the room. A stuffy, old bird
if you got on her wrong side, but one of the most caring people you
could meet if she happened to like you. She taught AP English on top
of history and I’d had her for English the previous year and had
won her over with a slew of wild-and-crazy short stories I’d
written. She liked students who thought outside the box.
However,
those who landed on her wrong side were either flunked or ignored or
both. In her AP classes she enforced a strict work ethic. She said
anyone who wanted to go to college had to earn it.
“I
see we have a new student today,” she said, glancing in Aja’s
direction. “I was told you’d be joining us. What’s your name?”
“Aja,”
she replied in a soft voice.
“Is
that your first or last name?”
“It’s
what people call me.”
Billard
cleared her throat, a bad sign. “Then that’s what I’ll call
you. But please humor the rest of the class and tell us your full
name.”
“Aja
Smith.”
“Took
a moment to remember your family name?”
Aja
stared at her and said nothing.
Billard
continued. “Well, we’re all very happy you could join us two
weeks late. Another week and you’d have wandered in during the
Civil War. Ted, fetch a textbook for Aja from the closet and let’s
all open to page forty-nine, chapter three. Time we got to the
thirteen colonies and their feud with King George the Third.”
Billard paused and glanced at Aja again. “Do you have a problem,
girl?”
“No.”
“You’re
looking at me kind of funny. I thought maybe you did.” Aja didn’t
reply, just continued to stare at her, which didn’t sit well with
Billard. “You do know something about American history, don’t
you?”
“No,”
Aja replied.
Billard
blinked, unsure whether Aja was sassing her or not. “Then it’s
your responsibility to catch up. This is an AP class—there are no
shortcuts here. Read the first forty-eight pages of your textbook
tonight and I’ll quiz you on them tomorrow.”
Aja
nodded without speaking as she accepted the textbook from Ted Weldon,
a football jock with a double-digit IQ and a gross habit of farting
whenever he yawned. Some might have wondered what he was doing in an
AP class. But those who bothered to contemplate the matter probably
didn’t know that Ted’s father was best buddies with Elder High’s
Principal Levitt and that—despite what Billard had just said—there
were always shortcuts available to those students whose parents knew
the right people.
Handing
Aja her textbook, Ted didn’t simply look at her; he gloated over
her face and body before returning to his chair, eliciting a mild
chuckle from the rest of the class.
“Thanks,”
Aja said. Her voice was not merely soft, it was smooth, cool,
confident. She obviously didn’t have to speak up to make a point.
Plus her answers to Billard’s questions had been at best evasive,
which I naturally had to admire.
Yet
I could tell already that Billard didn’t like her and that Aja was
probably going to have a hard time in her class. That bothered me, a
little, even though she was a total stranger.
Total
stranger. Damn. Got to change that fast.
I
remembered Janet’s warning that Aja would not last when it came to
Elder High’s horny guys, and it got my adrenaline pumping. When
class was over I caught up with her outside in the hallway and walked
by her side before she stopped at her locker. Oh no, I thought. I
wasn’t ready for this. Suddenly a life-changing choice was upon me.
I could either keep walking and live the rest of my days in regret or
I could stop and pretend to have a locker next to her.
I
did the latter, spinning the dial on the lock like it was preset to
my favorite radio station. Only the volume never came on and the
locker never opened because I had no idea what the combination was.
Fortunately, Aja seemed to be having trouble with her own locker and
I was able to swoop in and rescue her.
“It’s
not opening?” I asked, way too casually and with a stupid grin on
my face.
Aja
pulled a slip of paper from her pants pocket and stuck it out for me
to take. “I was told this is the combination,” she said.
Aja
didn’t have on ordinary pants; she wore designer jeans that had
clearly been purchased far from Elder’s finest clothing stores. Up
top she had on an ultrathin maroon sweater; and if it was responsible
for her subtle curves, then it was worth its weight in gold. Her
silky blouse had red in it as well—a rusty color that made me think
of desert sand dunes and romantic sunset kisses and . . .
I
was losing it, I suddenly realized. Aja’s big brown eyes were still
waiting for me to take her slip of paper. I shook my head and took a
breath. Breathing was good, I reminded myself.
“This
looks like it might work,” I said. Duh! The piece of paper said:
“LOCKER NUMBER” on top. A sequence of three numbers followed:
12–18–24. All the locks in school—all the combinations I’d
ever seen, for that matter—worked on the right-left-right sequence.
When I dialed in Aja’s three digits, the locker immediately opened.
Amazing. I noticed her eyes following me closely and added, “You
see how it works?”
“Yes,”
she replied, and it was only then I realized she’d never had a
locker before. She deposited her book inside and closed it. Out of
habit, I reached up and spun the dial.
“You
can’t be too careful,” I said.
“Pardon?”
“Your
lock. You need to spin it to clear the combination.” She didn’t
respond, just stared at me. Again, I felt the need to add something.
“So no one will break into your locker.”
“Kids
do that here?” she asked.
“Some
kids do, yeah.” Again, she seemed to wait for me to continue so I
added, “Actually, the students here don’t like being called
kids.”
“What
should I call them?”
“Girls
or guys or people. Kids—it sounds kind of young, you know.”
“I
didn’t know that but thanks for telling me.”
“No
problem. By the way, my name’s Fred Allen. I’m in your history
class. I sit in the back.”
“I
saw you.”
“You
did?” God, the way I asked the question, the sheer amount of wonder
in my tone, it was like she’d just told me she’d found a heart
donor that could save my life. I reminded myself again to keep
breathing and try to act normal. Fortunately, Aja didn’t appear to
notice my clumsiness.
“Yes,”
she said simply, adding, “I’m Aja.”
“I
know. I mean, I heard what you told Mrs. Billard.” Aja nodded and
again acted as if she wanted me to keep talking. I added, “She can
be a great teacher if she thinks you’re trying. But slack off and
she’ll classify you as a loser. Then you’ll be in trouble. She
was serious when she told you that she’s going to quiz you on the
first two chapters of the textbook. If I was you I’d study tonight.
I’d read chapter three as well. I wouldn’t be surprised if she
quizzed you on the whole lot.”
“I
will.” She looked past me as the student body converged toward
Elder High’s courtyard. We had an indoor cafeteria but no one
ventured inside before the first snow came. The school lunch staff
didn’t mind. They kept a half-dozen windows open where you could
order a decent hamburger, hot dog, or sandwich if you had the money.
Since I was on a strict budget, I usually brought a brown bag from
home and just picked up a Coke from one of the vending machines. In
fact, my lunch was waiting for me back at my real locker, although I
felt in no hurry to get to it.
“The
kids . . . the girls and guys have lunch now?” Aja asked.
“Yeah.
It’s always after third period. Are you hungry?”
“This
bod . . .” She suddenly stopped. “Yes.”
“Bring
anything from home?” I knew she hadn’t because I’d seen the
interior of her locker and it had been empty. She shook her head and
for the hundredth time waited for me to go on. I added, “Then you
should probably pick up something at the windows.”
“Are
you going to these . . . windows?”
“Uh-huh.
I can show you where they are if you want. If you don’t have other
plans, I mean.”
She
flashed a smile. “I don’t have any plans, Fred.”
I
liked how she said my name and loved her smile; nevertheless, I
groaned inside thinking how hard Janet would be laughing if she could
see me now. Honestly, my nervousness made no sense. Sure, Aja was
pretty, and, sure, I liked her, or at least I thought I did. But she
was the new girl in town, a stranger from another country, and
English was obviously a second language for her. She should have been
the one stumbling all over the place.
I
assumed the language barrier was the reason she had almost referred
to herself as “This body.” I was pretty sure that’s what she’d
been about to say.
I
escorted her to the windows and if I’d been forced to critique my
stride I’d have to say I looked like an extra on The Walking Dead.
I was definitely taking time finding my cool gear. But eventually I
began to calm down and by the time we’d waited in line and it was
our turn to order I was feeling pretty good about myself. Why not?
I’d just met Aja and already I was taking her to lunch. Not bad for
a few minutes’ work. I’d decided to pay for whatever she ordered
to show what a gentleman I was.
“Hey,
Fred, how’s the demo going?” Carlos asked from the other side of
the glass. He was from Mexico and worked three jobs to keep his
family of six out of the rain. He was also a genius when it came to
playing the acoustic guitar and was helping me to lay down tracks on
a new three-song demo I was struggling to put together.
Yeah,
I know, so I wanted to be a rock star.
But
tell the truth. Who didn’t?
“It’s
getting there,” I said honestly, turning to Aja, who was staring at
Carlos and not bothering to look at the overhead menu. To his credit,
Carlos acted like I showed up every afternoon with a pretty girl on
my arm. “Know what you want?” I asked Aja.
She
looked at me. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Want
a burger? A sandwich? A salad?”
“I’ll
have what you’re having,” she said.
“I
was going to have a turkey sandwich with fries. And a Coke. That
sound good?”
Aja
nodded. “That’s good.”
Carlos
whipped up our sandwiches in three minutes flat and when it was time
to pay Aja pulled out a wad of cash fat enough to buy a new car with.
I hastily told her I had it covered and she put the money back in her
pocket.
Like
the rest of town, Elder High was kind of old and kind of poor, and no
part of our campus reflected those qualities more than our courtyard.
It had no tables, no umbrellas to block the sun, no drinking
fountains. Only peeling wooden benches that, if you were lucky,
managed to catch the shade of a nearby tree.
Of
course we had trees, the whole state did, except for our infamous
Badlands, which I, personally, happened to love. I steered Aja toward
a shady bench located somewhere between where the jocks and the bad
boys gathered. Like most schools, Elder High had a variety of clearly
defined social groups, none of which had ever shown the slightest
interest in attracting me as a member.
For
a few minutes I had Aja all to myself but I wasted them because all I
did was eat and watch her eat. It was during this time I noticed that
she seemed to be following my lead. When I unwrapped my turkey
sandwich, she unwrapped hers. When I reached for a fry or a sip of
Coke, she did the same. She didn’t take nearly as big bites as I
did, though. If anything she chewed her food more thoroughly than
anyone I’d ever met.
But
she only mimicked me for a few minutes before quitting.
“Where
are you from?” I finally asked.
Aja
pointed north. “I live with my aunt Clara. In a white house by a
large pond.”
I
had meant where she was from in Brazil but her answer interested me.
“You don’t live in the old Carter Mansion, do you?”
“Carter?
Hmm. Yes, the realtor told Aunty that was the name of the man who
built the house. That’s where this . . . that’s where I stay.”
“That’s
one big house. Is it just the two of you?”
“Bart
lives with us.”
“Who’s
Bart?”
“Bart
is Bart. He takes care of things.”
“Is
he a housekeeper? A butler?”
“Yes.
He’s been with Aunty since before I met her.”
“How
old were you when you met your aunt?”
“I
was small.” Aja added casually, “I ran into her in the jungle.”
“The
jungle?”
“The
town where I was born is surrounded by jungle.”
“And
you just sort of bumped into your aunt?”
“Yes.”
“Are
you saying she’s not your real aunt?”
Aja
sipped her drink. “She’s as real as you and me.”
I
frowned. “This was in Brazil?”
“Yes.”
I
wanted to continue my line of questioning but we got interrupted
right then by Dale Parish and Michael Garcia, two close friends of
mine. Actually, two members of a band I’d formed—Half Life. Dale
played bass and Mike was our drummer. Dale had only been playing a
year but he was a natural and kept improving in leaps and bounds
every month. Mike—he’d been banging on anything that made noise
since he’d been a kid. No joke, he was like a force of nature
onstage. We were lucky to have him. I kept expecting to lose him to a
louder and more successful group.
Yet
Mike swore he’d never leave us. He had faith in my singing and
songwriting abilities.
Unfortunately,
he also had a temper and was unpredictable. He missed plenty of
practice sessions, even a few paid gigs. We never knew which Mike was
going to show up. If he was loaded, on pot or beer, we knew the
“Beast” was in the room and we’d better watch out. But when he
was sober he was the nicest guy. The swings could be stressful.
Worse,
Mike caused Dale constant grief. Because Dale was in love with him
and Mike didn’t have a clue. On the surface it seemed impossible,
since they’d grown up together. But the truth was Mike didn’t
even know Dale was gay. And Dale had begged me and our keyboardist,
Shelly Wilson, never to tell him.
Carlos
had warned me—and Carlos never lied—that Mike often hung out with
a Hispanic gang in Balen that controlled most of the area’s drug
traffic. If anything was going to tear our band apart, I knew it was
going to be the tension between our drummer and bass player.
“Who
do we have here?” Mike asked, straddling the bench beside Aja like
it—or she—was a horse he was anxious to ride. Dale nodded to me
and smiled uneasily in Aja’s direction but remained standing.
Physically,
the two couldn’t have been more unlike. Mike was dark-skinned,
short and stocky, and could bench-press more than Elder’s heartiest
jocks. If a swinging chick was looking for a bad boy who could rip
holes in the sheets, Mike was it. While Dale—well, I never met a
more gentle soul in my life but there was a reason his stage name was
“The Corpse.” He was way beyond skinny and pale. Onstage, under a
harsh spotlight, he almost looked transparent. But the boy sure could
play. That was all that mattered to me.
I
spoke up. “Aja, these are two musician friends of mine, Mike and
Dale. We’re in a band together. Dale plays bass and Mike the drums.
Guys, this is Aja. She’s from Brazil. This is her first day at
Elder High.”
Aja
nodded in their direction. “I enjoy music.”
“But
do you like musicians?” Mike asked, teasing. “That’s what I
want to know. Besides, what the hell are you doing with Fred? Did he
tell you he’s such a wuss that he won’t go onstage—and I’m
talking practically every single gig we play—without me swearing
that I’ve got his back?”
“I’m
afraid it’s true,” I admitted. In the band, during shows, once
Mike got going he created such a ferocious rhythm that he drowned out
any flat notes I hit on my guitar or with my voice.
“Fred
has more talent in his little finger than the rest of us combined,”
Dale added.
Mike
slapped me on the back. “Yeah, Fred’s the only one in this town
that’s going places. Take my word for it. So how did you two meet?”
I
assumed Aja would remain silent, given her habit, and that I’d have
to answer. However, she stared Mike right in the eye and said, “We
met last Friday in the park. He was watching me pick flowers and I
smiled at him but he ignored me. But today he’s a lot more
friendly.”
Her
comment caused my heart to skip.
She’d
smiled at me?
Mike
was suddenly curious about her accent. “¿Hablan español en el
lugar de Brasil de donde vienes?” he asked.
“No
muchos. Pero algunos,” Aja said.
“¿Pero
creciste hablando portugués?” Mike asked.
“Sim,”
Aja said.
“What
the hell are they saying?” I asked Dale. He’d taken four years of
Spanish at school but his real knowledge of the language had come
from hanging around Mike’s family. Dale leaned over and whispered
in my ear.
“Mike
asked if they spoke Spanish in her part of Brazil. Aja said, ‘Not
many, but some.’ Then Mike asked, ‘But you grew up speaking
Portuguese?’ And Aja said, ‘Yes.’ ”
“Why
the sudden interest in Aja’s background?” I said. But Mike
ignored me and continued to speak to Aja, who appeared to fascinate
him.
“Your
accent—you remind me of my grandmother,” Mike said. “She could
speak half a dozen languages. She sounded like she was from
everywhere, and nowhere, if you know what I mean. Sort of like you.”
Aja
lowered her head. “Ninguém do nada.”
“What
was that?” I asked quickly.
Apparently
she’d answered in Portuguese, which neither Mike nor Dale
understood. When I asked Aja what she’d said, all she did was shake
her head like it didn’t matter.
Dale
flashed Mike a sign that it was time to split and Mike, knowing my
bad luck with girls, bid us a quick farewell. When they were gone Aja
and I returned to eating our sandwiches and fries. A long silence
settled between us but to my surprise it wasn’t uncomfortable. I
suspected Aja had spent most of her life alone and wasn’t bothered
by quiet.
“I
apologize for Mike,” I said. “He can be a handful when you first
meet him.”
“He
has a fiery spirit.”
“I
suppose that’s where all the smoke comes from.”
Aja
turned her big, brown eyes on me. “They look up to you. Are you
that good?”
I
assumed she was asking about my musical abilities and shrugged. “As
far as South Dakota is concerned, I could be the next Mozart. But if
I performed at a club in Los Angeles or New York or Seattle I’d be
laughed off the stage.” I took a gulp of Coke. “Trying to make a
living as a singer/songwriter is probably the most irrational
ambition a guy can have. One in a million—no, one in ten
million—ends up making money at it.”
“But
it’s what you want to do,” she said.
“Unfortunately.”
“Then
you’ll do it.”
I
chuckled. “You haven’t even seen us play.”
The
remark was far from subtle. I was hoping she’d bite and say she’d
like to come to a show. Also, it wasn’t by chance that I’d
switched from talking about me to talking about the band. If she
didn’t bite, then she was rejecting Half Life, not me. So went my
crazy logic. The truth was I’d brought up being a musician to
impress her. It was shameless, I know, but I figured I had to play
what cards I held.
“Is
it fun for you?” she asked.
“Being
onstage? Sometimes—when I forget what I’m doing and that people
are watching me. Then I love it. But most of the time I’m way too
self-conscious and can’t wait until the gig is over. Seriously.”
Aja
continued to stare at me and because she didn’t blink often, it was
a bit disconcerting. “Play for me sometime,” she said.
There.
I’d practically begged her to ask but now that she had I wished I’d
kept my mouth shut. I shook my head. “I’m not a solo artist.
Better to see me in the band.”
She
nodded but I didn’t think she believed me.
“How
about you?” I asked. “What’s your favorite hobby?”
She
hesitated. “I don’t have any hobbies. I just . . . enjoy things.”
“What
sort of things?”
“Bart
told me to watch out for questions like that. He said they’d get me
into trouble.”
Her
response caught me off guard. “Huh?”
“I
told you about Bart.”
“I
know, I heard you. But he actually told you how to behave while you
were at school today?”
Aja
nodded. “He spent the weekend trying to teach me what to say and
what not to say.”
“Isn’t
that a little weird?”
If
my question bothered her, she showed no sign. “Bart said he had to
teach me so I wouldn’t appear weird to the rest of you.” As if to
reassure me, she reached out and touched my arm. “He was trying to
help.”
The
instant she touched me, I felt something odd, a lapse of sorts, where
I had trouble focusing. The scene around us, the guys and girls
walking back and forth across the courtyard, they didn’t stop but
they did seem to slow down. I shook my head to clear it and the
sensation eased up, somewhat. I noticed Aja had taken back her hand.
I had to struggle to get out my next remark.
“I
should meet this guy. Maybe he can help me with my weirdness.”
Aja
suddenly stood, leaving what was left of her food behind on the
bench. She wasn’t tall but at that moment she could have been
standing on a chair and looking down at me. I worried that my
peculiar sensation had not passed, after all. Again, I had to remind
myself that she was new to the school, the stranger in a strange
land, but right then I was certain I had it all wrong, that she was
more at home in Elder than I could ever hope to be.
“I’m
glad we got to talk, Fred. I hope I see you again soon.”
With
that she turned and walked away.
About
the Author:
Christopher
Pike is a bestselling author of young adult novels. The Thirst
series, The Secret of Ka, and the Remember Me and Alosha trilogies
are some of his favorite titles. He is also the author of several
adult novels, including Sati and The Season of Passage.
Thirst
and Alosha are slated to be released as feature films. Pike currently
lives in Santa Barbara, where it is rumored he never leaves his
house.
Series
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