Part 8 (1/2)

I almost wept with joy when the dinner chime rang just then. I scrambled to my feet, tossed my buckwheat pillow on the pile in the corner, and headed out after Rachel.

Not so fast, Gra.s.shopper.

”Nas? A minute?”

I turned with extreme reluctance to face Anne. The others filed out-lucky b.a.s.t.a.r.ds-leaving us alone in the small workroom.

Anne looked like she was thinking of how to say something. Finally she asked, ”Is everything okay? You seemed really upset for a second.”

”Oh, I'm okay,” I said unconvincingly.

Anne waited for a couple moments to see if I would break down and tell the truth, but when I didn't, she went on. ”I remembered you'd heard people's thoughts, in an earlier meditation cla.s.s. I guess-I wasn't sure if you could always do it or whether that was a fluke. But-it's actually not okay to eavesdrop.”

”Is there a way to stop it?” I asked.

Anne blinked in surprise. ”Yes. You don't listen in on purpose?”

”No. I just... sort of feel my mind opening.” I remembered the cutting things my inner Nasty had thrown at me. ”Sometimes too much.”

”Okay, that will be our next lesson,” said Anne. ”I've never had to teach someone how to not do that-almost no one can. But it makes sense for you-I should have thought of it earlier. I'll teach you how, okay?”

”Sure.” I started to walk out, but she wasn't done.

”Nastasya-you really did seem frightened at the end. When you looked at Amy. What was it?”

I glanced at Anne quickly, remembering that Amy was her sister. ”Nothing! I mean, Amy's fine. It was just-my mind playing tricks on me. For just a second she looked like someone else-the friend I left in London. Incy.”

Anne frowned. ”Had you been thinking about Incy?”

”Not just then. But it's nothing about Amy. She doesn't remind me of him or anything.”

”Hmm,” Anne said, walking with me out the door.

I shrugged my shoulders, self-conscious and not wanting to talk about it. Had my mind been telling me that I was hopelessly dark? As dark as Innocencio? As dark as my parents had been? Was it in my blood, inescapably? And... would there be any point to me being here, if that was true?

CHAPTER 11.

Be active, my subconscious had said. Make it right. Grow up.

If I had my way, my subconscious would never get another gig as long as I lived. Wait. c.r.a.p. Never mind.

I had no idea what it had meant. I pondered it all the way through Charles's fabulous Chinese dinner, then through a shower, then for about two seconds after I fell into bed, exhausted. When I jolted awake at 5:29, one minute before my alarm went off, I knew that forming any kind of make-it-right plan was a not-happening thing.

I was on egg-gathering duty that morning, appropriately enough, given the chickens.h.i.+t reference. The devil chicken gave me the evil eye, and I didn't even try to get her eggs. Someday I would come in here with asbestos fireplace gloves up to my elbows, and there would be a reckoning. But not today.

I put the last warm egg in my basket, imagining my brain overheating from thinking too hard, smoke coming out of my ears. Make it right. Try one little thing at a time. Maybe. Okay, how about... I would try to... um, not judge people too harshly? At least not right away, I amended in a nod to reality. I groaned at coming up with the lamest thing ever and left the warm, feathery coop to head back to the house. About forty feet ahead of me was Reyn, carrying two metal pails of milk from our two milk cows, Beulah and Petunia. He looked tall and strong, carrying the pails as if they were empty. I forced myself to see him as: Man Carrying Milk Pails. He was not only the person I remembered from long ago, and he was not only the superficial, physical object of my fevered fantasies. He was a whole, real person-and, actually, I barely knew him.

We ended up at the kitchen steps together, and he looked over at me.

”Good morning,” I said. Big-girl Nastasya.

”Morning.” I felt his surprise. Then we went into the kitchen.

So, if you try to make things right with someone, and they dis you, it's so humiliating. Which is why I had never, ever tried. I'd written off any number of friends, had left any number of towns, rather than try to mend a hurt or a misunderstanding or a wrong. I had no idea how to make things right with anyone, much less... Old Mac, for example.

I had no idea what to do, but my rookie instinct told me that I probably had to be in proximity to Old Mac to even try.

So I drove myself to work. The drugstore was unlocked, and my time card was where I had thrown it on the checkout counter. For a second I wondered if Mr. MacIntyre hadn't even locked up the night before, but then I saw him behind his pharmacy counter, and he was wearing different clothes. He looked up when the bell over the door jangled and seemed both surprised and angry to see me. I just went to the back, punched in my time card, and started sweeping.

He came out to stare at me, hands on hips, but I kept sweeping. Sweeping seemed like a very active thing. I swept my pile all the way to the front door and out onto the sidewalk. Then I turned the CLOSED sign to OPEN and got out the feather duster. After a while he went back behind the counter, though I felt him watching me, off and on, most of the morning. Meriwether was in school, and he didn't have anyone else. I did my usual tasks: straightening shelves, marking off what stock needed replacing on the inventory list.

Toward noon the bell jangled and I looked up to see a couple I didn't recognize, a man and a woman, dressed as if they did not live in West Lowing. Boston, maybe. New York. Paris. Most of our customers were locals, and I recognized literally about 98 percent of them. These were strangers.

”Hey,” I said from my position on the floor. ”Can I help you find something?”

The woman looked at me, and for some reason, right then, I s.h.i.+vered. Her hair was corn straw yellow and cut in a feathery cap all around her head. Her eyes were a very light blue. The man looked from-India Indian, smooth-skinned and polished, well dressed, with blunt, handsome features and a mouth that looked... cruel.

I stood up. They were probably tourists, had gotten lost, just as I had once. But something about them felt-not right. Hinky. My skin crawled and I suddenly felt chilly. It was dumb-I didn't know them; they didn't know me; it was nothing. But still.

”Allergy medicine,” said the woman. She had a slight British accent.

”First aisle, in the middle,” I said, not smiling.

”Thank you.”

I kept my distance as they stood in the cold-and-allergy aisle and read labels. They talked to each other in low murmurs, and I felt like-like they weren't even reading the labels. Like they were killing time by being here. Almost as if they were waiting for someone. Could they... be friends of Incy's? Surely I would have seen them before?

My fists clenched at my sides. I stayed standing, as if I might suddenly have to run. It was weird, and probably stupid, but I felt like a gazelle being eyed by two cheetahs. My breaths were shallow; my heart was beating fast. I sidled toward the back and saw Old Mac engrossed in deciphering a doctor's handwriting.

I edged around the end of the aisle, as if I was casually walking toward the front of the store, and when I quickly glanced up, they were watching me. My heart started pounding.

”There are so many different kinds,” said the woman, holding up a box of Benadryl.

”Yes,” I said, not going any closer. ”Some make you sleepy; some don't. Some work more quickly, but some you have to take every day for them to work well. It depends on what you want it for.” I realized I was jabbering on because I was nervous.

The woman nodded. She and the man met eyes again and murmured. I have really good hearing, like, beagle-good hearing, and I couldn't make out a single word they said. Was it a different language? I didn't even recognize the basic patterns and cadences of speech, and I know bits of a lot of languages.

”We want the kind that makes you sleepy,” said the woman, and I wondered hysterically if they wanted to dope a victim. With... Benadryl. Unlikely, right?

”Benadryl would do it,” I said, my voice cracking. I coughed and headed toward the front counter. My hands were shaking and clammy. I'd never had such a visceral reaction to a person-not to anyone. It was freaking me out. I couldn't even tell if they were immortal or not.

The woman put the box on the counter. Usually you have to look in someone's eyes, or maybe touch them, to ”feel” if they were immortal or not. But everything in me refused to look her in the eyes. I was seriously wigging.

I rang up the medicine, the woman paid in cash, I made change, and they left.

I saw them get in their car and drive away, but stood there and watched the front door obsessively, as if they might suddenly reappear. After a few minutes I hurried to the back, pulled that door tightly shut, and locked it. Finally I felt myself relax a little, as if my body no longer sensed a threat.