Darkhaven

I woke a few hours later to the Sunday morning commotion of the Wilson house. Robert (Cecelia’s dad, the inspirational Doctor Wilson) was being all suburban-family-man-like and mowing the lawn. Nancy’s blender whirred in the kitchen. Alyce and Fiona, Cecelia’s sisters – fifteen and eleven respectively – ran around getting ready for ballet, Alyce frantic over a missing hairband, Fiona prattling about wanting a horse. Or a ferret. Robert was allergic, so although Cecelia had campaigned for a cat at a similar age, the Wilsons’ had remained a pet-fur-free zone.

The crazy unreality of the previous day faded, and I was left with a heavy realisation: my life had changed. I mean, I’d never had a normal family, except by being an add-on in the Wilson household, but now not even Italian dinners with Alex trying not to give away any work secrets was normal. I had secrets of my own.

Despite the drugging, punching and escaping of last night, I felt good. Maybe a bit tired, and worried that I would succumb to another sensory overload panic attack, but physically good. I took my time in the bathroom putting my usual makeup on, even though my face was clearer than it had ever been, and waited until the commotion subsided before venturing out. Nancy and the younger girls were gone, and the lawnmower racket was replaced with the snick of secateurs as Robert pruned the roses outside the kitchen window.

True to the Sunday incident rules, Cecelia didn’t ask any questions, but that didn’t make it easier. Cecelia and I shared everything. Words burned on my tongue, pushing to be spilled. Cecelia, you won’t believe what happened. I was struck by lightning. Now I’m some kind of superhuman. I don’t know what to do.

We unpacked our books and sat in the Wilson’s dedicated study room. It was large and sunny with a massive skylight and a square table in the middle, room for eight people to sit with books all around them, complete with power points for laptop chargers along the underside of the desk. At the window, which overlooked the backyard, were several pots of thriving peace lilies. A comfortable two-seater sofa sat in the corner next to the plants. It was a pleasant room, but it was bright. I could feel the light pushing through my eyes and into the back of my brain. Although my memory seemed to be sharp – I could remember everything I’d seen on the menu at the Shack yesterday, including almond milk being an extra $1.50 and malt sixty cents – I couldn’t even read the human biology book Cecelia had thrust at me. Words swam on the page and my skin felt hot. Cecelia was buried in her chemistry notes. I mumbled something about going to get a glass of water and slipped out of the room.

The house was calm, with Nancy and the girls gone and Robert pottering in a flowerbed. I leaned against the kitchen bench, sipping water.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a message from Alex, confirming that he was flying in tonight. Apparently Dad had been called away on an urgent mission. I hesitated. I hadn’t heard from him at all. The timing was suspicious. The Taskforce was a government operation, albeit unsanctioned, and Dad worked high up in government intelligence. It wasn’t an unreasonable leap to imagine that Dad was involved, and that this urgent mission was dealing with whatever fallout my escape had caused last night. I had no idea if I could trust Alex. But I couldn’t avoid both of them forever.

My phone buzzed again, this time with a message from an unknown number.

Call if you need anything. K.

Then, about ten seconds later:

God of Lightning.

Maybe he could be useful and help me out if Alex tried anything. I saved Keraun’s number and messaged Alex back to say I’d be there for dinner. Then I rejoined Cecelia and tried to study. Enhanced memory or not, I wouldn’t be raising suspicion by acing exams if I never looked at a textbook, despite Stephen’s admonitions about keeping my grades in check.

I made an honest effort. But, I thought as I found myself staring out the window at Robert’s perfectly trimmed hedge for the fifteenth time in as many minutes, Stephen probably didn’t have to worry on that count.

***

My uncle and I had a custom for the first night of my stays in the city: he’d forego his healthy regime and we’d eat out at Harrys. We jagged our favourite table, outside on the street front, screened by lush potted plants. I watched him carefully, but Alex didn’t say anything about Dad, or anything else that seemed odd. Then our meals arrived, and I stopped thinking altogether.

I didn’t have words to describe the tastes I was experiencing. The food at Harrys was always delicious, full of oregano and fresh tomatoes and handmade pasta, but tonight it was incredible. I was too distracted by flavours dancing on my tongue to hear Alex talking.

’…worried about you.′

‘What?’ I asked with a mouthful. I swallowed. ‘Sorry. Why are you worried?’

Alex put his fork down, frowning. His expression pulled on the scar that ran down the left side of his face. When I was eight, he’d picked me up from school one day with an angry red gash, stitched up and made even more grisly by a purpled eye. I was terrified. He’d told me, with what must have been a painful laugh, that he’d clashed swords with a pirate for the release of an innocent man. I had believed him at the time.

‘Nancy is worried about you. And you’ve been unusually quiet this evening.’

I had to know if he knew. I wondered if I could slip a question in without sounding obvious.

‘Has Dad said anything?’ So obvious. I cringed internally.

Alex’s fork hovered in mid-air. ‘Only that he had to fly out urgently.’

Somehow, I knew he was being truthful. He didn’t know. I breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Are you okay, Gabby?’ Concern warmed his voice.

I toyed with the straw in my lemonade. ‘Yeah. Just worried about my university applications.’

‘I know,’ he said, sipping his wine. ‘Nancy told me.’

I frowned. ‘I haven’t talked to Nancy about it.’

Alex nodded. ‘That’s what she said. You usually talk to her about things like this.’

My throat felt hot and I could feel my eyes watering, something that happened annoyingly often these days. But the thing was, I hadn’t planned to talk to Nancy, even before my Event. I knew it was stupid, but I felt it was my fault. Like somehow, in my nearly seventeen years, I’d taken so many wrong turns that I now had no other options. Or I was just fundamentally flawed, and that was why I felt no calling. If someone had told me a week ago that I’d be getting a genetic upgrade, I’d have thought it would fix these feelings. But it hadn’t, and they were closer to the surface than ever, stinging my being.

I blinked back the tears, taking a sip of my lemonade to hide my face. When I looked up, Alex was busy with his tagliatelle. We ate in gentle silence for a while. Alex had always been good at giving me space when I needed it.

While we waited for dessert, Alex reached into his laptop case, which went everywhere with him, and pulled out a long, thin box with a ribbon around it. ‘I got you something. I know you’re probably moving out next year, to a uni college or your own place.’

I felt squirm of guilt. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing yet, Alex,’ I said. Great. That would have been a good opportunity to start sowing seeds, preparing him for my eventual disappearance. I have my eye on a course in Brisbane, perhaps, or I was thinking of backpacking for a while. My mind was a mess.

‘Well, you know you have my support in whatever you pursue.’

‘Thanks.’ His concern was moving, and it made me uncomfortable, knowing I was supposed to say goodbye sometime soon.

I opened the box. Inside was a silver bracelet, with an intricate chain that almost looked like tiny pieces of silver ravioli linked together. I smiled. Opposite the clasp was a flat plate with Gabby engraved on it.

‘Turn it over,’ Alex said. On the other side of the plate were the words Superhuman Jeans. My breath stuck in my throat. It had been our little joke for years, since my high school did some stupid superhero dress-up day. I had, at thirteen, sworn off skirts, leggings and tight jeans because I thought they made my developing thighs look chunky. It ruled out all of the cool costumes. Alex had said I could be my own superhero, and he’d helped me come up with a costume that included my favourite slouchy jeans. I’d ignored the derisive looks from the other girls because at least they weren’t laughing at my legs and told Mrs Johnsen I’d read a webcomic about a superhero in comfy clothes. I had eventually come to terms with my thighs and discovered that I could pull off skirts and skinnier jeans, and now I lived in them.

‘Just so you know,’ Alex said, voice slightly lower than before, ‘that it doesn’t matter if you don’t fit the mould. You can do anything.’ When he smiled, his scar almost disappeared. I struggled with the clasp. He took the bracelet and secured it around my wrist. I met his eyes, blinking furiously.

‘Thank you,’ I whispered. A pang of remorse shot through me: unless I found a way out, I’d be going to Darkhaven and leaving him forever. And I kind of wanted to go to Darkhaven. But he’d believe Superhuman Jeans was dead.