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  I looked straight ahead. I knew I had to launch into an explanation, but for some reason I didn’t speak, almost like I didn’t want to insult him with lies.

  We were silent for a second.

  “Your hand is completely healed.” Inadvertently I glanced down at my palm, surprised to see he was right. That had happened even faster than usual. John’s voice sounded calmer now, but I knew he was scared. “What else can you do?” he asked me.

  With sudden terror I realized he was completely past the point of needing confirmation. Now he wanted details.

  “God, John, nothing!” I looked at him for a second and knew my eyes, pleading with him to drop it, must have been brighter than usual.

  John abruptly opened the car door. He got out and walked back to the stadium. I knew he was wondering why he’d ever convinced himself he was wrong in the first place. He’d always known what he’d seen.

  OCTOBER

  I spent the next day and a half in sheer panic. I went over and over every ability I could have used in his presence. I had been so sure of myself and oblivious that he might be picking up on the things I was doing. I’d completely underestimated him.

  I rotated through different coffee shops the rest of the weekend. I sat thinking for hours, trying to be methodical and figure out next steps. Would he tell people? Did I need to tell Novak?

  The last time any suspicions were out in the open was when the online article came out. I knew it got under everyone’s skin—how close it got. Especially the one comment buried so deep, I wondered if John had read that far. It was the most information I had on where we’d lived in the past. Scared, I had only read it once before. I searched through the comments until I found it again.

  I’m convinced this group is the same as the one that was living in Lima, Peru, where I studied in the ‘70s. They had the same characteristics—blue eyes, light-brown hair, phenomenally gifted, eerily alike. At the time I became fascinated, reading everything I could about these mysterious people. There was widespread hope that they were descendants of a lost tribe called the Chachapuris, whose ancestors were thought to have traveled, pre-Columbus, by sea from Europe to South America. The Chachapuris resided in the Peruvian Amazon for centuries, in complete isolation until miners happened upon them in the late 1800s.

  According to lore, the Chachapuris astonished the miners with their unusual beauty, healing prowess, and mystical abilities. Descriptions included intricately-braided hair and height that surpassed that of nearby indigenous people. The tribe was reportedly decimated shortly after it was discovered. Gold prospectors killed the people for their land, and the remaining members who didn’t die from disease were taken as wives and slaves.

  From what I remember, at the peak of national scrutiny and a frenzy to establish a connection, the group living in Lima simply vanished.

  I cleared my phone.

  I remembered how soon it had been after the article came out that we’d been gathered, the group of sixteen teenagers.

  Again we heard the lecture from Victoria’s father on the dangers of differences and how a society can be dismantled—first by criminalizing a behavior, then by segregating, confiscating property, and incarcerating. After that Novak divided us into two categories: kids who could keep doing what they were doing, and kids who needed to stifle their instincts.

  Novak said we needed to police ourselves before we were policed. This would only last the couple of years it would take to get Relocation in order. Aside from being crushed that I’d been assigned to the wrong group, it had seemed doable for the short term. None of us chosen to take a step back had had any idea how hard it would be.

  I now realized Victoria’s father might be right. Novak was being pressured legally. We’d been arrested. Were these the first steps in rooting us out?

  Maybe it was childish, but I didn’t believe Novak would let that happen. Even if some frightening powers-that-be focused on bringing him down, Novak had an edge. He’d see it coming and we would leave in time. I could feel Relocation coming. This year was beginning to feel like the last lap.

  God, I missed the days when all I had to worry about was feeling like the black sheep in my own family. If I could go back to the hours before Barton Springs, to that morning, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Maybe I would wake up and realize this was a dream—that I was back at my old school, with my family, that I hadn’t exposed us.

  Monday morning came around. I sat in first period, on pins and needles, pretending I wasn’t watching the door. John only suspected, I kept telling myself. He didn’t have confirmation. And that wasn’t a problem, because he would never get it.

  Just when I thought he wasn’t coming, John walked in, almost late. He wore a gray T-shirt and a pair of madras shorts. It was preppy for him, but was balanced out by the almost-ratty shirt. He looked like he’d had a lot of sun over the weekend, his hair a little lighter. The funny thing was, he walked in wearing Ray-Bans. He didn’t want me to see his eyes, I guessed.

  I tried to look impassive as he walked to the back of the classroom, navigating between desks to take his seat near mine in the back row. As soon as John was in close proximity, my plan to act and feel like everything was his problem was obliterated. It was going to be impossible to ignore him.

  I tried to hear his thoughts and feel his emotions but couldn’t. He’d closed himself off from me. Unexpectedly my eyes began to burn, and I quickly busied myself with my phone. What the hell was my problem? I told myself I was just tearing up because I was frustrated I couldn’t read him, not because I gave a shit that he was ignoring me.

  It didn’t help that all eyes in the class were on John and me. Something had changed, since it was clear our little bubble in the back of the classroom had burst. We’d never done more than exchange hellos and the tiniest bit of chitchat in class, but post-Sarah, John had always stuck a leg out awfully near my desk and leaned his body as close to me as he could get.

  Last week, in the middle of class, he’d rested his cheek on his palm and slid his gaze to my face. It was the kind of look you only gave someone you were with. He had been bored and half-asleep and his guard had dropped. Of course, I had known what he was feeling, and it had been overwhelming. How could I not feel something for him when I was immersed in his intimate thoughts?

  But all that lightness and excitement was gone. Now I knew school would be even worse than the first day, when at least I’d felt more Jaynes than not. Now I felt like a fuckup. I was back to being on an island all my own.

  On Wednesday I arrived at English class a little later than I usually did. I hadn’t slept well—I never did anymore—and I felt like a zombie. I was surprised to see John already there. Although I’d fully expected to be ignored as usual, my heart involuntarily skipped as I thought maybe he’d come early to talk to me. If that was the case, I was too late. A girl from our class with red hair was standing next to his desk, and he was looking up at her, laughing. Was he flirting with her?

  “Your name, please?” I whipped around at the nasal voice. It belonged to a middle-aged man with a potbelly, his short-sleeved shirt straining, and a pointy little brown beard and greasy ponytail. Mrs. Bartell was nowhere in sight.

  “I’m Julia.”

  “Julia what?”

  “Jaynes.” The substitute nodded and, without introducing himself, crossed my name off a class list. I cautiously edged away and headed to my seat. The redheaded girl saw me coming and began to back away, but not before saying to John, “Are you going to Brandon’s on Friday?”

  “He lives right by my house. Sure, I’ll probably see you there.” John smiled at her. That was when I got jealous for real.

  John glanced at me as I sat down, acting indifferent overall. I internally rolled my eyes.

  Even if he was making me miserable, the best part of my day was being next to him. I must have sighed out loud, because I felt John turn his attention to me. I looked up when I felt him continue to watch me, and, just as he seemed about to say
something to me for the first time since Saturday, class started. He shifted his eyes to the front of the classroom. Dammit. I could feel the redhead watching us.

  I tried to remind myself that it was good. We needed to stay separated. But then, as the substitute announced that Mrs. Bartell’s son was ill and then droned on about short stories, I felt the first trickle of John’s thoughts coming to me since the tournament. It took a second to recognize, and it was small, like a crack had opened and I could just barely squeeze through.

  I expected more from her, even a half-assed explanation. Is this how it’s going to go from now on? We both pretend I don’t know?

  I didn’t have time to delve further, because suddenly the class grew quiet and began to work on something.

  “Thirty minutes. Go,” the sub said pompously. The dry erase board read “Mr. Cantugli.”

  What? I wasn’t usually so out of it. Since that overwhelming first day of school, I had come a long way toward developing a system. It was like having multiple plates spinning and I could focus on each one just enough: listen to the teacher, monitor the goings-on in the classroom, and, since the second week of school, pay attention to John’s thoughts as well. But today I couldn’t manage anything correctly.

  Looking around, I realized I had no idea what everyone was writing about. Shit. I looked over at John’s handsome profile, with his straight nose and full lips, his dark head bent as he wrote. He suddenly stopped and swiped a hand down his entire face and leaned back, looking at the ceiling before glancing over at me. I noticed his eczema was pretty bad. I was just about to whisper to him when the sub scrawled, Write a short story: 30 minutes on the overhead projector.

  Okay, I could do that. I got busy, relieved to have something to focus on. I immersed myself and wrote for longer than I should have. When the sub called “time,” I hadn’t done my typical second round of work—writing something average that wouldn’t stand out.

  “All right,” the sub intoned in a nasal voice, “who’s going to read their short story out loud?” Then to my complete horror, the teacher pointed his finger at the class as in “Who’s going to be the lucky contestant?” But I knew he was about to pick me.

  “Miss Jaynes. You come up here and read, please.”

  I realized the substitute had no idea who I was. If he had, he would have had one of two reactions to me—deference or polite avoidance. Now I saw that it had been a gross mistake to stare out the window during his lecture.

  I sat for a moment longer than I should have trying to figure out if there was a way to defy him. I stood and walked slowly to the podium.

  “No hiding behind the podium. Come out in front of the class for the reading,” the sub said.

  What an asshole. He just wants to check her out.

  John didn’t like that everyone was looking at me or that my outfit was more revealing than usual. I’d dressed haphazardly, never thinking I’d be standing up in front of everyone.

  She’s panicking.

  John was worried for me, knowing I didn’t like drawing extra attention to myself.

  I stared down at the words I had written and paused, not believing I was really going to have to do this. What I’d written was too good. I looked down and pretended to read. In reality I recited a Hemingway short story from memory.

  I didn’t know why I did it. We’d read the story earlier that week in class with Mrs. Bartell, and maybe I wanted to exhibit how clueless the substitute was. It was a way to communicate with John. To have him laugh with me.

  I knew exactly when the story began to sound familiar to John.

  But he wasn’t impressed. He couldn’t believe I was taking a risk like this—throwing an assignment in the teacher’s face, letting other students know I had memorized an entire short story verbatim. I felt my rash begin to creep up my wrists.

  When I finished, it was quiet, everyone spellbound.

  The bell rang seemingly out of nowhere. The class sat there for a moment before remembering themselves and packing up.

  I went to gather my things. As I passed him, the sub touched the bare skin on my arm, and it took everything I had not to jerk away. “Well done, Ms. Jaynes,” he said in a smug tone of voice. He had no idea it wasn’t my story.

  Fucking pervert.

  John was watching. I nodded to the sub and walked over to my desk, not wanting to look at John. Now I felt foolish.

  John ignored Reese, the redhead, who seemed to be waiting for him near the front of the classroom by our aisle. She got the hint when he waited while I put all my things together. I felt the substitute’s eyes on us as we left the classroom.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?” he said.

  “I don’t know. Don’t you have to get to class?” I didn’t want to do this.

  “It doesn’t matter. It’ll be quick.” He gestured for me to follow him through the rush of students making their way to class. To my surprise he stopped in front of an elevator and stabbed at the button. When it arrived it was empty. John entered, then turned to give me a challenging look.

  I stepped in. The doors closed behind us and we stood on opposite sides, locking eyes. We didn’t say a word. Every second ticked slowly as the elevator whirred endlessly to the second floor.

  The elevator settled and opened. “This way.” John led me to a door that let out onto a deck. The bell rang, and all at once a hush fell over the school. We were the only two people outside.

  I leaned indolently against the building and raised an eyebrow, trying to gain the upper hand from the start.

  “You’ve got to be more careful.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The short story. The whole class recognized it. What, do you have a photographic memory?” Then he laughed derisively. “Of course you do.”

  “Sure, I have a photographic memory.” I shrugged.

  “I’m not an idiot, even if you want to pretend I am. I can see it all, Julia. It was right in front of my face at Barton Springs. I see all the things that make you…you. I just wanted to let you know you’re getting bad at hiding it. Who knows? You may not care.”

  “Seriously, John, what are you talking about?” My tone was sarcastic: You’re crazy, I’m not.

  “Everyone in there was trying to figure out what seemed off. You don’t blink often enough, your hair is different—like it got longer overnight—and you suddenly have freckles. A lot of freckles. Your skin is…your skin is perfect. You’re perfect. But you’re going to be on everyone’s radar if you keep doing what you just did. It’s the opposite of blending in.”

  I couldn’t believe he was trying to help me. I had no idea what to say.

  He shrugged and held up his hands in an I tried gesture. “Maybe you don’t care. Maybe you want everyone to know that every rumor about your family is true. I just wanted to warn you.” He started to walk away.

  “John!” He turned back. “I’m just like you,” I said softly, but it was a weak effort.

  “No, you’re not. I’ve seen it with my own eyes, and I’m sick of you pretending I don’t know. I just don’t want you to get caught if you don’t want to be. It would make my staying quiet about Barton Springs and being dragged to jail all for nothing.” He turned away, done.

  She’s not mine to protect. She’s not my girlfriend or even my friend.

  I was so overwhelmed by his response. How he’d accepted it. I didn’t think—I just walked after him and stopped him, putting my hand on his back. He turned and we were face-to-face.

  “Why do you care?” I finally asked.

  “You know I’ve been aware of you since I first saw you. You felt it too.” He sounded annoyed and frustrated that he’d bothered to reach out to me, breaking his resolve to cut me off completely. But it also felt like he couldn’t fight it anymore. He was exhausted from holding his feelings in. This week had been hellish for both of us.

  I backed against the building again, taking in what he’d just said. He moved closer. I reached out,
as if to touch his arm, but then lowered my hand. It was the opening he needed. The energy between us completely changed.

  John put his hands on either side of me, touching the wall, his arms enclosing me. Our bodies were now just inches apart, the air between us charged. I didn’t move, I just watched him and knew he finally saw my attraction to him in my eyes. It was like everything I’d been struggling to keep inside rushed out. He bent his head and kissed me. It was soft and long, his lips on mine. For a moment I allowed myself to rest an arm on his shoulder, and my whole body softened into the kiss. I pulled away first. We both took a breath, his heart pounding in his chest, dying at the slowness. He wanted to intensify everything.

  I put my hand on his chest, my touch giving him a heart attack. But as he pressed forward to kiss me again, I gently pushed him back.

  “John—” I took a huge step to the side.

  He shook his head, as in Don’t say it.

  “I can’t, John.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “I can’t be with you. It’s…It doesn’t work like that.”

  “What do you mean it doesn’t work like that? You can’t be with someone off the approved list, or because you don’t want to?” He shook his head in disgust. “Look, I’m just going to say it. In spite of everything, everything I’ve seen, I want to be with you. I know who you really are, Julia, and it scares the shit out of me, but I can’t help it and I’m sick of trying to stop it.”

  For a second I wavered. Then I said, “I won’t be here forever.” It just popped out.

  He ignored that entirely. “Go out with me. Just hang out.”

  “It would only lead you on, John. There’s someone else,” I lied.

  “Who? That asshole in the BMW?” He made a disbelieving sound. “You’re better than that, Julia.”

  “I’m sorry.” I was slowly coming back into my persona, knowing this had to be over. I could never let him in.