Page 6 of Ominous: Part 1
Eden
We exitthrough one of the many side doors of the castle. It looms behind us, and I spare a glance at it. When I’m this close, I have to crane my neck back to see every gray turret, every windowpane glowing with moonlight.
The monstrosity of it, up close, overwhelms me. Even tucked away inside, there’s this distant but unshakeable feeling it’s whispering to me when I’m in its old hallways, the library I just left, or the athletic facility over eight thousand square feet, the one I’ve only seen on my tour.
You don’t belong. Don’t belong. Don’t belong.
Eli doesn’t look back at all. To him, it’s probably inconsequential, this pale black, stone-washed building resembling a structure built hundreds of years before, even though it’s relatively new. Eli could walk away from castles much grander without ever looking back. He is who these places were made for, so he could desert them at the earliest opportunity, only to move on and conquer something far greater.
We jog down the steps on the cement walkway, then more steps, the ground sloping gently down, the darkness of the night obscuring the green, rolling lawn. The most impressive view of Trafalgar is at the back, with well-maintained gardens, fountains, and the ability to see just how far this building stretches from the east to the west. But we pass a fountain now too, the only one out front, ironically placed by the library instead of the main entrance with its glossy red doors, towering high above me every morning, a poster of a missing girl I never met, Winslet Landers, taped to each door, blowing in every breeze, tattered edges curling in on themselves. I know Winslet wasn’t taken from campus. I did a search of her name when I first saw it. She disappeared from her own home.
The fountain out front is a gargoyle with pointed ears, a scowl, and wings kept tight to his body, like he isn’t quite ready to fly.
I can’t relate.If I had wings, I would be long gone.
When we finally take the last step down, the music of the softly twinkling water at our backs, Eli breaks the quiet between us, his tone light, as if we haven’t spent the past few minutes in a tense silence.
Maybe it was only tense for me.
“How are you liking it so far?” He glances my way without breaking his stride, the walkway seeming to stretch on for miles to the senior lot. Then, beyond that is the paved driveway leading to the high iron gates, always open as far as I can tell, with a guardhouse just past it.
“Trafalgar, I mean?” Eli clarifies with another regal clearing of his throat.
I blink in the dark, lampposts every few feet the only light. They’re the same dull orange as the lights in the library, casting everything in a soft glow. I stare at the cars in the distance, not many of them, but every single one a luxury vehicle. Porsches, BMWs, Mercedes, I don’t know what Eli drives. I’ve never actually seen him leave.
With that thought, I realize he doesn’t have a bag over his shoulder, and I wonder if he takes any books home. Does he do his homework? Does he care at all, or is he content to let money pave the way for him, dollar bills like a golden highway to any future he chooses?
One day I’ll have the same.A gilded life.The difference, I suppose, is I’ll earn it. Maybe it’ll feel better for me. Or, perhaps, it won’t matter at all. Luxury is luxury, and poor is…poor.
“I like it,” I say, meaning it mostly. If I keep staring ahead, ignore the feel of his eyes coming to me every so often, and the way he has to lookdownat me, because he is nearly a foot taller than I am, I can speak easier.
“No,” Eli says, and he stops walking, his tone lower than I’ve heard it yet.
I stop, too, but I don’t face him, even though his eyes on my body feel like a physical weight.
“How do youreallylike it?” He stresses each word, but there’s slightly more emphasis on the “really.”
With his pressing, I think of Sebastian, what I don’t want to be. I think of him losing his job, just last week, the one he only held a month, since our move. I imagine the things I’ve taped to my wall. A printout of the Minoan goddess. A quote fromThe Odyssey—out of sight, out of mind.A postcard from Bloor College, nestled in the mountains, my attainable dream school.
I want to tell Eli it doesn’t matter how much Ilikeit. People like me don’t get to pick and choose what welikeanddon’t.We take what we can get. I want to tell him I want to be something, at the same time I’m terrified of leaving the bubble I’ve always known.
I think of Shoreside. The suggestion of therapy from the school nurse. How Mom would have given up anything to pay for it, but I refused. It seemed like a luxury, and we can’t really afford those.
Even so, I want to tell him I’m feeling apathetic. It is a constant vice I cannot shake. I just can’t help but wonder sometimes…what’s the point of anything at all?My mind plays out every next move, each new goal, and the steps I need to get where I want to go, and yet I feel I’m missing things along the way. Joy, euphoria, the feeling of being alive, they’re fleeting and sporadic for me. Do we just plan and search and wish until we grow old and perish?
I say none of it.
But I do take a breath, and turn to face him, only to find his entire body is already angled toward me. There is hardly any room between us, and I don’t know how that happened, but my eyes crawl up from our shoes, a foot apart—white Chucks, black boots—to his legs, the shirt still tucked ever-so-slightly into the waistband of his pants, the dark shape—tattoo, birthmark?—beneath the white material leaving my head spinning, to his throat, with the choker of solid black leather around it, then his jawline, straight nose, tipped slightly upward, almost feminine.
Finally, I rest on his eyes.
Although “rest” isn’t right. His eyes are full of intensity even his casual posture, hands in pockets, slightly parted lips, can’t conceal. In his charade, it’s the look in his eyes which ruins his acting. He’s not relaxed. Maybe more than me, but not really. He’stense.
It helps me feel as if he’s not quite so high above me.
I give him a better truth than my first answer to his question. “I like this school.” I run my tongue over my lips, and I watch as his eyes track the movement. “But I have no expectation of falling inlovewith it. It’s a steppingstone.” My chest flushes hot with the word “love,” and I’m glad my shirt covers me even as a breeze dances on my exposed low belly.
He doesn’t laugh, or smile, or mock me. Holding my gaze, he only says, “Because you don’t belong here, do you?”
