Mesmerize Read online

  With that kind of start to my day, it’s no wonder I’m in no hurry to get to school. But when I step outside, something in the breeze makes me lift my chin, and directs my gaze upward, heavenward. The sky’s a dusky blue today, with the sunlight just barely peeking through the clouds this morning.

  I live in this old, almost dilapidated house, which is surprisingly sturdy and not so bad once you’re inside. Most days it feels like I’m just staying there temporarily with Mrs. Hampton. It’s not as comfortable as my home in Rhode Island was, but not as empty as a hotel—that’s kind of how I think of it. The house sits at the very edge of the Lincoln city limits. Off the back porch, about ten to fifteen feet, puts me at the edge of a grove of trees in my backyard. It is a dark and alluring place that I’ve never ventured into, but I seem to be always drawn to.

  Walking down the winding road that leads to Reed Street—where the bus picks me up—I sense something around me. Nobody else lives out this far, but I still feel a presence. It’s around me, maybe something from the past, or something yet to come. I can’t really tell.

  Krystal is the medium, so I doubt very seriously that what I’m feeling is some dead person’s aura, even though it feels just as ominous. Things have been different—very different—in the past few months, I’d say.

  For years now I’ve been able to read people’s thoughts. It’s not a talent I would have chosen for myself, but it’s a gift. That’s what Mom said and I believe her. Learning how to live as a normal teenager with that gift hasn’t always been easy. But I thought I finally had a handle on it, until the accident.

  A cool wind blows lifting my bangs away from my forehead and letting them flop back down again as the breeze passes. The fabric of the yellow sundress I decided to wear this morning, without too much thought, billows over my body. It’s fitted across my small breasts then flairs at my rib cage, ballooning slightly around my slim frame. Standing a mere five foot two inches, I have Mom’s short stature and Dad’s slim build. The breeze whispers over my toes painted with black nail polish peeking through my open-toe flats. I come to a stop at the corner.

  The color yellow represents optimism, enlightenment and happiness. In feng shui it’s considered a yang color and evokes feelings of warmth, cheerfulness and friendliness. Yin colors like black are associated with protection and power. Together the two opposing forces—yin and yang—are interconnected and cannot exist without the other.

  In South Korea women tend to wear subdued colors all the time. Me, I wear black when I want to block out everything—the voices and thoughts—and yes, the unsettling emotions that would otherwise drive me insane.

  Today I guess that means I should feel enlightened, optimistic—maybe even happy. Not so, at least not thus far. All I know is that the moment I opened my closet my eyes landed on this dress. I grabbed it and added a pair of sunburst earrings to match. Usually I follow my intuition when I know it’s my energy—not someone else’s. But it’s getting harder to tell these days with so much energy buzzing around me. My senses seem much more acute these days—like tasting the sea salt in the air and knowing that it’s going to rain or the tremors I feel under my skin when high winds are approaching, and the seething anger of Pace and Mateo, who bullied Jake so mercilessly.

  Today, as I watch the bus slowly come to a stop in front of me, anxiety settles on my shoulders, like tiny fingers dancing along my skin, following my neck and down my spine. As I step onto the bus, the sensation continues even as the confusion of voices and thoughts assails me. When I reach an empty seat, I pull out a pair of black sunglasses from the beat-up old backpack Mom used to carry her books in. Since the accident, I’ve carried it every day, as if it somehow keeps her close to me and alive in some way. Slipping on the shades I stare down at my nails. My cuticles are rough and unruly, and seem as if they are reaching for something, trying to send me a message. As I chuckle to myself, a voice echoes in my head. “It’s saying you need a manicure.” The voice puts me at ease as I smooth my rough-looking fingernails over the bright yellow dress.

  The bus is coming to another stop when I look up. The school bus door opens to allow students to board. For some reason, my eyes are riveted on the front of the bus. He steps up the three steps, passes the bus driver, who has an overgrown, grizzly gray beard, and walks down the aisle.

  I pull my shades down to rest on the tip of my nose. My eyes take in the fresh new sneakers, crisp blue jeans and bright white shirt, along with the dimples, cleft chin and straight nose that collides like a lightning bolt in the sky with sapphire-blue eyes.

  I’ve seen those eyes before.

  That prickly feeling finds its way to my stomach where it tickles my insides when his lips spread into a smile. Suddenly my yellow dress is proving to be a good choice.

  Three

  Passing Notes

  His name is Dylan Murphy. He’s on the varsity football team, has been since he transferred here a couple of months ago. That makes him a newcomer just like me. The only difference is he’s so popular you’d think he was born and raised here in Lincoln instead of being a transplant.

  Everybody knows Dylan, everybody likes him—guys and especially the girls. I know of him but I don’t know him personally. Today, he was on my bus, which is strange because I’ve never seen him on the bus before and I’m pretty sure he has a car.

  Dylan sits behind me in first period AP English class. This morning that fact has me sitting up straighter and trying to act smarter.

  For the rest of the bus ride I try to sneak another look at him. He walks right past my seat after staring at me until my neck is going to break or I’m going to fall off the seat ogling him. He’s the first one to look away when he slides into one of the seats in the back of the bus. I turn back around in my seat and hurriedly push my shades back on. The ride is tense to say the least.

  By the time I make it to my first period class, the fact that he’s already sitting at his desk before I get there startles me. But then he looks up, our eyes lock and I’m right back in my dream. Only this time the train is gone, it’s just him and me—me and Dylan Murphy, alone.

  I don’t know what my teacher Ms. Drake is talking about, and most likely half the class doesn’t, either. We only have two more months left, so most of the students are not really focused on school. This is an honors class, so the majority of the students are seniors. It’s small, twelve students in total. There are three rows of desks, and seven desks in each row, so some of them are empty. In the two desks beside me are Leesah Giveny on my right, and Patti Parkinson on my left. In the one behind me is Dylan.

  This is the longest first period ever. Ms. Drake goes on and on about standardized tests and how we all have to pass them before we can graduate. My mind is more focused on the steady stream of heat flowing from my earlobe, down to my ankles. For the past forty-five minutes I’ve been fidgeting in my seat. I just can’t seem to get comfortable. The hard surface of the chair seems to chafe against my skin in the most annoying way. My fingertips are all tingly and the nape of my neck has a damp sheen of perspiration.

  I want to turn around. I mean, really, really want to just turn around badly and look at him again. Just to make sure it’s him. But I know it is. I’m just about certain. I could never forget those eyes and that smile. I realize it’s crazy, like in the
movies when a couple’s gazes lock from across a crowded room, their hearts immediately declare their love for one another—blah, blah, blah. Unbelievable, right? I’m inclined to agree. Yet, it’s taking a force much stronger than me to keep my eyes glued to the blackboard behind Ms. Drake.

  When I feel a tap on my shoulder, I almost jump out of my chair. My palms flatten out on the desk. And even though class is almost over, I’ve yet to open my notebook. My heart’s beating wildly. My eyes—and only my eyes—are moving from one side to the other, to see if Leesah or Patti is tapping my shoulder to get my attention. Patti is immediately eliminated since her head of curly red hair is lying on the desk, with her eyes closed. Leesah’s doodling something on a notepad with a bright pink pen. She’s not paying attention to me, so it’s safe to say she isn’t the one who tapped me—which leaves only him.

  Counting backward from ten slowly, I turn around and look over my shoulder. He’s looking directly at me. He’s not really smiling this time. Just the right corner of his lips is angled up slightly. His eyes get my attention. He looks down and back up at me and I’m still staring at him like I’ve swallowed my tongue. Not that I can break out into a friendly conversation in the midst of Ms. Drake’s elaborate explanation of the graduation standards for the state of Connecticut. Then Dylan kind of nods his head and looks up then down again. Finally, I catch on and follow his gaze and the nod of his head the next time he looks down.

  There’s a small square of paper he’s inching toward the edge of his desk with his finger. It’s folded neatly and precisely. And as I watch him move it with his finger, it falls over the edge of the desktop. In what seems like slow motion, I turn in my seat enough so that I can reach out and catch the piece of paper before it hits the floor. As the paper falls into my palm, I instinctively look up at Dylan. He’s smiling at me now, a smile that unnerves me, making me take a deep swallow as if I’m trying to down a spoonful of Mrs. Hampton’s oatmeal.

  I turn around and face forward again, clutching the folded square of paper in my hand. For several seconds I try to steady my breathing. I’ve never been passed a note in class before. Being the new girl doesn’t really afford much opportunity to build relationships that would lead to note passing. Growing up, I was allowed to take gymnastics, which for the most part was my social interaction with girls my age. That lasted about eight years then abruptly ended just before I turned thirteen. I suspect it was because I came home crying when the coach made a comment about my race. Only she hadn’t said it out loud.

  My fingers move over the square piece of paper as I switch it from one hand to the other. When I feel my heart beating at its normal rate, I carefully unfold the note and open the sheet of paper in my lap. The first thing I notice is how neat Dylan’s handwriting is—for a boy, that is. His perfectly lettered script looks like the alphabet border on the walls of a first grade classroom. It simply reads: HELLO.

  I can’t help but smile. The expression just spreads across my face without any effort on my part. The steady beat of my heart picks up and double-times just a bit. It’s really silly that one word could spark this type of reaction. But it does and all at once I’m giddy at the fact that I’ve received my first note from a boy. I hurriedly claim my pen and scribble a return greeting of my own, adding a smiley face over the I in my name.

  With an exaggerated yawn as I lift my arms—a technique I saw in one of those teen cable channels—I drop the note with my reply onto Dylan’s desk.

  Ms. Drake’s words are drowned out now that I know Dylan is just as aware of me as I am of him. I doubt he’s dreamt about me, but I’m guessing he’s not telepathic, either.

  The bell rings before Dylan can give me the note back and since we both only said “hi”, it might make more sense to just throw it away. But as I head for the door I see he’s already passed me and is waiting outside by the locker, the not-so-neatly folded square of paper still in his hand.

  I walk toward him because he’s staring at me and for some reason my feet just decide to go that way instead of down the hallway to my French class.

  “Hi,” he says, with a slight nod that draws my attention to his dark locks that curl neatly around his ears. He lifts his left hand with the note inside as if to show me he still had it.

  “Hi, again,” I reply, and to my chagrin my smile widens across my face without reason. I hope it doesn’t make me look too lame or desperate. I so don’t want to look desperate.

  “I’m Dylan and you’re Lindsey Yi.”

  I nod. “Yes, I am.”

  He shrugs.

  We definitely have the body language down pat.

  “What’s your next class?” I ask. It’s getting late and he doesn’t seem to want to say anything else. He just looks at me, which makes me more than a little nervous.

  “Trig. Yours?”

  “French.”

  “What do you do after school?” he asks.

  I think about saying nothing, or “whatever you want me to be doing,” but that would definitely sound desperate, which I am not. So instead, I clutch my books closer to my chest and answer, “Cheerleading practice.”

  About a month ago the answer would have been “nothing,” but when Gemma Truesdale sprained her ankle, Olivia Danville, the captain of the cheerleading squad, invited me to join. First of the year, when I originally tried out she’d said my moves were too stiff, my smile a little stilted. Lie. I took gymnastics for eight years and have much more agility than the tanned and primped popular girls currently on the squad. But I didn’t argue with her, it was their loss. Now, it seems, the tables have turned and Olivia needs me since their best shot at competing at the state level depends on executing killer pyramids and stunts and not just glossy fake smiles and perfectly teased hair.

  “Cool. I’ll be at football practice. We can talk afterward.” He shifts his shoulders away from the locker where he’d been leaning and stands even closer to me as he talks.

  I don’t think that was a question. It sounded too confident and cocky to be one. “Ah, okay,” I mutter, unsure how I like this presumptuous new guy, with the phenomenally cool eyes.

  “Good. See ya later,” he says, tucking the note we’d passed into the palm of my hand before taking off down the hall.

  Just like that, he’s gone. I’m trying to register why a feeling of loss is overwhelming me at the moment. As I walk toward my class, hurrying so that I don’t end up in detention this afternoon instead of at cheer practice, I open the note. Dylan’s written something else.

  I LIKE YOUR SMILE.

  It’s in all caps, just like that. And of course, I’m smiling again.

  That smile carries me down the hall amidst random chatter bouncing around.

  I can’t wait to get out of here, I’m so not feeling school today.

  My mom’s being a real bitch not letting me have my cell phone for three whole days.

  Normally, I’d be close to manic with all the noise in my head. The thoughts of everyone I pass by, everyone I so much as glance at clutter my mind every day—except when I wear all black, or if the other person is wearing all black.

  Today I hear random thoughts without paying much attention to who they’re coming from. I’m riding some kind of high. It’s like euphoria is carrying me along the hallway toward
my class. My feet feel like they’re barely touching the ground. In my hand the slip of paper feels as soft as cotton, a keepsake of the wonderful dream that I can hold on to at last.

  Then I stop.

  The voices lower to a dull whisper.

  I remember that when I stood next to Dylan, and he looked into my eyes and I looked into his, I heard nothing. He wasn’t wearing anything black today and neither am I. Well, the black toenail polish doesn’t really count. So how could that be? I didn’t hear anything when I looked at him. No voices, no whisper of his thoughts, no echo of emotions. Nothing.

  Strange.

  Four

  Unforgettable Names

  “His name is Charon and we’re the greatest threat to his total dominance. Our presence gives good the advantage over evil, which he’s trying to spread across this realm. He was cursed by Styx for trying to betray her. She created us through weather anomalies that transmitted energy surges that gave us supernatural powers while we were in the womb,” Jake says, and then takes a huge gulp of his soda.

  Sitting beside him in the cafeteria, Krystal nods, her hair hanging down around her shoulders and her silver earrings sparkling in her ears. “That sounds about right.”

  “So how did you get these powers and not your parents?” Twan asks.

  Twan isn’t a Mystyx, but he’s Sasha’s boyfriend and Jake’s boy or whatever guys call their BFFs. I knew at that moment Jake had sold us out. Well, I guess you can’t really say he sold us out. Twan is sworn to secrecy, and he’s promised never to tell anyone about us or the evil around us. And considering how attached he is to Sasha, I believe him.

  Jake shrugs. “My dad said they knew the moment I was born what I would be. My mom was marked, too. She told me that Styx controlled the sun and the moon, and created the solar eclipse that spawned the energy surge. During the eclipse, power emanated from a ring of light surrounding the sun and the moon. That energy sparked the weather events that set off supernatural forces. Those conceived during these weather events are marked.”