CHAPTER 2
Which is impossible. I blink hard once, twice, shake out my hands and reassess. Maybe whatever - whoever - that just was, knocked me off my game. Still. I’ve never actually had to try to picture someone’s aura before; it just happens, pops up like the person is waving a sign shouting their feelings. I focus, concentrate, actually frown at the guy. Nothing. He is completely blank. And I do not like it.
Guy Without an Aura reaches into his pocket for something and I jump back. His eyebrows go up and his pulls out a crumpled sheet of pink paper.
“I need to pick this up.” He slowly raises the paper so I can take it, holding it out like I’m a rabid animal.
“This?” I don’t move.
He shakes the paper at me just the slightest bit. “Cupcakes? It’s for my sister’s birthday.”
“Right. Cupcakes. We make cupcakes.”
I check behind him one more time but whatever was out there is gone and this guy, without an aura, doesn’t seem capable of having produced that level of emotion. I take a minute to finally look at him. Young - maybe a bit older than me - olive-skinned, gray eyes, dark hair that looks like he just woke up. He’s wearing the green store clerk apron from The Health Emporium, a pricey organic food store three blocks over. Whatever he’s been up to, apparently sleeping wasn’t it.
I reach for the sheet before he calls 9-1-1. “Sorry. I…” I have nothing reasonable to say. “I tripped,” I finally lie. “I think I cracked my head on the edge of the table. Knocked me a little loopy there for a minute.”
The corner of his mouth lifts in an amused grin - or is it relief? “Ouch. Sounds painful. You sure you’re OK? You’re not dizzy or anything?”
I draw on my limited knowledge of what normal girls would do when confronted with a cute guy and, in spite of the fact that he has no aura and is, therefore, highly suspicious, I smile.
“All good,” I assure him.
I decide to go for broke and add a little twist of one of the black curls hanging down along the side of my face before heading behind the counter toward the refrigerated case. There’s one item waiting, the name “Lucas Porter” written in Sharpie on a copy of the receipt.
“I guess you’re Lucas,” I continue my witty banter.
“That’s me.”
“And you have ordered…” I read the rest of the receipt, “a dozen Pink Princess cupcakes. Having the guys over?”
He laughs, although to be fair, he shouldn’t encourage me.
“My sister, remember? I said they were for her birthday?” He puts a hand on top of his head. “But you did just whack your head.”
“Indeed I did. That’ll be $18.95.” I punch the amount into the computer.
Lucas pulls a battered canvas wallet from his back pocket and hands me a twenty. He waves away the change and gathers up the box.
“Watch out for those tables.” He smiles and holy jeez he has beautiful teeth. “They hop up out of nowhere.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open,” I smile in return. “Enjoy boys night - I mean, the birthday.”
And then he vanishes into the dark and the snow.
I shove the change and the bloodthirsty five dollar bill into the pocket of my apron and power down the register. Which is when I discover Lucas’ wallet lying on the counter. Scooping it up, I run across the shop and out into the snow, scanning the street for him. The weather really sucks at this point, so there’s almost no one outside including, interestingly, Lucas. I can’t figure out how he got away so fast - or how he managed it without leaving footprints in the snow.
I wrap my arms around myself and slowly turn to glance at Gino’s. The windows are fogged over, but there’s no sign of anything menacing now. Nor is there any sign of No Aura Guy. It’s like none of it ever happened.
CHAPTER 3
I don’t mention what happened in the shop to Nana because with time and nachos and five episodes of my favorite true crime show, I start thinking I exaggerated the whole thing. Maybe those two were having a particularly intense fight and I picked up on it, feeling what they were. It seems like a reasonable explanation, especially as, if I had been in any real danger, I’m sure Nana would have picked up on it herself. She’s known every single time I was in trouble at school since kindergarten.
Lucas, however, is another matter. He is not my imagination as I hold evidence of his presence in my hands: his wallet. I’d dissected it a half dozen times since last night and now, standing at the counter after school, I start taking it apart again. Four worn singles. A library card. A photo of a little girl with the same olive complexion and gray eyes. A driver’s license.
Lucas Porter, I learn, is eighteen, is 6’1”, and is an organ donor. He also wears glasses, although I did not see any sign of that. The address is not far, a straight shot a few blocks down Broadway and a right turn.
“What’s that?” Miranda peers over my shoulder, towering over me in her stilettos.
“A customer left it last night. I tried to run after him but he disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” She raises her eyebrows. “Like magic?” She wiggles her fingers in the air, mocking me.
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Miranda. He clicked his heels together three times and teleported home.” It’s actually a decent theory. How did he get away so fast?
The kitchen door swings open and Nana comes in followed closely by her assistant, Hector, carrying a tray of chocolate chip scones. I reach out and grab a pastry still warm from the oven.
“You should trot off and return that,” Nana says as though she’s heard the entire conversation.
Trudge several blocks through the snow to go to a stranger’s house.
“I’m busy,” I say, mouth full of scone. I try gesturing around the room, to the customers who don’t actually seem to need anything at the moment. “Can’t we send, Miranda?” One eyebrow goes up. “Hector?”
“Busy,” he answers - and he is. “You’re the track star. Why don’t you run over there?”
“Cross country,” I clarify. “And I run in rain and mud, not snow.”
“Then wear boots,” Miranda smirks.
And so I do, wrapped in knee length parka, an oversized scarf wound around my neck and most of my head. Naturally, I’ve forgotten gloves, so I shove my hands as far down in my pockets as they can go.
There are about four inches of snow that has yet to become disgusting piled up along the sidewalk edges and the sky is the deep blue of approaching night. All in all, it is actually pretty pleasant to get out from behind the counter and take a walk in the frigid air.
I haven’t quite decided what I’m going to do when I get to Lucas Porter’s house - toss it in the mailbox and run? Actually ring the bell? Unlikely. Although it would be interesting to see if he has an aura this time.
I consider that for the millionth time. Maybe he was super tired or super zoned out, so tired and zoned out that he wasn’t really feeling much of anything. It seems like a reasonable explanation, even if I haven’t ever encountered it before. I turn onto Lucas’ street and make a note to talk to Nana about it.
The houses on this block are the same as all the others in Astoria, a mix of old and new, brick and shingle. Gates of all shapes and sizes surround the miniscule properties that people take care of as though they are massive suburban lawns. I have the address memorized at this point and check it against the numbers of each house.
I stop in front of a small, shingled house squeezed between two overgrown brick monstrosities. It is dark and dilapidated and looks abandoned. The short, crooked path is shoveled, though, and there’s one light on in a front room.
My fingers hover over the chain link gate as I consider what to do. This place is pretty sketchy. I could probably just throw the wallet from here and hope he gets it. Then again, it might land in the snow for him to find in March. I groan and decide to be a good person.
Before I can take a step through the gate, the front door flies open, and a black garbage bag gets tossed out. I assume it’s directed at me, so I jump back onto the sidewalk and get ready to run.
The sound of voices shouting reaches me from somewhere inside. The words, “Get out,” are among the few things I can actually understand. An older man, thin, disheveled, unshaven, comes out on the porch and repeats the order to get out. He staggers and the confused pattern of his aura makes it clear he is very, very drunk.
Lucas comes out onto the front step and gets a push from the man. His fists clench and unclench but, unlike me who wants to belt this guy, he ignores the continuing rant, picks up the bag, and covers the few steps to the gate. Where he runs right into me.
He frowns, pulling his eyebrows together. Lucas seems to alternate among confusion, embarrassment, and annoyance. None of which is indicated by an aura of any kind.
The man returns to the house and slams the door.
Lucas closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before focusing on me.
“What are you doing here?” He asks it quietly like he’s trying to keep himself together.
Pulling his wallet from my pocket I say, “You left this on the counter last night.”
The corner of his mouth lifts in a grin that competes with his frown.
“Well that would have been a disaster.” He glances over his shoulder. “More of a disaster.”
I’m not quite sure what to say. I’ve just seen a very intimate exchange between two strangers. I’m not sure I have the right to ask questions. But that’s never stopped me before.
“Are you OK?”
Lucas shrugs and flips the bag over his shoulder. “I’m not having the best day,” he answers.
“Yeah. I sort of noticed.” I hesitate then plunge ahead. “You’re - uh - kicked out?”
“Oh yeah.”
I’ve done some pretty shitty things in my seventeen years, but Nana - and even Miranda - has never even suggested kicking me out. I wonder how a thing like that happens. Of course I would wonder a lot less if I could get a read on this guy.
“You have somewhere to go?” I ask.
Like a girlfriend? A guy this good looking must have a girlfriend.
He shrugs again, kicking at the snow blown up against the fence.
“Not really.”
Ah, not really. That puts me in a bit of an awkward position. What am I supposed to say? OK, well sorry for that. Glad you got your wallet - and your four dollars. Have a good life. I think of Nana and all the speeches about kindness and understanding and being a decent human. I think of Miranda asking me what the hell I think I’m doing. I go with Nana.
“Come back with me,” I blurt out.
Lucas laughs. “You don’t even know me.”
“You have a library card. You don’t seem like a killer.”
“Because killers don’t read?”
“And you pick up cupcakes for your sister and rock that totally lame green apron.”
“So based on this evidence you’re inviting me to your house?”
“That and my aunt is no doubt more psycho than you could ever be. She’ll protect me.”
He laughs.
“I really don’t want to put you guys out.” He looks back at the house one more time. “He’s not a bad guy, my dad. But he is pretty drunk right now, so having a rational conversation about why I don’t bring home more money was out of the question. He’ll sleep it off and let me back in...eventually.”
“That’s why he kicked you out?”
He shrugs.
“But your sister?”
The gray eyes turn to me. “She’s staying with my aunt. All safe. I dropped her off this morning with the rest of the cupcakes. Which were great, by the way.”
I try to picture how Lucas is destined to spend his night and none of it is pretty. Imagining him stretched out in the vestibule of the bank or curled up on a bench at the Steinway St. station among the trash and the puddles of urine is enough to put aside my worries about this boy with no aura. I don’t even think I care that much about what Miranda will say - or shout. It won’t be the first, or the last, time I get in trouble. At least this time, I have a good reason.
“Well, we live in the world’s smallest apartment,” I explain, “but the food is excellent and the coffee is hot.”
He opens his mouth to protest and I hold up a hand. “And we’ll make you work for your keep, but you don’t seem lazy. Also, you should know right now, I’m incredibly cranky and stubborn. In other words, there’s no saying no.”
He grins, and while it doesn’t produce an aura, it does make him look just a touch less miserable. “Then I guess I’m coming with you,” he agrees.
We head back to the shop letting Lucas’ dad and their ramshackle house fade into the darkness behind us. As we slide along the icy sidewalks, it occurs to me that this means he’s probably going to expect me to make small talk. The more I concentrate on it, the harder it becomes to think of anything to say that isn’t super nosy.
Lucas saves me with a question. “So do you always go around rescuing strangers?”
I snort.
“Kidnapping you mean? Yeah, I’m always dragging guys home. It’s part of my charm.”
“Along with being cranky and stubborn?”
“I’m a complete package. Seriously, though, you may regret taking me up on my offer.”
“You mean staying with you won’t be as fun as sleeping at Starbucks again?”
Again.
“Starbucks?” I spew it out like a curse. “I really have saved you. Our coffee is way better - although our playlist sucks like theirs.”
He laughs. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Lame, lame, and lame. Also, lame. I think my aunt pulls it from some ‘Coffeehouse’ playlist on Spotify.”
Lucas flips up the collar of his peacoat and I notice that he doesn’t have anything any reasonable person should wear on a night this cold: hat, gloves, scarf. I don’t even catch a hint of a sweater under the worn wool jacket.
“Why don’t you take over?” he asks.
Now I laugh. “I’m banned.”
“Banned?”
“Forbidden under penalty of death. There was...an incident.”
Lucas shifts the bag to the other shoulder. “I’m intrigued.”
“It was just one too many acoustic tunes. And the shop was nearly empty. And I didn’t realize my family was anywhere in the immediate vicinity.”
“And what? 90’s new wave?” I roll my eyes. “Celtic punk?” I scoff and he raises his eyebrows.
“Scandinavian hardcore. But it wasn’t like I cranked it up,” I defend myself.
Lucas is laughing for real now and I find myself wondering how it is we’ve fallen into such an easy rapport so quickly. I spend all day doing my best to avoid small talk with people I’ve gone to school with for almost four years and yet here, after only two short meetings, I’m yammering away like he’s Nick. Interesting. A part of me suspects it’s because I’ve seen the inner workings of my classmates while this guy remains a mystery. For all I can tell, Lucas is as messed up as everyone else, but it’s nice not knowing for the moment.
We walk past the darkened library and turn the corner toward home. I open my mouth to continue my witty commentary, but the minute my foot hits the sidewalk, a ball of dark energy hurtles toward me, so black it is practically tangible. I jump out of the way understanding that Lucas is about to think I’m insane yet again, but I cannot let that thing hit me. Whatever it is shatters into the wall behind me sending out fragments of emotional pain: loneliness, depression, despair. The shards bounce off of my jacket sending tendrils of pain seeping into my skin, my blood. I shake out my arms as though I can somehow expel the negativity through my fingertips and scan the street for the source.
Because it’s the tail end of rush hour, the streets are fairly busy in spite of the cold and lingering snow. People pour out of the subway, an equal amount going in. Their auras mix in the harmless cloud of people focused on getting home, with a few breakouts of stronger emotion here and there. There’s nothing overly sinister about anyone.
I check out Gino’s Pizza but if they are there again tonight, I don’t sense anything. Likewise, our shop is up ahead, five doors down, with nothing to see but the electric blue glow of the protection spells.
“You OK?” Lucas asks.
Right. Lucas. I’ve jumped out of the way of some invisible object and come to a standstill in the middle of a crowded sidewalk. As if to prove my point, someone jostles me and a shot of his annoyance trails up my arm.
I look over to answer. Instead of staring like I’m psycho, however, Lucas has stepped in front of me. He also seems to be scanning the storefronts and the masses of people swirling around us. Did he see it too? I shake my head. Impossible. And ridiculous. He’s just reacting to my momentary lapse of sanity.
“I’m good,” I answer, watching him.
Lucas angles himself so he can listen to me and watch the street at the same time.
“It looked like you…” he hesitates.
Turning to look at me, his gray eyes - like his lack of an aura - give nothing away.
“Slipped,” I offer. “You’d think a store like CVS could throw down some salt, you know?”
He continues checking me out, weighing my truthfulness. Instead of questioning me further, though, he stretches out his hand.
“You can hold on if you want.”
Generally, I try to avoid physical contact with people because touching them only sharpens my ability to read them. In Lucas’ case, it might actually be useful to touch him, so I put my freezing fingers into his. He closes his hand, squeezing once but...nothing.
“You’re sure you’re not going to get in trouble for this?” He tugs me along gently, heading toward the store.
I focus on the sensation of his hand in mine, as cold as my own, but bigger, more solid. Forcing the energy of just the tiniest bit of magic into my fingertips, I try to read him, to feel whatever he’s feeling. A move like that is completely forbidden - “the worst kind of intrusion,” Nana calls it - but I want to know who I’m dealing with before leading him to my family. Prompting like that never fails to get me the result I want - until now. Whatever this kid is feeling, he’s keeping it wrapped up tight.
“You may find this hard to believe,” I finally answer, “but I get into a fair amount of trouble. This is pretty minor in the scheme of things. How about you?” I ask. “You don’t seem like a troublemaker.”
The corner of his mouth quirks upward. “Generally speaking,” he explains, “I’m the one who tries to keep people out of trouble.”
I smile. “Then you’re just what I need.”
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