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CHAPTER SIX

Believe it or not, I didn’t meet Zander at a party, or even in a bar.

I met him in Survey of American Literature.

I was a freshman, chomping at the bit to read and analyze.

He was a junior, begrudgingly knocking out a required course.

On the first day of class, he walked through the doorway, scanned the room, and plopped down right next to me.

I thought he was gorgeous. Lean and athletic, bright blue eyes and sun-streaked hair.

And his smile? I mean, come on, the guy has dimples.

I thought to myself, he knows he’s hot. He’ll never look twice at m e.

But he did. He sat beside me every class and talked to me.

Only two weeks in, he invited me to a party at Omega Chi.

I went with Liv and some other girls, figuring it was a casual group kind of thing, but Zander stayed with me the whole night.

When it was time for me to leave, he kissed me up against some random SUV and asked me out to dinner.

It soon became apparent that Zander was no literary genius. He barely scraped out a C in American lit. But by then I was so infatuated with him I didn’t care. He had other gifts: charm, quick-thinking, people skills, and a popularity that knew no bounds .

So if Zander is the type of guy I’m used to hanging out with, then why am I having such a good time in the library with quiet, scholarly Leo?

We’re not doing much—reading mostly, and occasionally talking.

But it’s so peaceful. Leo doesn’t constantly demand my attention, even though I can’t keep from giving it to him. Sometimes on the sly.

We’re sitting on the floor, his back to the medieval history shelf and mine against the Renaissance shelf opposite him.

Both of us have our legs stretched out, his feet in line with my hips, but mine only reaching his thighs.

While he reads, he nibbles the inside of his bottom lip, and every now and then he gets up to wander the stacks and dig up more books.

When he returns from his fourth foray, I attempt a look of disapproval. But I have a feeling I’m smiling instead.

“What?” he asks innocently.

“You told me I’m supposed to keep you on task.”

“Oh, right. I did say that.” He sits back down, cross-legged, beside me. “But I want to see what other people have to say about Pearl.” He shows me his new pet book, Critical Essays on The Scarlet Lette r. “There’s an entire section in here on her.”

I lean in to browse the Table of Contents with him.

I had to read The Scarlet Letter in high school and I’m pretty sure I was the only one in my class who liked it.

Years later, I still distinctly remember Hester Prynne’s young daughter, Pearl.

Characters who are outliers always leave a deep impression on me.

Leo turns to an essay entitled, “Pearl: Devil, Spirit, or Fae?”

I ask, “Which do you think she is?”

“I don’t know yet. But I don’t think she’s purely human.”

I remember thinking that myself. “I’m going with fae.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Because that’s what she seems like to me. It’s been a while since I’ve read it, but the main thing I remember is her dancing around like a little faerie and being, you know, unruly.” I frown. “Of course, the Puritans would think anyone having fun was unruly. ”

Leo chuckles. “I guess that’s why most critics say she’s a devil.” He skims a few lines. “But I agree. She’s not a child of Heaven, is she? Maybe that’s why she’s fae. Because she’s a child of nature, not of God.”

“Is that what faeries are?”

“Depends on who you ask. But in most folklore, they’re closely tied to nature. Dryads, kelpies, elves, gnomes…”

“I thought faeries were just the little things with wings.”

“Those are pixies. They’re just one type of faerie.”

“You know an awful lot about them.” I’m a little giddy, I think, sitting this close to him.

He smiles shyly and looks down. “Yeah, well, I read and traveled around a lot while I was at Oxford.” He clears his throat. “So, I haven’t even asked you what you’re reading.”

“Oh. Anne of Green Gables .”

He holds out a hand and I give him the book so he can read the back cover. When he finishes, he turns those dark brown eyes to me. “Are you enjoying it?”

“I love it. Anne’s so easy to relate to.

Here, listen to this—” I take the book back and flip through the highlighted pages until I find the passage I marked with a star.

Setting the scene, I tell him, “Marilla—she’s the woman who adopted Anne—wants her to pray every night before bed.

You know, in the proper way. But listen to what Anne says to her. ”

I draw the book closer in order to read aloud.

“‘Why must I kneel down to pray? If I really wanted to pray I’ll tell you what I’d do.

I’d go out into a great big field all alone or in the deep, deep woods and I’d look up into the sky—up—up—up—into that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was no end to its blueness. And then I’d just feel a prayer.’”

Leo is silent.

Hesitantly, I peer up at him, embarrassed that I just gushed at him like a little girl. But he’s smiling down at me, watching me with warm eyes .

“Um, yeah—” I tear my gaze from his and squeak out the first words that come to me, “So I googled clairsentience.” Not sure why I said that. Hopefully Leo’s too mature to do the told-you-so dance.

“Did you?” He tries not to grin. “What did you find?”

“Well, at least now I know you didn’t make it up.”

He’s more amused than offended. “You thought I made it up?”

“No. Yes. Kind of.” I absently thumb the pages of my book. “You gotta cut me a break. I’ve never heard about any of this stuff before. It’s all new to me.”

He twists to face me. “Do you agree you’re clairsentient?”

“TBD.”

“TBD?”

I half laugh, half groan. “What’s with you and acronyms? TBD. To Be Determined.”

“Okay, got it. So you’re saying you’re still not convinced?”

“I can definitely relate to what I read, I’m just not sure what to do about it.”

“Why would you do anything about it?”

“Because if I’m psychic—and I’m not saying I am—then it’s a curse.” Even though all the articles I came across called it a “gift.”

“It’s not a curse,” Leo gently insists.

Easy for him to say when he’s not saddled with it. “I’m too sensitive.”

“Is that what people tell you?”

I pick at a peeling corner of the book cover. “Sometimes.” Sometimes it’s praise; sometimes it’s criticism.

“That’s their problem, not yours.”

“No. It’s mine too.”

“Because they don’t understand?”

Something twists in my chest and I avert my suddenly stinging eyes. No. No one seems to understand what it’s like to be a living, breathing, open wound.

“It’s gotten worse,” I confess.

Leo nudges my chin. “Worse how? ”

“Worse as in more .” I shrug and sigh. “Like, when I was younger, I used to feel stuff every once in a while, but it was quieter, you know? But lately it seems like it’s been happening a lot more often. And it’s stronger.”

He nods, his smile soft and reassuring. “Psychics grow into their ability.”

Grow into it? But human brains aren’t even fully developed until we reach twenty-five. Is my so-called gift going to get even more debilitating?

Leo stills my fidgeting hands by covering them with one of his own. “You know, maybe learning more about it would make it easier.”

“Easier?” I scoff. “What, like keep your friends close and your enemies even closer?”

“Your clairsentience isn’t your enemy, especially when there are ways to protect yourself.”

“Protect myself from what?”

“From too much emotional energy.” He tips his head. “Think about it—when people have sensitive eyes, they wear sunglasses. Or if they get cold easily, they wear a coat.”

“There’s nothing I can wear on my emotions.” Trust me, I’ve tried. What were all those defense mechanisms I learned about in Psych 101? Projection? Denial? Other than repression, they’ve never worked well for me. I still feel everything.

God, I’m not even any good at being dysfunctional.

Before Leo can argue more, I ask, “So if I’m clairsentient, what are you?

Because I saw that there are a whole bunch of other kinds of ‘Clairs.’” There’s an accusatory note in my voice, but whatever.

I’m tired of talking about me. He shakes his head, but I keep pushing. “Clairvoyant? Claircognizant?”

“I’m not a psychic.”

“Then how do you know so much about them?”

“Because, for some reason, psychics are drawn to me.”

What kind of answer is that? So he’s a…what? A psychic-magnet? Mo st guys want to be a chick-magnet, but not Leo Hawthorn, man of mystery.

Frustrated, I blurt, “Where are you from, anyway?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He’s startled, I think, by my sudden change of subject. Eventually he replies, “Pennsylvania, just outside Philadelphia.”

“Are you really always broke?”

He laughs awkwardly. I guess that was kind of a rude question. “No more or less broke than most of the other students here.”

He returns to his book while I try not to squirm.

It’s obvious he doesn’t like to talk about himself, and I feel bad for probing.

I pretend I’m reading, but my mind wanders, speculating about why he’s so close-lipped.

Trauma? Dysfunctional family? Police record?

Okay, now I’m being ridiculous. He’s as gentle as a lamb, and he reads about the Roanoke Colony for fun.

Just as I wrangle my attention back to the final chapters of Anne of Green Gables, someone says my name. Looking up, I find Lara, the KPT, standing at the end of the aisle, waving and grinning.

Shit.

I manage to smile back. “Lara. Hi. How are you?”

“Great. What are you up to?” Her tone is conversational, but her eyes are narrowed with suspicion. She worships my boyfriend, and the guy I’m sitting so close to right now, isn’t him.

I flash her my book. “Reading for class.”

Her eyes flick from me to Leo.

“Oh. This is my friend, Leo. Leo, this is Lara.”

She waves dainty fingers and gives him her loveliest smile. “Hi, Leo.”

“Hello.”

“So I hear O-Chi’s having a Halloween party next week,” she says to me. “Are you going?”

“Well, uh, yeah. Of course.”

“Have you picked a costume yet?”

I shake my head. Truth is, I forgot all about it .

“You and Zander should totally dress up as a famous couple.” She giggles. “How cute would that be?”

I force a laugh. “Pretty cute.”

“Okay. Well, gotta go,” she sings. “Chem test tomorrow.”

I wave goodbye and prepare for Leo’s gibe, but interestingly, none comes. And when I peek at him, his head is bent low over his book. Taking his cue, I do the same, reading half a chapter without absorbing a word of it.

He suddenly breaks the silence. “How about Napoleon and Josephine?”

I’m so wound tight, I burst into giggles.

“What?” He laughs along with me. “You don’t think that’s a good suggestion?”

I shake my head. “Zander’s five-foot-ten. And I don’t think he even knows who Napoleon is.”

Leo blinks incredulously. “How can someone who’s in college not know who Napoleon is?”

“Okay, maybe he knows he’s somebody important,” I concede. “But he probably thinks he’s Russian or German or something.”

I’m laughing and trying to act like everything’s fine, even though I’m unraveling. Lara’s the type of girl who was born to gossip. No doubt she’s back at her desk, frantically texting right now. I just saw Betts Peterson in the library with some guy!

I look at Leo. He’s chuckling and his eyes are shining, and he’s so. Damned. Good-looking. If he smiled at her like that when I introduced them, I’m double-doomed.

Her next text? The guy is ! Looked like they were getting cozy!

I’m so screwed. I should get up and walk out and avoid Leo at all costs, but I can’t bring myself to move.

I need a friend like him. Someone to talk to about the deeper things, about history and books and, yes, even psychic abilities.

Do I find him attractive? Sure. But I know how to behave.

I’ve always been a one-man woman and that’s not going to change.

So instead of running away, I do the opposite. I ensure my friendship with Leo will continue. “You have a phone, don’t you? Like a normal person?”

“I do have a phone,” he says. “But not like a normal person.”

Right, for a moment there, I forgot who I was talking to.

He explains, “I share it with my roommate.”

“Can you do that?”

“Sure. Why not?” He shrugs. “Here, give me yours.”

I watch as he enters his number into my phone. The name that comes up is Robin Fawkes.

“That’s my roommate. If you see her name, you know it’s from me.” He sends himself—and Robin Fawkes—a text so he’ll have my number.

“She has the phone right now?”

He nods. “So if you call me and I’m not the one who has it, it might be a little while until I can call you back.”

“Gotcha.” I smile as though it all makes perfect sense, but it doesn’t. “Do you live off campus?”

“Yeah. In Breakridge.”

I’ve been to a few wild parties at Breakridge. It’s a sprawling apartment complex on the outskirts of Alderford that rents mostly to students. There’s a good chance Liv and I will get a place out there next year if we don’t end up living in a sorority house.

Leo and I settle back into silence, reading side by side.

He gets up only once, to put the book of critical essays back on the shelf.

Every ten minutes or so he throws out another costume suggestion for Zander and me.

But it’s not until he proposes Santa and Mrs. Claus that I realize he’s teasing. Now it’s a game.

“Superman and Lois Lane?”

“I prefer Spider-Man.”

“Gatsby and Daisy?”

“Too tragic.”

He grins. “Henry VIII and Anne of Cleves?”

“No way!” I shove him with my elbow. “She was the ugly one.”

With him going on like this, it’s a wonder we get any work done, but somehow I get to the end of Anne of Green Gables and he finishes several chapters of The Scarlet Letter .

As we part in front of my dorm, I can’t keep myself from asking, “So what’s your costume going to be?”

“Mine?”

“Yeah. You’ll be at the party, won’t you? Hanging out alone in the kitchen?”

He smiles crookedly. “If I come, are you going to talk to me?”

“I talked to you last time, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, well…” He licks his lips and his eyes dart away. “We’ll see.”