~ chapter 1 ~

              There was another world inside her town, or so she had been told.  Rory’s bedroom walls were covered in drawings of it, sketches of what she thought it might look like, what might actually be there. But she didn’t know for sure, and she never would, because Rory was not like the many others.  She didn’t have the gift of seeing it.  You either could or you couldn’t, and she couldn’t.  But she wanted to. She desperately wanted to see it, so much so that the paint was worn away on her window frame from all the hours she had spent pressed against it, straining her eyes for a glimpse. Just a glimmer. That was all she wanted. That was all she needed, because if she could see it, then she could leave this town, leave this whole world and join another one. An undoubtedly better one.

                Staring at empty air was what she was doing now, sketch pad in hand, pen between her teeth as her eyes gazed into the gathering darkness, seeing nothing.  She looked down at the paper in front of her, admiring the dazzling landscape she had drawn, smiling a little as she realized that the proportions were exactly as she had imagined them.  She could see the colors now, the color of the trees, the spectrum of sunset colors… She looked up and spied her colored pencils on her desk.  They were just out of reach, and she groaned as she stood and plodded to her desk to grab them.

                On the way, she happened to glance at the alarm clock on her bedside table and cursed under her breath. She had lost track of time and was going to be late. Again. Damn Friday nights in the fall. And damn her easily persuadable, people pleasing personality. She immediately tossed her sketchbook and pencil onto her bedspread and grabbed her backpack, fumbling around in her hoodie pockets to make sure she had her house keys before she rushed out of her room and down the hall.

                Friday nights meant football games, and unable to be part of the special club of people who could see the other world – and who spent Friday nights learning magic and manners and whatever else you needed to survive there – she had signed up for band.  She played the trombone, not because of her passion for the instrument, but because her dad had once played, and there was a leftover in storage in their basement.  As she made her way toward the front door, she glanced into the living room where her mother was playing the role of drunk unemployed couch potato, and said, “I’ll be back by morning. Tomorrow night at the latest.” She waited for some response, some question, anything at all, but all she heard were the sounds of Law and Order SVU.

                “Or maybe never,” she muttered to herself as she let herself out.

                She got six texts in the next three minutes that only made her feel even surlier. “Where are you?” “Can’t you ever be here on time?” “Starting without you.” Etc.  She didn’t bother responding to any of them. Instead she put her phone on silent and walked staring into space – the space where the other world supposedly was – and wondered if anyone was watching her walk down her street toward the high school, toward the lights and the sounds that were growing ever louder.  Someone probably was. Creepy, she thought, though the idea gave her a weird kind of thrill in her and dredged up a lot of longing that sent a deep ache through her whole chest.

                She had only been five when the tear had opened, but she would always remember the chaos that had followed. People from all over the world had descended upon Riverwood, a small town without much more than a Walmart to boast about until then.  The “Rift between the Worlds” had become its number one tourist attraction, changing her town into a sideshow, with shops for the occult around every corner, guided tours, B&B’s that specialized in entertaining the especially weird traveler, and a not so secret government agency dedicated to monitoring it all.  Most of the people running things were as blind to the other world as she was, but that hadn’t stopped any of them from capitalizing on it.

                She smelled popcorn from a whole block away, and the delicious scent made her stomach rumble.  A wave of déjà vu washed over her as years of similar memories piled on top of the new ones her mind had already begun to create.  The cool fall air, the smell of concession stand food, and the sounds of the announcer shouting a play-by-play through the PA system around the football field knocked around in her mind, familiar and distant and beautiful.  As discontent as she often was, she still loved these little things.  She wasn’t what anyone might call a football fan, but she loved the enthusiasm and atmosphere of a high school football game.  That was at least sixty percent of the reason she had agreed to play in the pep band – which she was now late for.  She sped up her pace, feeling the mounting guilt as she glanced at the ever-increasing text notifications on her phone – she hadn’t bothered letting them know she was on the way.  They knew she was; they just wanted to torment her.

                The Booster Club moms were chatting happily with each other at the gate, though their cheerful expressions shifted to uneasy distaste as they spied her.  Rory had never earned their disapproval, but poverty was its own reputation in a town like this, and every one of these women at some stage or another had deemed her a bad seed.  The looks stung, but she kept her face as passive as possible as she flashed her band pass and hurried through the gate.  Without paying much attention to where she was going, she made her way toward the part of the bleachers reserved for the pep band, waving to her friends with a quick almost indifferent tilt of one hand.

                Ashley, band geek and D & D nerd extraordinaire, waved back enthusiastically while also indicating that she had grabbed Rory’s trombone, something Rory had not only expected but counted on.  With an apologetic grimace toward their band teacher Mr. Ellis, she took a seat in the back row beside another of her friends, Nick, a football drop-out turned wannabe delinquent, who was trying to sneak a cigarette between songs.  She reached out as she sat down and grabbed the cancer stick out of his hands, tossing it to the ground and crushing it beneath her shoe.

                “Trying to kill yourself again?” she muttered as she began to put her instrument together.  Nick just glared at her.

                “At least I know what time to show up, which was, by the way, almost an hour ago,” he said with such a sharp tone of irritation that she actually looked at him with surprise.

                “What’s your problem?” she asked, annoyed by his sudden wheedling behavior.  It wasn’t like he was the poster boy for enthusiastic participation in school events.  His frown deepened but he didn’t answer right away. He simply huffed and rubbed a smudge off the bell of his trombone.  She saw him clench his jaw then let the tension release, a strange thing to see if you are actually watching for the record, “Him.”  He nodded his head toward the front of the stands where Rory glimpsed wavy blond hair broad smile, and loud, jubilant laughter.

                “Ah,” she said sighing heavily.  This blonde Adonis had managed to ensnare the attention of most of the girls in school, including Ashley.  She was batting star-struck eyelashes at him, and he was grinning back, his smile as oily as his shiny hair.  Rory wanted to puke.

                “At least you’re still sane,” Nick said watching Ashley with disgust.  Rory sighed again and shrugged.

                “Insanity has nothing to do with it,” she said. “That,” she said, indicating Ashley, “is all hormones.”  She snorted at the look Nick gave her, but he also looked so downtrodden that she made a sad face and murmured, “Aw, buddy. You should just ask her out.  Do it before that dude does it or you’re screwed.”

                This was probably the sixth time she had said these words to him in the past three days, ever since “that dude” had appeared her history class with a note saying he was an exchange student. From over there.  Her teacher, happy for an opportunity to take a nap at his desk, asked “that dude” to introduce himself and, “Maybe we could do a little Q&A, yeah? Sound okay, kids?”  He had then promptly plopped into his chair and gone to sleep.  The blonde began speaking, his voice vibrating with the trace of an accent, though Rory noted that his English was immaculate.

                “My full name is Muhr A’Thar. My name may sound unfamiliar to you, because I was named in Ilyranian tradition.  Everyone just calls me Arthur.” It was here that he first used that strategic smile that had endangered the hearts of every girl in Rory’s class, including Ashley.  Rory had caught her own cheeks heating uncomfortably when their eyes briefly met, and she hurriedly pulled out a notebook and began drawing, though she had still listened closely, even if she had pretended not to for Nick’s sake, because this world, this existence had been her fascination.

Ten years earlier, what came to be known as the Ilyra Act had been signed.  The President had flown into the little airport outside town in Airforce One, and the town was swarming with Secret Service for an entire week while he met with an Ilyranian ambassador at the new Hilton Garden Inn.  The President couldn’t see Ilyra, but he liked their deep pockets and fascination with all things Earth, so trade agreements were signed, ambassadors exchanged, and a year later travel visas were being issued.  Those first exchange students had been treated like young princes or princesses, partly because they actually had been something like that in their own world, and Riverwood had scrambled to accommodate them, building a new district on the border of the rift meant specifically for these students and other immigrants.  The houses were spectacular, home to the rich and famous of both worlds.  Ironically, only a few blocks away, the least affluent members of Riverwood lived and gazed up at a shining world of impossibility.

That was what this guy was, Rory thought, impossible.  He was almost too good to be true, but when she glanced back at her friend, Ashley was dreamy-eyed and almost drooling.  She had to bite her lip to keep from rolling her eyes.

She felt a similar disgust now as he started a raucous chant with other avid football fans along the front of the bleachers, a chant that suddenly halted when he ran over and grabbed another guy around the neck and dragged him over, yelling loudly.  She watched through narrowed eyes as he began introducing his friend around.  Rory couldn’t see details of this new addition to the in-crowd up front, but it didn’t matter.  She wasn’t really that interested.

“Oh wonderful,” Nick muttered, smoke drifting out of his nostrils as he tried to sneakily smoke his cigarette.  Rory grabbed the nearly burned down butt and crushed it under her foot.

“You want a fine on top of everything else?” she hissed, glaring at him.  A moment later she lifted her trombone to her lips and began playing, trying to focus her whole attention on the song.  Nick was failing to participate next to her, still glaring at her, though his face looked more miserable than angry.

Boys were stupid, Rory thought, thinking of all of Nick’s moody behavior and Arthur’s condescension.  Most of the boys in her class were more concerned with nailing the girls they considered hot and had nothing but disdain for her.  She didn’t want them to like her, not really, but she longed for someone to exist that kind of understood her or wanted to.  Nick and Ashley were great friends, but they had grown up and changed. There was nothing much left in common between them except their childhood experiences, and more than once Rory had wondered if they even liked her these days.  She had always been a little too obsessed with the other world.  Nick had talked to her about his multiple times, telling her it was unhealthy.  Since when was he such an expert on what was unhealthy behavior?

                As soon as they were allowed to leave, Rory packed up her trombone and dropped it off in the band room before meeting Nick in the parking lot.  She watched Nick and Ashley argue as she approached his car, the confrontation ending with Ashley storming away toward a different group of people.  Her stomach clenched like she had been socked in the gut.  A moment later, Ashely glanced up and saw her.  She stopped for a moment, mouth dropping open as if she meant to say something, but in another moment, she turned and hurried away, Arthur calling her name.

                Rory watched Ashley leave, her eyes stinging suddenly, and she turned furious eyes on Nick, though she wasn’t sure if she was angry with him or with Ashley.

                “I thought we had plans tonight,” she said quietly.  Her voice was harsh and low, and Nick subtly winced.

                “Ashley invited us to a party,” Nick said, his voice equally low.  He glanced back at Ashely, and Rory followed his gaze, noticing that Ashley was determinedly not looking at them, though something about the way she was curled away from them indicated that she knew they were watching her.  Rory felt goosebumps ripple over her skin as she noticed that Arthur, speaking with Ashley, was actually staring at her.  She shivered and climbed into Nick’s car.

                “Maybe we should go,” she said quietly as Nick climbed in beside her. “I don’t really trust that guy.”  Nick knew who she meant, and she knew he agreed, but he groaned.

                “She’s going to do what she wants,” he said.

                “That doesn’t mean we have to watch her dive off the deep end.  Come on,” she said, sighing, “It’s only one party.”  She glanced at him for a moment, wrinkling her nose as he lit up a cigarette.

                “There’ll be booze, at least,” she continued, and he grunted.

                “Fine.”  They sat in silence for several minutes, waiting for Ashely’s new friends to get into their own cars and start zipping out of the parking lot.  Ashley, with Arthur in tow, appeared at Rory’s window.

                “You guys coming then?” she asked, sounding hopeful and smiling carefully.  Rory nodded.

                “Good. I’ll text you the address.”

                “We’ll just follow you,” Nick growled from the driver’s side.  Ashley’s smile faded slightly, but she nodded.

                “Cool. Okay. I’ll text you the address just in case,” she said quietly to Rory, who flashed a quick grin knowingly.

                And just as she had suspected, Nick wanted to stop for junk food.  She mapped the address and dictated directions to him as he chomped down French fries.

                “Shit, we’re going to Bridgeway,” he muttered, bits of potato flying out of his mouth.  This had been obvious to Rory, who doubted Ashley would have been conned into going to a party anywhere other than the fancy, rich Ilyranian neighborhood.  She just sighed and stared out the window.  Rain had begun to splatter the ground, dripping coldly down the windows. The dim orange light from the streetlamps refracted and blurred.  She let the radio and the rain bury the feelings that nagged at her chest.

                She glanced down at her clothes as they drove through the gates, the guard glancing at them but nodding.  Arthur must have told them we were coming, she thought.  The guard looked her up and down as they drove past, and she felt her cheeks heat.  Looking down at her own clothes, she winced.   Turning, she dug around in Nick’s backseat, emerging with a mildly worn t-shirt with a cool band name plastered across the front.  She sniffed it cautiously, noted the aroma of cigarettes and his cologne, but it wasn’t bad.  Not as bad as the baggy black shirt she had dug out of her laundry basket.  There was nothing she could do about her jeans now.  She quickly tore off her t-shirt, Nick doing a double take as she was momentarily half naked.

                “What the hell, Rory? Seriously?” His cheeks had turned pink when he’d glimpsed her navy-blue bra and pale skin.  But she was only topless for a moment before dragging his shirt over her head and running her fingers through her hair.  She glanced at her reflection and then looked to Nick for approval, but his face was still pink, and he refused to meet her eye.

                “Why do you even care what you look like?” He asked.  She sighed.  She’d explained this every time she had tried a new “style” at school. It wasn’t about attracting male attention. It was about having an identity.  She assumed, and she thought rightly, that people judged other people by what they wore. And the way she seemed was much more important to her than being considered attractive.  The reflection she saw said “don’t care” about as well as she could manage without actually trying.

                “At least you don’t wear buckets of make-up. Otherwise we’d probably never make it inside,” he muttered, parking along the street and shutting off the engine.  She laughed a little, and immediately made herself forget about her clothes and her hair and her poverty.  She had to be convincing about the not caring, she told herself, glancing at her reflection once more but ignoring the drawn insecurity written all over her face.

                Rory closed the door and circled the car, meeting Nick at his door where he stood awkwardly, arms crossed over his chest in obvious discomfort.

                “Don’t get too drunk or we’ll be stranded,” she told him, though she only lived about a mile from here and could walk if she had to.

                “Oh, I’m getting trashed,” he said, handing her his keys, “Just stop me if I try to start a fight.”  Awesome, she thought. Her favorite pastime: babysitting depressed Nick.

                She could hear music blasting from speakers inside the house, and she heard shrieks and laughter coming from behind the house.  She glimpsed a lit pool and sighed with minute longing.  As they approached the front steps, she saw people staring at them. She doubted they knew her name, but they definitely had opinions about her presence.  Nick didn’t seem to notice, making a beeline for Ashley, who Rory noticed was hovering in the foyer, Arthur an arms-length away but completely ignoring her.  As soon as she saw them coming, she broke away from him and hurried over.

                “I thought you weren’t coming,” she said, laughing a little with relief.  Rory shrugged.

                “Nick couldn’t resist the call of free booze,” she said nodding her head toward their friend who had already spied the keg and a table littered with liquor bottles and plastic cups.  Ashley bit her lip, watching him with a frown.  She glanced at Rory before bursting, “I’m sorry, Ror.  He’s so…it’s impossible to say no to him.” Rory assumed “him” meant Arthur.  She watched him laughing with a group of people that looked too rich to be from her school.

                “Who are all of these people?” she asked, looking around uncomfortably.

                “It’s a St. Charles party,” Ashley said with a bit of a groan.  Rory looked around sharply and almost bolted for the door.

                “Thanks for the warning,” she hissed, and Ashley shrugged.

                “I didn’t know he knew anyone there,” she said apologetically.  Rory just shook her head.  Well, she thought, that would explain why these stupid kids were staring at me. Ten years apparently wasn’t long enough to lose a bad reputation.  Rory wished she looked a little angrier and a little scarier now that she knew who’s company she kept, but it was too late now.

                “Come on,” Ashley said, laughing a little, “That was what…fourth grade? No way they’d remember you.”

                Rory doubted it, having already seen the looks being shot her direction.

                “How many kids you do you know that managed to fake their way into St. C’s?” Rory asked in a harsh whisper.  Ashley opened her mouth but no words came out. Instead, a high-pitched sneer crossed the room, “Well if it isn’t the little scam artist?”  Rory felt her whole body go cold. She turned slowly to face the owner of the voice, a girl with strawberry blond corkscrew curls and a face full of freckles.  Once short and round and venomous, Whitney Rogers was now as tall and thin as a model wearing a cute dress that probably cost more than Nick’s car.  She had a diamond bracelet on her wrist and glittering diamond earrings. Everything about her was perfect except the sneer on her face that twisted her mouth into an ugly line on her face.  The room seemed to grow silent and still instantly.  She heard Ashley suck in a breath next to her, and before she had realized it, her hands were in fists at her side, ready to fight.

                “Who invited this trash?” Whitney went on, looking Rory up and down.  She felt herself beginning to shrink under that gaze. Her words were stuck in her throat, just like always.

                “She’s not trash!” Ashley said, quickly, her face pale as the tension seemed to escalate. Whitney looked at her long and hard, her expression softening.

                “Oh, is she your friend?”  Ashley looked at Rory helplessly and said quietly, “Yes. Please leave her alone.”  Rory felt the words bite into her.  She didn’t need anyone defending her, but since her own words wouldn’t come, she couldn’t do anything.

                “Whit, hon, I invited her.  She’s Ashley’s best friend.  Come on.  Jackson got the hot tub working,” Arthur said, appearing out of nowhere.  He put a hand on Whitney’s elbow and began to lead her away.  Whitney glanced back at them before turning to Arthur, no doubt telling him the whole story, Rory thought, and she felt her body slowly slacken and become rubbery and cold.

                She didn’t speak to Ashley or Nick, instead heading immediately for the giant bottle of vodka on the table.  She poured a glass full and disappeared with it, leaving the bright, silent room and her friends behind.

               

                Rory hated alcohol.  Even as she gulped down the liquor, she hated it.  But she loved the fake courage, the words that suddenly seemed too easy to say, the feelings that rushed up and overwhelmed her.  What was she doing here?  This wasn’t her life.  She stared at the cup, more than half empty and pushed it away, her stomach churning.  She wasn’t like her mother, who couldn’t have stopped at half a glass.  She couldn’t have stopped at half a bottle.  Her mother didn’t stop until the money was gone.  Rory would never be her.  She threw the cup into the grass and wrapped her arms around her knees.

                Of course this was a St. Charles party, she thought.  It made perfect sense.  Most of the kids from Ilyra went there.  Ever since the rift had opened, St. Charles had been quickly converted to a prep school for kids that could see Ilyra. They taught them the language, the arts, the history, even the magic. It was expensive, but any kid with the ability to see Ilyra could apply.

                It had been her mom’s idea. She had applied for Rory after her teacher had told her mother that her drawings were “eerily accurate depictions” of the grand city on the other side of the rift.  Rory had insisted that she had made them up. She wished she could see it, but she had never pretended she actually could.  St. Charles’s admittance board had replied enthusiastically to her mother’s application, calling Rory a prodigy and a “gift”.  She’d been offered a full scholarship and a stipend – which her mother had immediately spent on herself – and attended classes for two months before the school finally realized that Rory was not as “gifted” as they had originally thought.  They humiliated her in an assembly, sued her mother for the stipend money she had spent, and sent her packing immediately.

                Rory had almost managed to forget about this.  It had been years after all, but she had intentionally avoided any chance of seeing those kids from St. Charles’s again, mostly managing. Except tonight.

                “You alright?” Someone was hovering in the shadows behind her, and when he spoke, Rory jumped.  She glanced back and saw Arthur emerge from the darkness to sit down beside her.  He was holding a glass of beer for her, but she shook her head and buried her face in her knees again.

                “You’re a legend,” he said, his voice sounding a little awed, but Rory snorted derisively.

                “I bet I am. The trash that infiltrated St. Charles.” She snorted again and felt her eyes stinging.  She should never drink.

                “Trash is their word. I think it’s badass,” he said, sipping the beer and glancing at her.

                “Are you sure you should be talking to me?” she said glaring at him.  He laughed quietly.

                “I don’t care. I came here to learn, not to be sidetracked by high school games.  Besides, like I said, I think its badass.  Not the stuff your mom did, but…”  He sighed, looking out at the night sky before looking at her.

                “I saw the stuff you drew that got you admitted,” he said.  She swallowed and stared at him.

                “How? Didn’t they burn it?” She asked, her tone sarcastic.  He shook his head.

                “A private collector bought it, actually.  My grandmother,” he said with a grin.  Rory felt like the ground had dropped out from beneath her.

                “No fucking way,” she said frowning and glaring at him, watching for deception.

                “I’m serious.  She’s on their board of trustees.  She actually asked me to keep an eye out for you,” he said, glancing at her again.  Rory’s mouth dropped open, and she could barely believe what she was hearing, but he was being serious.

                She got to her feet in a second and was back away from him, arms crossed over her chest.  He looked confused and stood up slowly.

                “What do you want from me?” she asked, her voice shaking slightly.  She couldn’t explain why, but she felt like she was being tricked into something.

                “Nothing.  She just wanted me to find you, see if you were still making art,” he said shrugging.  She studied him carefully.  He looked relaxed and comfortable in his khaki shorts and burgundy polo, his hands casually stuffed in his pockets, hair rumpled a little, face hesitantly smiling at her.  He looked as genuine as he had ever seen him, but she couldn’t…

                “There you are,” Nick said, emerging from the house, looking a little worried. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”  He saw Arthur and stopped dead.  Rory hurried over to him before he the look of betrayal could do more than flash across his features.

                “Let’s get out of here,” she said quickly, grabbing his arm and leading him back toward the door.  She didn’t look back at Arthur until she was sure Nick wouldn’t see her.  He was standing where she had left him, watching her carefully but she didn’t see any malice on his face, only disappointment.  Before she could change her mind, she followed Nick into the house.

                He led her through the rooms, where groups of people would quietly stop talking and stare at them until they had passed into another room to experience this all over again.  The walk to the front door felt like miles, but she knew it had only been minutes.  The cool fall air slammed into her as soon as she stepped outside, and she shivered as she felt the rain in the air.  Tears she had been holding back, anger and regret adding to their urgency, burst from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, growing chilly as the night air swept over her.  Nick glanced at her and sighed, putting an arm around her shoulder and squeezing her a little.

                “What do you want to do now?” he asked.  She glanced at him, wondering for a moment if he meant existentially, because that was how she was feeling right then, but she knew he just meant that it was only nine o’clock on a Friday night.  Then he stopped short, almost knocking her to the ground.  His arm slid away, and he was staring straight ahead at a shadowy figure leaning against his car.  Rory felt a little bereft as his body heat dispersed, but she felt relieved at the same time, especially when he left her where she was and rushed to Ashley’s side.

                The rain started coming down hard a moment later, but Rory barely noticed as she watched Nick make his move.  She didn’t hear what he said or how Ashley answered.  She only knew that she didn’t have a part in this moment.  She saw him reach up and brush her hair out of her face, his fingers shaking visibly, and Ashley laughed uncomfortably. Nick bowed his head, and Rory imagined he was apologizing or he might have been begging, but a moment later, Ashely had her arms around his neck.  That was when Rory turned and began trudging down the road toward home.

                She sent Nick a text a few minutes later, just in case he realized she was walking, and told him it was fine. She needed to walk off her buzz as it was. But the rain was cold, and she was shivering hard after a few blocks.  She tried to focus on getting home, but her mind kept drifting back to what Arthur had said, that her art had been purchased.  She imagined it hanging on someone’s wall, tried to imagine the room, tried imagining his grandmother staring at her art speculating about things like deeper meanings or her use of colors.  But it was too impossible.  That wasn’t her life.  No one ever said those things about her art, she thought, but then she reminded herself that no one had seen her art since then.  She kept it hidden in her room away from all prying eyes.  Nick and Ashley never came to her house, and her mother was rarely coherent if she was even home.  There was no risk of anyone discovering the piles and piles of drawings and paintings hidden under the floorboards in her bedroom and behind posters on her walls.

                Only two more blocks, she thought, turning a corner that marked the edge of Bridgway and Riverwood.  The brand-new townhouses towered over the battered hundred year old houses that had made up the center of town.  The old trees creaked as wind rattled through them, and she shivered again, wishing she had just waited out Nick’s and Ashley’s romantic moment so she could have gotten a ride home. As she was rounding the last block, a car sped past her and splashed gutter water in an arch over her head.  She stopped dead in her tracks, spluttering as water sluiced off of her, and glared feebly at the tail lights, which had begun reversing back toward her.  Slightly panicked now, she stepped off the sidewalk and into the grass of someone’s front yard, watching the car carefully.  A moment later, she saw Arthur’s blond head sticking out of the driver’s side window grinning at her.

                “What the hell,” she muttered.

                “Get in,” he said, and she rolled her eyes.

                “I’m fine,” she yelled back, her voice barely carrying over the sound of his engine.  His grin broadened.

                “Just get in,” he insisted.  She groaned and threw up her hands.  She jogged over to his car and climbed in, frowning darkly as he grinned at her.  He tossed her a hoodie.

                “What is this?” she asked, pulling it on.

                “I felt bad,” he said, shifting his car into gear and speeding back onto the street.

                “I seriously live a block from here,” she said uncomfortably.

                “It’s fine,” he said, smiling brightly at her, “It’s better than nothing, right?”

                “Sure, I guess.” She watched him suspiciously.  Guys like this did not chase her down and drive her home.  It had already occurred to her that he had shifted his attention from Ashley to her much too quickly for this to be a normal kind of relationship, but she wasn’t sure how to ask him what his intentions were, but when he pulled up in front of her house and started to get out, she pulled him back inside his car and crossed her arms.

                “What the hell is going on here?” She asked sharply.  His grin faltered.

                “What do you mean?”

                “I mean that an hour ago you were all into Ashley, and now you’re here, at my house, which I never invited you to see.  And you keep smiling at me like that.  This isn’t normal. What do you want from me, dude?”  She saw his stricken look, but it didn’t phase her.

                “Don’t even try to lie to me,” she said, glaring more fiercely and tightening her arms.  He gazed back at her for a long time before sighing and leaning back against his chair.

                “I know how this looks to you,” he said, his tone darker than she had expected, “And since my charm obviously doesn’t work on you…” He flashed her an irritated look before continuing, “I’m following orders.  Satisfied?”

                “Um, not really,” she said wishing she was the kind of person that could punch other people. When he didn’t answer, she threw her hands up again and said, “And your charm? Are you serious? Any girl in her right mind wouldn’t trust a guy that acts like that.  All you’ve done so far is act super creepy.”

                “Stop!” he said putting up a hand. “Has anyone ever told you how annoying you are?”  She rolled her eyes.

                “My grandmother is a collector. I told you. She wants more of your art, but Ashley said you don’t do art anymore, not since that situation at St. Charles’s.”

                “Ashley told you about that?”

                “No, Whitney told me about that about 45 minutes ago. I put the pieces together, talked to Ashley, and then followed you home.”

                “See? Super creepy.”

                “I told you. I’m following orders.”  Rory shook her head.

                “Why didn’t you just ask me yourself?” she asked, as though this path should have been obvious.  He laughed derisively and shook his head with disbelief.

                “Since the second I walked into your class, you’ve done nothing but sneer at me.  Don’t even pretend you don’t do that.  You’ve been acting like you’re too good to talk to me.  You would’ve bitten my head off if I’d tried to ask you anything about this. Admit it.”

                Rory was a little stunned by his observational skills, though she immediately felt like a jerk.  Which was probably part of his plan, she thought, but it had worked.  Now she felt bad.  And she knew she was going to do it.  She was going to show him.  She couldn’t explain why this felt like the end of something, and she didn’t like it.  What choice did she have though? She felt like she had been cornered.

                “Okay,” she whispered, barely able to breathe, her heart tearing inside her chest. He grinned broadly, and she saw relief flash through his eyes – which in the moment seemed odd, but she immediately forgot this.  He opened his car door and began to climb out until she grabbed his arm.

                “Wait. First, you have to promise that you won’t tell anyone about…” My mom, she thought, my house.  How shitty my life is?  But she couldn’t finish.  He nodded.

                “I promise.  Trust me.  I won’t tell anyone.” She shook her head.  She swallowed hard and said, “If you say a word about…about my life, I’ll…I’ll burn it all.  I really will.” She didn’t actually think she could, and really how much worse could everyone’s opinions be if he told them? But in the moment, glancing at her building, imagining her mother passed out on the couch, the garbage piling up… She shuddered and shook her head.

                “This is a bad idea,” she said, shaking her head again. But Arthur grabbed her arm and when she looked at him, his expression was as serious as she had ever seen anyone’s.

                “I won’t tell anyone anything. Seriously. I promise. Okay?”  His voice was a little strained, and though everything in her was terrified to expose the truth of her world, she swallowed hard and got out of the car.

                He followed her, ignoring the rain and watching her carefully as she fumbled around in her pockets for her keys.  She was still freezing, and her fingers felt numb as she shoved the key into the lock and opened the door.

                She could hear the television, still playing reruns, louder than absolutely necessary.  She glanced into the living room and noticed that her mom had grabbed a blanket since she had been home earlier, so her tattered and risqué nightgown was covered.  A cigarette was still burning in the ashtray.  Without thinking about Arthur – in fact, actively not thinking about him – Rory rushed into the room and put the cigarette out.  She knocked over several empty bottles in the process, and the resulting clatter could have woken the dead, though her mother – dead drunk – didn’t stir.  The noise still made Rory wince.  She quickly picked up the bottles that had scattered across the floor and dumped them into a garbage can in the kitchen.  Arthur followed her in, his face calculating and curious but not cruel as he looked around each room.  He walked over to the fridge and opened the door, which Rory would have thought was rude if she hadn’t been so self-conscious of its emptiness.

                “My room is upstairs,” she said, unable to look him in the eye.  She didn’t wait for him to follow her, knowing he would, and began climbing up the rickety stairs.  They creaked under her footsteps, but she barely heard this anymore.  She had lived here for so long the sound was almost comforting.

                Her bedroom door was partially open, an unusual oversight on her part, but she was pretty sure her mother hadn’t climbed the stairs in five years.  When she swung the door open for Arthur to enter, she held her breath.

                Her room was sparse, her furniture pilfered from dumpsters and thrift stores – a desk against the window, a bookshelf of bricks and two by fours.  The bed was a mattress on the floor with blankets that had been threadbare years before, and were now little more than rags.

                Arthur took a step toward the desk and flipped on the lamp.  When he straightened, she saw him searching, eyes scanning the walls, the desk, everywhere.

                “Just a second,” she said, and she pulled down two strategically hung posters on one wall, putting them on her bed and waiting for him to say something.  Almost like he was in a trance, he crossed the room and stood gazing up at the mural before him.

                She had painted them this summer, the three pieces he was now studying.  The focal point on the left was a magnificent tree with crimson leaves shot through with threads of silver, and visible in the distance was a shimmering cityscape, with skyscrapers that seemed to glitter as they reached into the clouds.  The sky was a gradient of oranges, reds and blues that still made her chest ache when she looked at it. Deep shadows existed there too, a darkness she couldn’t understand but that had seemed vital to the image.  In the dim light of the room, she glanced up at Arthur’s face and saw that his eyes were shining.  He reached up as though he wanted to touch the painting, his hand shaking slightly, but he let his hand fall to his side and stepped back, breaking the spell that had held him for a moment.

                “Show me more,” he whispered.  She bit her lip and got on her knees and peeled back a floor board.  She pulled out a makeshift portfolio that she had pieced together from large pieces of cardboard and duct tape and put it on the floor near his feet.  He dropped to his knees and, without asking, pulled away the top piece and sucked in his breath sharply.

                The piece he had found was dark, black and blood red and silver. She had intended to hide this, but he had been too quick for her.  She had painted it last winter, during the holiday break when she had been cold and alone and feeling more depressed than usual.  A bloody hand grasped a silver orb that glowed silvery and white.  Even now it looked alive.  She hadn’t known what it was, but the image still gave her an eerie feeling when she looked at it.  Arthur quickly flipped it over, though he was also incredibly gentle. She watched as he seemed to sink into each painting and drawing, his mouth open but no words escaping.  When he reached the end, he couldn’t look at her.

                “These…” he began, his voice breathy and rough, a note of anguish that she couldn’t understand rippling out of his words, “These are beautiful.” He choked on the word, and Rory watched him with fascination.  This arrogant boy had been completely flattened by her art.  She gazed back at her wall, and something about his awe seemed to have rubbed off on her.  The colors seemed more vivid and emotional now than they ever had before, like he had brought her art into a living, breathing existence. 

                She waited for him to say more, but he just sat on her floor staring at nothing.  After a few moments of mutual silence, he pulled out his phone and began typing furiously.

                “No, wait, what are you doing?” He didn’t answer. He just kept typing for another moment before looking up at her.

                “Rory, these are incredible.  You…you have no idea how incredible.  My grandmother needs to know,” he said, shaking his head as if disbelieving.  Rory felt her body tense, but she reasoned with herself.  This had been the point, she reminded herself.  This had been his whole reason for seeing her art.  She had shown it to him voluntarily, hadn’t she?

                “You think she’ll want them?”  He laughed and looked at her like she was an idiot.

                “Yeah, I do.  And not just her.”  He watched her carefully for a long time, glancing at his phone intermittently.  After a few minutes of awkwardness, she got to her feet and ducked into her closet.  Her clothes were still wet, though they had begun to dry and smelled terrible.  Stripping them off, she dug around for something clean and pulled on another t-shirt she had stolen from Nick months before but that he had never noticed was missing – she had washed it since then – and her other pair of jeans, only worn twice since the last time she’d done laundry.  She brushed her hair and pulled it back with a hair tie before pulling on a blue hoodie and rejoining him.  Instead of sprawling on the floor like he was, she crawled onto her bed and lay with her head on her crossed arms.  He was waiting for his grandmother to text him, she figured, and for some reason the world had stopped spinning.  She was waiting too, unable to imagine what her life might look like now that she had shared this secret with him.  The last person she would have ever considered…

                “Can I take a picture of the one on the wall?” He asked a moment later.  She swallowed hard and nodded.

                As soon as he had sent this picture, his phone began vibrating insistently.  He looked relieved and answered it quickly.

                “Yes, I found her,” he said, looking up at Rory quickly.  He listened, still watching her, but his expression changed and grew tense before he said, “I’ll…I’ll ask.”

                “She wants to talk to you,” he said, holding out the phone.  Rory swallowed and blinked at him, but she took the phone and held it to her ear.

                “Hello?”

                “Rory Markham. We finally speak,” a voice said.  It was clearly an old woman, her voice gravely with age, and her words rolled with a strong accent.  Rory glanced at Arthur before saying, “Nice to…talk to you.”

                “I know this must seem very sudden to you, but I am a great admirer of yours.  I would like to show your art in my gallery as soon as possible.  You would be compensated, of course.”

                Rory had never thought much about making money from her art.  She had dreamed of it but not seriously.  Her paintings and drawings had always been so personal, so private that she hadn’t allowed herself to imagine a time when she would be willing to part with them.

                “Of course you would be brought here as a guest during the exhibition,” the woman continued.  Rory’s heart leapt and then immediately sunk.  She pulled the phone away from her ear, feeling all her triumph slowly fading.

                “Ma’am, I’m…I’m incredibly grateful,” she began, “and I would love to come to Ilyra, but…I can’t see it. I’ve never been able to see it.”  She watched Arthur’s face as she said this, tears pricking her own. But he didn’t even react, and after a moment, she heard the old woman chuckle.

                “My dear, that can be sorted out easily enough.  Don’t worry about that.”  Rory wasn’t reassured, but she glanced at Arthur who didn’t seem phased at all by her inability to see the city on the other side of the rift.  Her hands shook violently and she bit her lip.

                “Are you sure about this?” she burst.  She felt as though she was part of something too big to understand, that there was more going on here, but she had no idea what it could be.  How could she turn down an opportunity like this? But at the same time, how could she trust these people?  Her stomach burned with anxiety.  “All you’ve ever seen is one drawing I did when I was eight and a picture of one of my paintings.”

                “I am more than sure.  I suppose you wouldn’t know this, but your art could be very valuable here.  Your style is very different from anything that artists have been making in Ilyra.”  Rory closed her eyes and took a long steadying breath. What if they were scamming her somehow?  She could lose everything. Be real, she thought almost laughing at her own thoughts, what do you even have to lose?

                And it was this realization that made up her mind.  She had nothing to lose.  She had no one and nothing.  She had Nick and Ashley, sure, but she was pretty sure they were somewhere making out – she was happy for them of course, but it wasn’t as though they were really worried about her right then.  Otherwise Arthur wouldn’t be here.  Nick would’ve flattened him before he would have been able to say two words to her.

                “Okay. I’ll do it,” she said, shaking her head at her own recklessness. Still, she remembered, I have nothing to lose. Nothing at all.  Nowhere to go but up…right?

                “Fantastic,” the woman said, her tone obviously ecstatic.  Arthur was grinning at Rory from across the room, a genuine grin that she actually kind of liked, if she was being totally honest.  The woman asked to speak to Arthur again, and Rory handed the phone back with shaking hands.

                Arthur spoke quickly in another language before hanging up and grinning at her.  She saw his body tensing, like he was stopping himself from mauling her.

                “What happens next?”  She has letting out a deep breath that she felt she’d been holding for hours.  Arthur’s grin slowly widened.