All the Better (A Twisted Novel)

Chapter Eighteen

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Peter stares down at me his eyes raking quickly over my face, silently assessing me.  Hugging myself closer against the rough brick behind me, I wonder at the likelihood of Jason coming to my rescue. I don’t appreciate the way Peters looks at me, as if he’s privy to some joke that I don’t know the punch line to. I tug at my lower lip with my teeth, worried that it’s me. There’s something about this guy that makes me nervous; he’s- different, and he seems to vibrate with a child-like energy. He’s almost playful in the way he speaks with me.

“Peter?”

 He laughs, backing away from me until his back rests against the wall opposite mine. I slowly inhale before exhaling again, grateful for the space to breathe. Having not ruled out the option of running yet, I almost flee, stopping only when I see the expression on his face. He’s expectant, almost daring me too. “You aren’t how I pictured you,” He says in a voice as comfortable as my grandma’s arms, enveloping me in a hug. A voice that threatens to put me at ease.

 “Sorry to disappoint.” I hesitate, considering how to pose my next question. “Who are you?”

“I already told you; I’m Peter.” He says this in an airy tone, but then he sighs, seeming to age by years.

“That’s not what I asked.” I cross my arms over my chest indignantly, waiting for him to speak. It’s a look that would make Jason call me ‘hard-headed’, and thinking of him, I give a sigh similar to Peter’s.

“Look,” He explains. “Who I am isn’t important. It’s who you are.”

This time I laugh, not believing a word that flies out of his mouth. “And who do you think I am?”

A fire sparks behind his eyes, and he flashes a taunting smile. “Ah… You don’t know. I should have guessed- it’s likely I’d be dead by now if you did.”

“Know what?” My words are laced with suspicion.

“Ha. Well, I’m certainly not going to tell you.” As he speaks, he reaches his hands into the pocket of his worn Levis, which are tattered and spotted with grass-stains. For a top, he wears a thin white t-shirt. He must be cold, I think, suddenly aware of the smalls bumps that the chill has gathered on my arms. When his hand emerges, he’s holding a red feather, and he begins stroking it absentmindedly.

“Why?” I ask, choosing to ignore the feather and focus on whether he’s telling the truth. A more dangerous part of me wants to believe him.

 “Because it would spoil the fun, of course.”

I decide he’s messing with me, and turn my attention to other things. He’s still toying with the feather in his hand, turning it over and over between his fingers. I gesture toward it, repeating my question. “Why?”

“You sure do like that word, “ He answers. Peeking his head out of the alleyway, Peter looks both left and right several times before grabbing my hand, and pulling me onto the sidewalk. “Come with me.”

Peter leads me down the sidewalk, turning the corner. There we find a street of stores long forgotten by the people of New York. The store we enter is selling owl shaped knickknacks, coloring books, jewelry, and other items without obvious relation. As I'm taking in our surroundings, Peter takes my hand. I'm prepared to pull it away when he turns my hand in his, opening it, and placing the feather he was holding in it. He wraps my fingers in a tight fist around it, still holding on. I give him a curious glance, but he ignores me or he doesn't see it, because he continues to drag me through the shop. After we've walked ten steps or so, he turns to me and mouths something. You're pocket, I realize he's trying to tell me. Perplexed, I shove the feather into my jacket pocket. He grants me with a nod of his head.