Biology races by in a blur. As our teacher lectures about the year's syllabus and homework, my eyes swivel in Nathan's direction. He leaves me uneasy. The tattoo on his neck, the scarf, and his eerie interest in me leave no room for doubt: he's the guy from last night. What worries me most is he acts like he already knows everything about me, but I know nothing about him.
By lunchtime he's turned into a creepy stalker. Nathan is in all my classes and insists on sitting next to me. Sometimes he makes quiet conversation during lapses in the lectures, about the syllabus or other kids in our class; other times he just studies me. I feel like he's sizing me up but I don't know why.
I find Asher in front of his locker when the lunch bell rings, talking to that blonde girl—Willa—again. They're deep in conversation, and she rocks back and forth on her heels as she says something that makes him laugh.
Nathan clears his throat when we reach them, startling Asher and Willa out of whatever moment they're having. Willa crosses her arms and leans against Asher's locker, eyeing me. I get the distinct feeling that she hates me without even knowing me.
Asher cuts into our awkward staredown. "Gabi, I don't think I've introduced you to Willa yet."
Willa doesn't smile. She's pretty: her shoulder-length blonde hair is accented with layers that frame her petite features. I expect she'd have a nice smile except for the fact that her lips refuse to move from their fixed position in a half-frown. She nods once to acknowledge me and then turns back to Asher, angling her shoulders away from me. Nathan moves to stand beside her and now I feel left out, like these people are all standing there discussing a secret right in front of me.
They murmur about Nathan's penthouse and some kids in Boston and a guy named Emery. I linger for a few seconds, debating, and then slip away, melting into a group of girls I know from last year's chem class. Asher and I usually eat lunch together, but one glance at his new elite group and I know I'm not invited.
When people think of the Bronx, they usually don't think of beauty. Maybe it's because I grew up here, but I see it where other people wouldn't. As I walk home from school I admire the towering buildings, the townhouses, and the rickety apartments stacked up high. Even the graffiti has its own appeal: it coats the walls of the buildings with images of flowers and people. One giant masterpiece near a bodega announces in neon letters, "Welcome to the Bronx."
Hitching my backpack higher on my shoulder, I slap the button at the pedestrian crossing but only wait for a gap in the traffic. I skirt around a van and under the giant bridge that spans the median of Westchester, hopping onto the sidewalk on the other side.
I'm at our building in under five minutes. My mom and I live alone in a two-bedroom apartment on the same street as University Heights, beside a Tex-Mex restaurant. Sometimes Asher stays over. I missed those nights when he was gone: I'd climb out of bed and sit beside him on the couch next to our tiny kitchen, and we'd talk until we both fell asleep.
I slip inside the front door of our apartment complex and walk a few doors down until I reach our unit. Mom's never home from work until the evening, so I have the place to myself for a few hours.
When I reach my bedroom I change into leggings and a black t-shirt before collapsing on my bed. My room is coated with artwork: renditions of street art I've bought off vendors up and down the alleys of Bushwick and Queens. I love the way the sketches overlap, but every time Mom walks into my room her lips flatten. I know she wishes I'd kept the pink wallpaper and the pastel paintings I did in middle school.
As midday sunlight warms my back, I unload my backpack onto my bed. The first thing out is my sketchbook journal—a haphazard compilation of quotes I collect, fashion sketches, and doodles of graffiti I'm inspired by. I flip through it, inhaling the scent of pencils and wrinkly paper, before putting it on my pillow.
Someone raps on the door. I grab my earbuds and phone before heading back into the living room. Stuffing an earbud in, I swing open the door to let Asher in.
"Hey," he says, stepping over the threshold. His sneakers hit a floorboard that creaks. "Mind if I stay here tonight?"
"Help yourself. I'm in my room working on homework." I'm thrilled he chose to stay here instead of with his new friends. Maybe I imagined the awkward tension from school.
He drops his backpack on the couch and follows me into my room. I know his school bag doesn't just carry books: it also has a change of clothes and some toiletries, because when you don't have a house like Asher doesn't you're always crashing on someone's couch.
"How was visiting your family?" I ask, handing him one of my earbuds.
He takes it and leans against the headboard with me, so we're both staring out my smudged picture window into the city. "It was good," he says. "Busy."
"Why don't you live with them if they have a house and everything?"
He shrugs, and it's obvious he doesn't want to dwell on the subject. As he switches the song to a new hip-hop hit, I watch the traffic outside. I try to enjoy the serenity of the moment but I'm distracted by thoughts of Willa, who has an annoying habit of slipping into my mind when it goes dormant.
"So, those new kids to school," I say, turning the music down a notch. "You know them?"
"Willa and Nathan? Yeah. We met over the summer."
"Like, when you were with your relatives? You never talked about them before."
I see his jaw clench; I've hit a nerve. "I just know them," he says.
Something about his tone irritates me. Yanking the earbuds out of both our ears, I turn to him and ask, "How? You're being strangely cryptic."
He tries to take back the earbud but I dangle it far away, so I barely hear the bass. "Seriously," I press. "You've barely spoken to me since you got back."
"I've been busy."
My feelings about school slink back. He doesn't elaborate, and his refusal to speak makes me even more angry. "Asher!" I exclaim, crossing my arms. "You can't just do this. What's up?"
He still doesn't say a word.
"We're best friends. Best friends tell each other everything."
He watches me with the funniest expression, like his blue eyes are reading me. He seems tired, and he's not clean-shaven like he usually is. His fists are clenched, emphasizing the black watch strapped around his wrist.
"Things have changed, Gab," he says finally.
"Changed how?"
No response. Instead he swings his legs over the side of the bed so his back is to me. I watch his shoulders rise and fall as he breathes, his white crew neck clinging to him so the muscles in his arms stand out. When he buries his face in his hands I scoot closer.
"Asher." I reach forward and straighten his shirt, pulling it down so it lays flat on him.
But before I can smooth it against his neck, he jumps away, eyes wide. "Don't touch me."
My mouth falls open, but he unaffectedly pulls his shirt back up into its original position.
"You know what?" I snap. "You're acting like I don't even know you anymore."
"Maybe you don't."
"Well maybe I don't let strangers stay in my apartment." I stand and run my hands through my hair, and my fingers slam into a tangle at the bottom. As I yank at the knot I try not to look at him. I can't believe we're fighting right now—not when he just got back. I sense things are different now, but I don't know how or why. I don't know what I've done to make him act this way towards me. There's a tightening sensation in the pit of my stomach, like all my expectations are being wrung out until they snap. It stings, a lot.
He shrugs, refusing to meet my eye. "Guess not," he says. Then he stands and ambles over to the door.
"Asher!"
He doesn't react. I watch from my room as he swings his backpack over one shoulder and lets himself out. When he slams the door behind him it rattles the whole apartment.
I yell his name one more time, as if there's a chance he can hear me, and then fall back on my unmade bed. The sheets are still warm where we sat.
For a few seconds I let myself sit exactly where Asher sat with his face in his hands. I take deep, rattling breaths to compose myself, then stand and kick the door to my room closed. I've barely sat back on my bed when the door opens again and my mother pokes her head inside. Her mouth is stretched out into a wide, childlike grin, and her eyes sparkle.
"Look who I found out in the hallway," she says, pushing the door open wider. Asher is behind her, hands deep in his pockets, scowl still affixed to his angular face. "I dragged him back in for dinner. Come on, I bought Chinese from that new place across the street."
Asher and I don't smile, but we follow her into the kitchen. The distinct tang of chow mein tickles my nostrils.
We sit on barstools, Mom between Asher and me. I wiggle my chopsticks between my index finger and thumb and stab at dumplings, occasionally daring a glance at Asher. Somehow he manages to frown even when he's chewing.
"So how was upstate?" asks Mom after a tangibly awkward ten minutes or so of silence. "Asher, you were staying with your aunt and uncle, right?"
"Yeah." He doesn't say anything else, but I know it's because he's still angry and not because he doesn't want to speak with his mouth full.
"I'm sure you were excited to see Gabi again, right?"
This time he doesn't even bother opening his mouth; he just nods and picks up more chow mein. Mom looks between us a few times, her eyebrows furrowed, before she asks, "What's wrong? You two usually never stop talking. Always laughing and joking. Gabi, did something happen?"
"No."
I don't like lying, but Mom and I never talk about feelings. Besides, I know if I told her Asher and I had gotten into a big fight she'd be crushed—she adores him. All she'd do is try to fix it, but her fixing it would turn into meddling and things would be tangled up even worse than before.
The rest of dinner is so quiet I can hear the footsteps of the tenants upstairs.
A few hours later, I've finished my homework but am still fuming about my fight with Asher. Even making my usual evening cup of tea doesn't calm me. Sipping on the camomile only reminds me how much I miss Asher—he always made fun of me for my nightly routine, with a smirk that was higher on one side and eyes that sparkled when he laughed.
When I climb in bed to go to sleep, my chest feels like someone's kneading it with iron fists. I'm hot, then I'm cold, then my vision blurs and I fall asleep. Just a few breaths later, my eyes flick open. It's dead silent, so quiet I hear water dripping from the leaky faucet in the bathroom.
Am I dreaming? I roll over to check my watch. It's not glowing blue—it looks ordinary, like it does when I'm awake.
The room has a coppery tinge to it. Blinking a few times to clear my eyes, I sit up. My usually white sheets bathed in gold and the lightbulb on my lamp glows even though it isn't on.
Suddenly all sound is muted. I can't hear myself breathing or even the trickling of the sink faucet. When I move the sheets I don't even hear them rustle.
And then, out of nowhere: a voice. It speaks through a channel in my head, as if I'm being hypnotized.
You have a book.
My eyes flicks to the bottom drawer of my nightstand. How to Control Your Dreams is tucked inside, underneath some old ratty t-shirts. It's well hidden—or so I thought.
Drop the book outside your window. You don't need it anymore.
Panic presses, adding to the constriction in my chest. The voice in my head thunders and overwhelms my thoughts. I want to scream but when I open my mouth nothing comes out. I don't know who's talking to me and I'm frozen in my bed, unable to twitch a muscle. Just like last night, only worse. The thing with Nathan had been a dream—now I think he's harmless. This? This isn't a dream. Someone is speaking to me through my mind.
Get the book, and drop it out the window. I'll take care of everything from there.
"Who are you?" I try to say, but silence spills out. The voice must not have heard me either, because she doesn't reply.
At least, I think it's a girl. There's something lilting and rough to it, but it's so close in my head that I can't detect much beyond that.
You're not moving. Come on, I don't have all night.
I want to tell her I can't move, but I still can't speak. That claustrophobic feeling is almost worse than having a stranger in my head.
What would my dad do? Scientific fascination would take over—he'd be too intrigued to be scared. But he would try his hardest to protect the book, to protect the secrets he spent his whole life trying to understand.
Something snaps. I push aside my sheets and struggle out of bed, almost tripping on my bio textbook at my feet.
Gabriella. You need to act now.
My hands fly up to my head, clutching my temples, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I try to flip the switch in my head to wash out the voice, but it's still there. She repeats my name over and over, louder and louder, so my brain pulses in my skull.
When I open my mouth next, I can speak. "No. I don't have what you're looking for."
Fine, we'll do this the hard way. The voice disappears. I feel it slithering out of my head, leaving an empty space where its presence pushed aside all my other thoughts. I sit on the corner of my bed, knees drawn up against my chest, breathing too heavily. Waiting for her to come back.
I hear movement outside my window, clattering on the fire escape. Right away I know—this isn't some ordinary burglar. It's the girl in my head, materialized right on the other side of the thin glass.
Instinct kicks in, hard. I need something to defend myself with—there's no way my hands will be enough. I cross the room to my closet, bare-footed. Pushing remnants of my sticky ponytail off my forehead, I slide the hangers off the rack and heave the pole out of its slots. I'm still short of breath and I'm dizzy—the pole slips out of my sweaty hands and clatters onto the laminate.
As I pick it up, my window shatters. I think of my mother in the bedroom next to me and wonder if I should call for her or not. Before I can decide I turn around see three figures, clad in black and standing in triangular formation right in front of my bed.
When they see me, the front one extends a hand, shadowed in the hollow of his sweatshirt sleeve.
"Let me have it," he says. His deep voice rumbles—he's not the one who spoke to me in my head.
It's obvious I can't just give them the book. Even I know how priceless it is—the woman at the thrift store lectured me on its value when she sold it to me. Worth a fortune and dangerous if placed in the wrong hands. Hands like these, probably.
I respond by swinging the pole at him, but before it can make contact he grabs it with his hand and wrenches it out of my grip. Then he throws it to the other side of the room, where it crashes against my headboard before falling harmlessly onto the rumpled sheets.
"Let's try this again," he says, pulling the hood off his sweatshirt. "Hand it over."
He looks around my age, with cropped dark hair and deep umber skin. His eyes shock me: they're pure amber, and they sparkle in the reflections of the broken glass. I take a subconscious step back.
"You don't need to be afraid of us." This voice belongs to the girl from my mind, and she emerges from her spot flanking the boy. She sounds just as musical in real life. "Please just give it to us, and we'll leave you alone."
Her voice is mesmerizing, scattering and slipping inside my brain. Its meandering tentacles worm their way in, toying with the decision-making part of my head.
"I—" I begin, but she breaks eye contact and I slip out of the trance. I clear my throat. "I don't have what you're looking for."
The third figure lunges, but the boy holds out an arm and she falls against it. A flash of black hair escapes from her hood, but the rest of her features are shadowed. The boy leans in close to her and murmurs, "Relax. We're going to erase her memory anyway."
Fear crawls up and down my arms like a million tiny needles stabbing my skin. Can they do that—just wipe away this moment like it never even happened? How else can they manipulate and control me?
My terror is red-hot. They're in the middle of my room, a human blockade barricading my window and door.
The boy steps back from the dark-haired girl. She turns toward me, her lips twisting up into an ironic smile. Maybe she doesn't think I overheard her, or maybe she knows and doesn't care. "We don't want to fight you," she says, crossing her arms. "But we will if we need to."
I know I can't beat them but that doesn't mean I can't try: if I don't ward them off, they'll erase my memory. There's three of them, but I still have my pole on my side. Lunging forward, I pick it up off my bed and swing it in a circle. All three duck, but none look afraid.
The boy tugs the scarf off his mouth so his voice is clearer. "You don't know what you're messing with, Gabriella. Please."
I swing the pole again, like I'm in a pro golf tournament. This must translate to a declaration of war because they all charge at me. They're all way bigger and stronger than me, and my already sick stomach twists. I have just enough time to wonder what I've gotten myself into before the dark-haired girl grabs me by the waist and hurls me onto my bed.
The sheets muffle my screams as I kick my legs, making contact with something. The girl lurches back and I try to sit up, but she pins me by my arms against the mattress. Her knee rams into the small of my back, pinning me down and sending shooting pains up my spine.
While I try to buck her off, the other two rifle through my drawers. The boy shoves open my dresser so forcefully the drawer flies off its track. He doesn't worry about the mess as he throws out sketchbooks and fabric swatches. A photo album falls next to my head and I grit my teeth—I filled it with photos from a trip Asher and I took to Coney Island early in the summer.
The guy and the red-haired girl pick through the wreckage to my nightstand. It's the girl who pulls open the bottom drawer and throws out all my t-shirts. Finally the book falls into her lap facedown, and I squeeze my eyes shut, expecting them to turn on me.
But they don't. The girl holding me down lets go and the three of them work their way back to the window. I spring up from the bed, ignoring the throbbing in my arms and back, and follow them. Something sharp pokes into my heel and I scream as glass slices the bottom of my foot.
The three figures flip their hoods back over their heads and climb out the window one by one. As I plop down among the broken glass, I realize following them is fruitless.
Their footsteps on the fire escape fade until they join the other muted sounds of a night on Westchester. I sit and contemplate how different things would have been had Asher stayed. He's sleeps lighter than my mother: he would have heard the glass breaking or at least the sounds of the struggle from the living room and come to help me. But he's not here and now neither is the book, and I don't know what I'm supposed to do. There's no one I can tell. If I call the cops and tell them the only thing taken was a book, they won't investigate.
But the worst hasn't even hit me yet. I remember what the guy had told his friend—that my memory would be wiped away. My muscles tense as I wait for the trio to erase my memory. Will I even know it's happening? How long are they going to wait?
Minutes crawl by, and nothing happens. I consider waking Mom up so she can at least administer first aid on my foot, but I don't feel like getting her involved. Instead I limp to the bathroom to sop up the blood and wrap the wound. Then I hobble back to my room with a broom and dustpan and sweep up the glass. A cool breeze slips through the now-open window, easing some of the sweat on the back of my neck and sticking to my forehead.
Just as I've thrown the glass into the trash can and put the broom back in its spot, the room dims again. My head throbs, my eyes registering flashes of colors and bright shapes, voices ringing in my ears. I think I fall to the ground but can't tell.
I don't know what it's like to lose a memory and I'm not eager to learn. Clenching my hands into fists so tight my nails dig into my palms, I squeeze my eyes shut and wait. The room flickers, teetering from yellow to brown and back to yellow, and my vision clears again. I still remember everything.
It's not working. The girl's voice is back. You learned from that book, didn't you?
I don't remember teaching myself to fight this.
You dare tell anyone, and we'll be back.
Then the yellow disappears and I slouch back onto the sheets, staring at the ceiling. Shadows of pounding, neon color dance on the chipped paint. I want to turn on my fan—sweat still clings to my skin—but my energy is gone. I don't even roll over. I just lay there, immobile, absorbing the sticky breeze from Westchester as I fall asleep.
A/N: Want to binge-read Ellucid (and all my other summer 2018 books) without waiting for Wattpad updates? It's all posted on my new website, https://selenabrookssbb.wixsite.com/justsel (also linked in my bio).