Fast-Tracked Page 4

  I considered using my tablet to see what the campus, my future home, looked like, but then I decided against it. That was something I wanted to share with Byron. Where was he anyway? I figured he’d be here by now. Then again, if I got gold, he at least got silver, and I’m sure that he and his family were still reeling from the shock.

  Beep. Beep. Beep. My heart leaped with the hope that it was Byron calling me, but my tablet wasn’t set to beep, and it wasn’t in the kitchen where the noise was coming from. I walked into the kitchen with my mom and dad in tow. It was Aunt Irena calling to gloat – I mean console my parents that I hadn’t done as well has her Leroy.

  “Should we answer it?” my mom questioned me. It felt odd having her ask my permission for something.

  “Sure. But be warned: she might never talk to you again after this,” I teased as I held up the letter.

  “In that case…” my mom snickered as she tapped her tablet on. “Hi, Irena,” she greeted. She was doing a horrible job appearing somber. Fortunately, Aunt Irena only ever saw and heard what she wanted.

  “Oh, Lydia, you look horrible. What happened? How bad is it? She didn’t get red, did she?” I stifled a laugh and handed my letter to her as she shook her head no. “Not worse?” Aunt Irena said in her most scandalous tone.

  “Of course not,” my mom replied in her sweetest voice. She held the letter in front of her tablet.

  “Your poor lighting is playing tricks on my eyes; I can’t tell what color that is,” Aunt Irena snapped. She sounded both confused and annoyed.

  “It’s no trick of light, Irena. You’re seeing gold – and no, it’s not a silly joke or prank on my part. My daughter, Alexandria, has been fast-tracked,” my mom said with an abundant tone of smugness.

  “Oh. Well. That’s unexpected.” Aunt Irena looked like the words tasted bitter on her tongue. “Well I’m glad to hear everything is well. I should go; I think I hear my young Liam calling me.” Before my mom had a chance to respond, my aunt had already tapped off the tablet.

  I felt a twinge of guilt for Liam. I was sure my aunt would be all over him to constantly study. Now anything less than gold would be unacceptable in her eyes.

  With my permission, my parents made several calls to share the good news with our closest friends and family. I gracefully accepted everyone’s praise and congratulations, but my heart and mind really weren’t in it. After my parents, there were only two other people I wanted to share my news with, and they were two doors down from us.

  “You might as well go over his house,” my mom finally said. “He’s probably stuck doing the same thing as you. Smiling and nodding at an endless line of friends and relatives.”

  “You don’t mind if I go?” I asked out of politeness. If I didn’t think it would have hurt her feelings I would have already been out the door.

  “Oh, just go already.” She laughed as she handed me the letter and waved me out of the kitchen.

  It took all my restraint to keep from running or skipping my way over to Byron’s house. I truly hoped he had gotten gold. As great as silver was, it would mean he would train at a different school for up to six years depending on which profession he chose. I just couldn’t imagine being separated from Byron for that long. Besides, whoever had the higher rank did the proposing. And that just didn’t fit with my daydream of him getting down on one knee and declaring his eternal love for me as he placed the ring on my finger.

  I was still giggling to myself when I rang his doorbell.

  No one answered. He must be in the middle of a call with family.

  So I waited.

  And waited.

  It felt like ten minutes had passed, but still no one had answered the door. Maybe I had bad timing and rang it at the same time he was showing off his gold letter and getting a loud response of joy. So I rang it again, and waited some more.

  I was debating ringing it again when the door slowly creaked open. “Hi, Camille.” I said excitedly before noticing the red rim of her eyes. She had been crying. “What’s wrong?” I asked, but she just shook her head. “Oh, Cam, it’ll be okay. Byron and I are leaving for training this year, but next year it will be your turn. Plus, we’ll be back to visit during breaks. You could end up at the same career college as us – and who knows, in the end we could still end up as each other’s neighbors.” I reached forward and gave her hand a sympathetic squeeze.

  I felt guilty. This whole weekend I had been so wrapped up in my own emotions, I had completely forgotten how hard this would be on Camille. In one day she was losing her brother and a close friend.

  Camille pulled her hand back and flatly said, “That’s not it.”

  “Then what?” I was confused. She gave me an annoyed look that said I was stupid if I couldn’t figure it out on my own. And then, slowly, it dawned on me. “No. It’s not possible.” I shook my head in disbelief. “I never admitted it before, but Byron’s smarter than me. There’s just no way he could have gotten red. It’s just not possible.” I waited for Camille to tell me it was all a huge prank – but she didn’t.

  “It’s worse than that,” she spat at me. “You should leave.” Her usually sweet beautiful face had contorted into an ugly, hateful expression.

  “Then there has to be a mistake. Someone messed up in the calculations; we can appeal it, and make them retest him…”

  I jumped as a loud boom emitted from the kitchen. “Get rid of her,” a gruff voice that barely resembled Mr. Levenson’s snarled.

  Camille disappeared up the stairs as Byron stormed out of the kitchen toward me. His eyes, like Camille’s, were red-rimmed from crying, but right now he looked absolutely livid. It only made me more frightened for him. I had never seen him like this.

  “What are you still doing here? Can’t you ever listen? Camille told you to leave!” he growled at me.

  I felt my perfect little world collapsing in on itself and turning upside down. “But I don’t understand!” I protested.

  “Then understand this!” he snarled and shoved an orange letter in my face. “My life is over now. There’s no future for me and you. Just forget about me. Forget you ever knew me.” He balled his hands into fists. His knuckles were bloodied. The noise I heard from the kitchen must have been Byron punching something. Automatically I reached for his hand to examine it. He snatched it back. “It’s nothing. I’m nothing now. Just go.”

  “Don’t say that, Byron. You’re everything to me!” I cried. I was starting to shake.

  “Not anymore I’m not. Look, I’m starting to lose the little patience I have left, so don’t make me ask you to leave again.” His fists balled even tighter. He was shaking too, now. I couldn’t tell if he was struggling to control his previously unknown temper or keep himself from crying.

  “But how could this happen?” I begged. I was unwilling to leave and unable to understand.

  “Run home and ask your dad all about it; I’m sure he can explain it all.” His voice was drenched with disgust. “Now go!” The last word he hollered at the top of his lungs, right into my face. His face contorted as if he was about to cry. So I stepped forward to comfort him. He cringed away as if my touch repulsed him. All the air rushed out of me and was replaced with an agonizing, throbbing ache. A punch in the gut would have hurt me less.

  I stumbled back down the front stairs and turned to leave. Maybe he just needed some time to cool down and think more rationally. Then he’d see that this was all a mistake and we could get it all fixed.

  “Wait,” Byron called in a voice I almost recognized as his.

  “What?” I asked hopefully and turned around.

  “You’ll want this,” he said flatly. Then he shoved the gold letter I had dropped back into my hands. Our eyes locked for a brief moment. In them I saw his heart ripping apart before he turned and ran back into the house, slamming the door behind him.

  I don’t remember exactly how I made it back to my house. I was a hysterical blob of tears by the time I stumbled up the porch steps. My p
arents opened the front door before I got there. They must have heard me coming, but I couldn’t see and stumbled straight through the door into them. The three of us tumbled onto the floor. I didn’t bother getting up. What was the point? Byron’s life was ruined and he didn’t want my help or me anywhere near him.

  My parents tried hopelessly to get me to tell them what happened, but all I could get out was a jumble of sounds and loud wails as I continued to cry uncontrollably. At some point I managed to mutter the words Byron and orange. Somehow that was enough for my dad to piece everything together.

  I heard him try to explain it to my mom, but she seemed as unable to make sense out of it as I was. She wanted to contact them, but he warned her not to. He said they needed their time to grieve. At least I think I heard him tell her that. I might have dreamed it. It’s hard to say, because I’m not sure of exactly what point I cried myself into exhaustion.

  Chapter 4

  Instead of my new painful reality, I dreamt about the night of our first kiss. Camille had planned a gondola ride through the LifeFires of Worchester’s Botanical Gardens. She had claimed it would be spooky being on the water surrounded by complete darkness, the only light provided by the soft blue and purple flames of the coals. Predictably, at the last minute Camille had gotten ‘sick’ and decided it was better if she stayed home.

  But the night was far from spooky: it was magical. For weeks I had been questioning my feelings for Byron. After weeks of contemplation, I had finally figured out that I wanted to be so much more than just friends with him. But I still had no idea how he felt. So I had spent the week walking on eggshells around him, looking for any sign that he could actually share my feelings. If I expressed my feelings and he didn’t return them, our friendship would be forever ruined. And he meant so much to me. The thought of risking it all terrified me.

  But that night when Camille canceled on us, I noticed that he seemed nervous around me. Could I be that fortunate? Could he actually have feelings for me too? I was a ball of nerves. My thoughts kept wrestling with themselves. Should I ask him how he feels? Should I show him how I feel? Is it just my hopeful imagination that is making me see something that really isn’t there? I couldn’t decide.

  The beginning of the night had been a strained silence between us. We quietly ate the picnic dinner Camille had packed. More accurately, I tried to eat. I was so nervous that my mouth was too dry to even swallow my food. I barely glanced at him, fearing what I would or wouldn’t see in his eyes.

  After dinner we walked through the gardens, occasionally commenting on the different plants we saw just to break the silence. Thanks to the greenhouses, even the plants that usually didn’t bloom until mid-summer were already a fantastic display of colors. I hadn’t been to the gardens since I was little, and I had forgotten just how incredible it was. The true purpose of the garden was scientific study, but the money it raised pandering to the public’s enjoyment made more than enough credits to support its research.

  The rose garden was hands down the most spectacular display of all. The perfume alone was overpowering in a delightful, intoxicating way. The plants ranged in size from tiny delicate miniature roses displayed in pots to huge bushes several feel round in diameter. Plus the climbing roses towered over us on trellises. Some of the roses were simple but elegant, only having a single layer of petals – most people wouldn’t have even known they were roses without having been told first. Other roses had large showy heads that looked heavy enough to fall off. But what I loved the best about all of the roses was the wide variety of color displayed, from the purest white to the deepest red and every color in between.

  As we exited the display, we spotted a vendor selling roses. Most of the girls squealed and begged for their boyfriends to buy them a red rose – a symbol of love.

  I never asked, but I didn’t have to. Byron spent what was probably the last of his remaining credits to buy me one of the roses – a beautiful yellow rose with just a blush of pink on the outermost petals, called Amber Flush. His choice showed just how well he knew me. The common red petals of the other girls’ roses just couldn’t compare. As he handed it to me, I smiled my thanks; I was still having difficulty forming words around him.

  By the time we finished our garden tour it was almost dusk, so we made our way to the lake in the center of the gardens. I had never been on a gondola ride, so I didn’t know what to expect. We handed over our ticket and stepped onto the flat bottom of our awaiting boat. Our attendant handed us both a glass of apple cider (we were too young for the champagne) and stood at the end of the boat holding a long pole that I soon realized was just for show. The traditional gondolas once used in Venice used the poles to push themselves along, but we were being gently pulled along an underwater track. At least the course of the track gave the appearance that we were haphazardly drifting through the beautiful flames that danced on the water.

  The flames themselves came from shallow black dishes that were anchored down in the water. In the center of the dish were several purple and blue ‘coal’ pieces. According to the brochure I read during our tram ride here, they were made from a specially prepared compound one of the garden’s scientists had invented. They burned at a cool temperature and would last throughout the night without dimming and without emitting any toxins into the environment. I thought that was pretty cool.

  But as we drifted through the flames, I didn’t think about how they were made or the environmental feat that they were. All I could focus on was how beautiful the flames were and how nice Byron’s thigh felt pressed against mine.

  I don’t know if it was accidental or intentional, but the fingers of Byron’s dangling hand kept brushing against mine. Each time our fingers met a wave of excitement shot through me in a blissful torment. Just when I knew I couldn’t endure another moment of the wonderful torture, he grabbed my hand in his and gave it a hopeful squeeze. The moment I squeezed back our relationship changed. That’s when we knew how we felt.

  We continued holding each other’s hand throughout the remainder of the ride. Occasionally one of us would run a finger up the other’s palm and send chills up our spines. At least it had that effect on me; I only hoped that it was the same for him. By the time we stepped back on land, we both had the kinds of dreamy, drunken, doe-eyed expressions that can only be caused by love. Yeah, on others I found that look nauseating and stupid, but – well, now I really didn’t care what anyone else thought. I laughed at the look the salesperson gave us as I bought souvenir fire coals for us both.

  Slowly we made our way back through the park, towards its exit and towards the tram. We were almost to the exit when Byron suddenly wrapped his arm around me and quickly spun me behind a statue of President Touffe. I was still giggling over his unexpected impulsiveness when he leaned down towards me. My eyes locked with his. I could feel his soul speaking to mine and telling me what he wanted. I rose up on my toes and pressed my lips against his. He responded by tightening his grip around my waist and pulling me to him until our bodies merged into one. Then his lips reacted to mine. His kisses were soft, gentle. They tasted of the apple cider and him. I wanted the moment to last forever – but unexpectedly he broke the kiss.

  “Ow!” he said as he pulled my hands away from him. He stepped back, leaving me confused and questioning what I did wrong. I had never kissed anyone before. I knew I hadn’t bitten him. I couldn’t have been bad enough to cause him pain, could I?

  Byron reached up to his neck and pulled his hand back with blood on it. Inadvertently, when I wrapped my hands around his neck, I had stabbed him with one of the rose’s thorns.

  “Oh no!” I gasped. “I’m so sorry,” I apologized as I tried to stifle a relieved laugh.

  “Don’t be.” He smiled as he took the rose from my hand and placed it on the base of the statue. “I’m just sorry I didn’t do this sooner.” He chuckled and then pulled me back into his sweet embrace and kissed me again.

  I slept late the next morning, and stayed in bed
even longer. I was unwilling to face the reality that I knew was waiting. I preferred to hide under my covers and desperately try to hold onto the memory of my dream.

  Eventually, I dragged myself to my feet and down the stairs without bothering to change or shower. The holiday was over, so my dad had returned to work, but with school being out for the week, my mom was home at least. I didn’t feel like talking, but I didn’t want to be in the house by myself either.

  My mom seemed to understand and didn’t try to ask any questions. I sat at the kitchen table drinking juice and eating cereal – but I didn’t taste any of it.

  It didn’t take long for the silence to be too much for my mom. She started pacing the room, cleaning things that were already clean. As I stood up and cleared my bowl she said, “I made a casserole for the Levenson’s. I was going to bring it over this morning. You’re welcome to join me.”

  I looked down at the rumpled clothes I still had on from yesterday. “Just let me shower,” I mumbled and headed upstairs. Currently I wasn’t capable of expressing it, but I was thankful for the company. I wanted to visit Byron and see if he had calmed down yet. But honestly the thought of seeing him the way he was last night frightened me. At least I knew Byron’s parents wouldn’t be home: they both had to work. I couldn’t face them knowing that somehow they’d find a way to blame our relationship for what happened. But even without them home, I needed my mom’s support.