The Other Me Part 8

I call it out, trying not to focus too much on what might be considered a compliment of my full name. A moment later, my blazer pocket vibrates. I've got his number. Did this really just happen?

"Thanks," I manage.

"No problem." He studies my face. "Did you get your ears pierced?"

"Wow, you noticed."

"Sure." He rubs his own pierced lobe. "Noticed you singing too. You have a really lovely voice."

"Thank you." This is awkward. I don't know how to handle compliments, let alone from a guy I think I might be falling for. If this is a crush, then I've been reduced to shrapnel.

Hannah gawks at me as Gabriel says good-bye before sauntering toward his friend's Beetle. His friend waves to Hannah, and she gives the guy the middle finger. No idea what that's about.

G.o.d, I wish I had Gabriel's swagger, his confidence, his coolness. A smile stretches across my face, stretches so wide it hurts my cheeks, and I don't care. In my mind, I replay what just happened over and over. It was real. He asked for my number and gave me his. He complimented my name, my singing. Feeling as light as an up quark, I prance toward the Toyota and even kiss my mom h.e.l.lo.

Gabriel

SHE KNOWS KNOWS Rach's hand span. G.o.d, I don't need this. I don't want to get all gooey over a girl, even if she can name the sonata I'm playing and make decent comments about my musicality. I could've played for her all day. To have someone want to listen and genuinely appreciate my playing.... Rach's hand span. G.o.d, I don't need this. I don't want to get all gooey over a girl, even if she can name the sonata I'm playing and make decent comments about my musicality. I could've played for her all day. To have someone want to listen and genuinely appreciate my playing....

I've shot way past cloud nine.

Trying not to mess up the accompaniment, I steal a glance at her and tune into her voice, that bright tone with just a touch of vibrato that makes her a pleasure to listen to. I wish the rest of the choir would shut the h.e.l.l up and let her sing. Maybe she'd appreciate the matinee on Sunday. It's not like anyone else will be in the audience for me, and the worst she can say is that she's got better things to do-which she probably has.

This is the last thing I need, and yet I can't stop my feet as I walk out of the choir room and follow the girls to the parking lot. My heart's beating so fast I'm pretty sure it's going to sledgehammer straight out of my chest. Playing it cool, I approach Treasa and Jordan. Maybe asking her to the matinee is a stupid idea.

"What's your number?" I ask before I have a moment to reconsider. It's just a phone number, not an engagement ring, and I do have a legitimate reason for needing it. Having swapped numbers, I feel lighter and heavier, as if the extra contact on my phone is a ball and chain that makes me oddly happy.

"Did you ask her out?" Dirk asks as he waves to some blond chick sitting on the steps. She gives him the middle finger and a glare.

"No. Just got her number."

"See that one?" He nods toward middle-finger girl.

"She looks familiar." At least the conversation isn't about me and Treasa.

"That's Hannah."

"The Hannah? Hannah who gave you a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b in grade seven?" I never believed Dirk's story. Hannah? Hannah who gave you a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b in grade seven?" I never believed Dirk's story.

"That's the one. We had the same orthodontist. She wouldn't kiss me because we both had braces but she blew me just fine."

"Treasa has braces."

"Cute." Dirk grins.

"In grade seven, did you even have anything to blow?" I ask before I'm sure I want to hear the answer.

"Hey." Dirk looks insulted. "Skinny guys have the biggest d.i.c.ks." He grabs his crotch for emphasis. "Besides, I hit p.u.b.erty early, and so did she." We light cigarettes and drive with the windows down while Emperor blasts out of the speakers.

d.a.m.n THIS THIS sonata! My teacher said it was ambitious. I don't need such a huge composition for my portfolio. I could write a few songs and a couple of pieces of counterpoint and still pa.s.s. That's not the point. I want to compose this piece to prove I can do it. Mom used to compose easy pieces for me when I was just starting to play piano, but I loved them and remember them all by heart. sonata! My teacher said it was ambitious. I don't need such a huge composition for my portfolio. I could write a few songs and a couple of pieces of counterpoint and still pa.s.s. That's not the point. I want to compose this piece to prove I can do it. Mom used to compose easy pieces for me when I was just starting to play piano, but I loved them and remember them all by heart.

My fingers slam a dissonant chord on the piano in frustration, and my father yells his displeasure from the kitchen where he's fighting with a chicken ca.s.serole. The first and third movements are nearing completion. It's the second movement that's proving impossible. First movements are easy-introduce the theme, modulate, recapitulate. And it's easy to write flashy third movements requiring technical brilliance by adding a bunch of runs and triplets, by complicating the themes present in the first movement. The ending is easy too, just add a few resounding chords that drive home the tonic, a la Beethoven. Second movements are more complicated. They're a transition, a metamorphosis. They're the struggle from the promise of the first movement to the realization of the third, and I have no idea how to write it.

Nathan calls after dinner to let me know about the change of time for tomorrow. Now it's my turn to pa.s.s that on to Treasa. I didn't think composing an SMS of around four hundred characters could prove more difficult than composing an entire sonata! After typing, clearing, and retyping several times, I hit send, beyond caring if the nuance of my question might be misinterpreted. I'm pretty sure it was innocuous enough, but girls have a way of twisting the meanings of the simplest words. I guess I'm worrying for nothing, though. It's been five minutes, and she still hasn't replied. Maybe I'm the one who misinterpreted things.

Treasa

NORMAL GIRLS GIRLS my age are out on dates on a Friday night, holding hands while pretending to watch a movie, really just waiting for the moment the boy leans over to kiss them. Mom and Dad are watching some British comedy show from the eighties, Jordan's on a date with Bryce, and Lethi and Sibo are away this weekend with their folks at the Dam, so I'm alone in my bedroom with fictional characters, trying hard not to let my story turn into a p.o.r.no rooftop make out session. Sadly, not even Resa and Tristan are making me feel better. They've got each other while I've just got an overweight cat snoring at my feet. I put on some Creed, hoping to drown out the posh TV voices emanating from the lounge, and open my battered copy of Stephen Hawking's my age are out on dates on a Friday night, holding hands while pretending to watch a movie, really just waiting for the moment the boy leans over to kiss them. Mom and Dad are watching some British comedy show from the eighties, Jordan's on a date with Bryce, and Lethi and Sibo are away this weekend with their folks at the Dam, so I'm alone in my bedroom with fictional characters, trying hard not to let my story turn into a p.o.r.no rooftop make out session. Sadly, not even Resa and Tristan are making me feel better. They've got each other while I've just got an overweight cat snoring at my feet. I put on some Creed, hoping to drown out the posh TV voices emanating from the lounge, and open my battered copy of Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time A Brief History of Time. I've read the chapter on black holes three times, and I'm still not sure I understand it all.

My phone vibrates, and I grab it with lightning reflexes. An SMS from Jordan rating Bryce a five-star kisser. Fantastic. I get another two from her in quick succession, each an ode to some aspect of Bryce's hotness. When my phone vibrates for the umpteenth time, I ignore it. Thinking about Jordan kissing makes me think about kissing Gabriel, which makes concentrating on quantum mechanics impossible. I slam shut Hawking's tome and return to my Resa-Tristan epic.

I know guys are meant to get turned on by two girls kissing, but is it normal for a girl to be turned on by the idea of two guys kissing? Slipping low in my desk chair, I close my eyes and let loose my imagination. The boys are kissing, tongues dancing, pulses racing.... My fingers meander up my thigh as Resa removes Tristan's s.h.i.+rt. My phone keeps flas.h.i.+ng, an obnoxious reminder that Jordan's out having a good time with a real boy diminis.h.i.+ng the power of my fantasy. Reluctantly, I open the message. It's not from Jordan. It's from Gabriel.

Hi Treasa, cla.s.s starts half an hour later tmw. Hope 2 see u there. What r u doing 2nite?

He sent the message twelve minutes ago. Does he think I'm dissing him by not responding?

How do I answer that without sounding pathetic? With sweaty hands, it takes me another five minutes to craft a response.

Hey, will see u tmw. Family nite 2nite. Lame. Wat u doing? There's no way I'll admit to spending my night writing h.o.m.oerotic fan fiction and almost masturbating. There's no way I'll admit to spending my night writing h.o.m.oerotic fan fiction and almost masturbating.

I hit send. For four whole minutes I'm in agony, chewing my nails to the quick and staring at my phone. Just when I'm sure I'll spontaneously combust, he responds.

Home reading 2nite. U doing anything Sunday?

Wat u reading? I'm free Sunday.

Whitley Strieber's Communion. I'm playing in a matinee Sunday. Wanna come?

Oh. My. G.o.d. I think Gabriel just asked me out. If he wasn't already the most perfect guy ever, the fact that he's home on a Friday night reading a book about aliens just elevated him to G.o.dliness. My fingers tremble as I attempt to type a response that's not all capital letters and exclamation marks. Gabriel responds and sends me into manic glee.

Great! See u tmw. Sweet dreams.

Sweet dreams? You bet! I dance around my room, much to Riker's amus.e.m.e.nt. He tries to catch my feet, and I scoop him up, swirling him around in a pirouette until his claws make contact with my bare arms. He runs out of my room, and I shut the door behind him. Feeling more alive than I have in my entire life, I switch CDs, replacing Creed with Beethoven's Complete Piano Sonatas. I lie on my bed staring at Liam St. Clare, who looks enough like Gabriel to fulfill the fantasy, and close my eyes as Beethoven's Pathetique causes every hair on my body to stand at attention.

I imagine kissing those lips, my hands under his s.h.i.+rt. My hands slide down my own body exactly as I imagine Gabriel's might, if we ever got past first base. My fingers meander between my legs, and I can't believe anything could feel this good. In my mind, I'm kissing Gabriel, nibbling his pierced earlobe and inhaling the scent of his shampoo. In my mind, I see both of us like a third person narration, only it's not me, it's Tristan. Tristan and Gabriel make out, their hands under each other's s.h.i.+rts, faces flushed, and it's the most exquisite thing I've ever seen.

"DOES AN AN afternoon recital really count as a date?" Jordan asks as we walk toward Hall C. afternoon recital really count as a date?" Jordan asks as we walk toward Hall C.

"It definitely does."

"You got an outfit to wear?"

"I don't even know where this thing is yet." What the h.e.l.l am I going to wear?

"What did your Mom say?" Jordan studies her neck in the mirror of her compact and applies another layer of foundation to the hickeys on her throat.

"Haven't said anything yet. Waiting for the details."

"I could come over tomorrow and help you get ready." She dusts beige powder over the honey foundation.

"Thanks. I'll let you know about times."

Jordan smiles and drops the makeup into her bag. "So it seems we've both got dates for the ball, then."

"You going to stick with Bryce for that long?"

"Ouch. I'm not that bad." She feigns indignation.

"How many guys did you kiss last year?"

"Too many to count." She bounces down the corridor and I follow. Her ponytail swings in time with her hips clad in Lycra yoga pants. How does Gabriel even see me when I'm standing next to Jordan?

The cla.s.s is great, another sweaty series of takedowns, and this time I don't hold back, pinning her every time.

"Maybe you are from Kazar," Jordan huffs as I help her to her feet.

"Kazar?" Gabriel says. I didn't see him come over, too busy tackling Jordan to the mat. He hasn't been ignoring me, exactly, but he's been showing a couple of others the moves today, and I've been busy pretending not to be jealous.

"Ja, Ree here thinks-ow!"

I whisk Jordan's leg out from under her before she can embarra.s.s me.

"Nice one." She gives me a wounded look from the mat.

"Sorry, just thought I'd try a surprise maneuver."

"Just don't hurt each other too badly." Gabriel gives me a grin before jogging back to the sensei.

"That hurt, you know." Jordan dusts off her b.u.m.

"You were about to tell him I think I'm an alien."

"Don't you think a guy should know something like that before getting involved with a chick who could spontaneously sprout tentacles?"

"Not funny." I fold my arms and watch Gabriel get knocked down by his teacher.

"It's a little funny. Like he'd even believe it."

I give her a withering gaze and say nothing. The last thing I want Gabriel knowing is that I'm a total freak.

"I'm pretty sure his interest in aliens doesn't extend to dating one." My tone is icy.

"You take yourself too seriously." Jordan tries a slow-motion headlock roll on an imaginary a.s.sailant.

Maybe, and being an alien is pretty serious. What if I do have latent superpowers and end up hurting Gabriel? Do I honestly believe I'm an alien, or is there some more terrestrial explanation for feeling so uncomfortable in my own skin?

After cla.s.s, we meet Sheryl by the pool again. At least it's a bit cooler today, with the promise of an afternoon thunderstorm. The clouds are gathered thick as meringue on the southern horizon. They're white for now. By five o'clock they'll turn black, making Jo'burg look like Mordor.

"Hey." Gabriel saunters over to us. "You guys did great." d.a.m.n, even his walk is s.e.xy.

"Thank you, Sempai." Jordan flashes him a flawless smile, and I want to rip her head off. She's not supposed to be flirting, least of all when she's in a tummy-revealing strappy top and micro-miniskirt.

"So about tomorrow?" I ask before Gabriel spends too much time looking at Jordan and realizes he chose the wrong girl.

"Ja, so the concert's at two at the Stormhof Anglican Church."

"Is it a religious thing?" Jordan lies back on the pool chair, and Gabriel's gaze lingers a little too long on her bare belly and long legs.

"No, it's just the best venue. Matric music students from the area are performing. Kind of like a rehearsal for prelims."

"Should I meet you there?"

"I can pick you up, if you like. Both of you. Jordan, you're invited too." My world starts to crumble.

"Nah, I'm out with the boyfriend tomorrow." Jordan turns her head. "But thanks for the invite."

"No worries." Gabriel doesn't look all that disappointed, so maybe he was just being polite, inviting her as well. "So, meeting there, or...?"

"I'll check with my mom and let you know."

"Cool." Gabriel gives us a toothy smile. "Chat later, then."

"For sure." My scalp p.r.i.c.kles with warmth and antic.i.p.ation as Gabriel lopes toward the parking lot. I watch him walk, the way the motion seems to come from his knees and not his hips. With practice, I bet I could walk like that too.

"So, you want me to come over around twelve, then?" Jordan asks.

"What about Bryce?"

"You can be super dense, Ree. I don't have plans tomorrow." She gets to her feet and rearranges her skirt.

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

"And?" She purses her lips and taps her foot.

"And, I'm sorry about before."