A shiver shoots through my body again, but this time the cold is not the culprit. The fog blurs the distant homes with a sheath of light from the rising sun that is all too similar to my near-death experience. Thea, stop calling it that. Inhale one, two, three. Maybe it’s just a new level of panic attack. Mom warned this could happen. I step down my front walk and away from the sun. Exhale, one, two, three ...
Okay, so maybe the counseling Mom is coercing me to start could be helpful. Mind you, if she knew I was now hallucinating, she’d likely check me into the psych ward so she could monitor me twenty-four/seven. Gah. That would be horrible. I don’t even feel as though I have any real issues. Not enough to justify counseling anyway. So what if I pull my hair out when I’m stressed? I bet most of my friends do worse.
Sometimes, I wish I was like a teenager on TV, with a seriously messed-up family, or a deep mystery, a missing twin maybe, or a secret superpower. Then I would have designer clothes, perfect skin, and a super-hot boyfriend to help me through my woes. But no, my life and family are annoyingly mainstream, and unless I count Woolie, I don’t even have a male friend, let alone a boyfriend.
With a quickened pace, I stride up Hillside Road. I need to get out of my head and search my surroundings for a distraction. My neighborhood is like every other suburban sprawl, but because I grew up here, it feels unique somehow. The rows of houses nestle together. Five different models repeated with slightly different embellishments. Some have extra wainscoting or an upgraded bay window, others have different garage colors or professional landscaping, but at their core, they are all the same. There is one house, though, halfway up Hillside, that welcomes me on my walk like a personalized sign at airport arrivals. Unlike the rest of the builder homes, this bungalow, buried in a small grove of elms, must have been built at least forty years ago, when the community was still a farm field. Their roadside mailbox is one of the only left within town. The block letters are faded but still read SHEN. There is nothing exciting or striking about their property, but it stands apart—comfortable and secure in its humble place among the surrounding two-story cubes. It’s a home, not just a house.
During the warmer months, the elderly couple often sit on their wrap-around front porch, and on most of those days, they wave when I stroll past. They must make a habit of coming outside with their tea in time for the students. However this morning, beneath the veil of fog, their cast-iron bistro set lays vacant. Only a warm glow from their living room suggests that someone is home. A curling line of smoke rises from their chimney, the sole chimney for miles, and I’m drawn to the light cast by the fire roaring within. A warmth seems to literally touch my hand. I stop and stare at my fingers, then again at the house. The front window brightens near the edge, and the curtains frame the vague outline of a person in a peach housecoat. The wife, I assume. She seems frailer standing there alone. They’re almost always together. She holds her hands against her chest, steps closer to the window, and peers up and down the street. The light from the fire almost seems to reflect off her housecoat. She pauses on me and raises her hand. I flash a smile and wave in response, then continue to weave through the suburban duplicates. The warm tingling in my fingers disappears.
What is wrong with you today?
Ahead, the small strip plaza and locally owned coffee shop, Milk and Honey, appears. M&H is strategically placed across from Ridgefield Secondary and is profitable solely because of the constant stream of caffeine-addicted students. It has become a necessary comfort stop for me before embarking on another day of school. A large cup of tea evaporates unease like the sun absorbs morning frost. Please let there be enough time to stop today.
I search for my phone while crossing up the path to the plaza. “Dang it.” How did I manage to forget it again? Returning home would mean having to deal with Dad. And I might go into another weird whiteout. Moving forward without a phone sounds a tad better. I pull open the glass door, and the comforting aroma of coffee and banana muffins confirms my decision. The wall clock shows that I still have fifteen minutes before the entry bell at eight thirty. If the line is short, I’ll make it. The owner, Nadia, knows my order by an indication of one or two fingers from my spot in line.
Three people stand in front of me—two girls I recognize from the year above me at school and a steel-toed tradesperson, likely from the seniors’ home under renovation down the street. They should all be fast. The door swings open in my peripheral vision, and at least four more kids from school come strolling in. Great timing on my part. I dig out my change purse. I have enough for two London Fogs today. How appropriate. I shake out the jitters in my fingers. I’ve got lots of time. The two girls dressed in similar outfits are already waiting for their order, and the worker is paying. See? No need to panic.
Nadia grins and mouths hi to me as she stirs the milk in the order ahead of mine. I return the greeting with a two-finger royal wave. She chuckles and then calls for two medium Londons from her husband, Luis.
“Are you all right?” An unfamiliar but oddly calming voice interrupts my counting of change.
“Excuse me?” Behind me, a young man about my height stands just outside my personal bubble. I take a step back. My tooth-brushing regime was less than stellar this morning.
He seems to search each part of my face. The corners of his mouth rise, which softens his gaze. “You’re not from here.”
I bite my lip, unsure what to say. Was that a question or a statement? His easy smile distracts me, and I become captured by the vividness of each of his features. His eyes, an unusually light green, seem to absorb the light from the surrounding halogen bulbs. His skin, a shade of pale that rivals Dad’s, glows with a radiant sheen that most girls strive to achieve through hours of makeup application. He waits, despite what must be more than a full minute of awkward staring. Not someone I recognize from school, or I would assume that was some cheesy pickup line. But, I get the sense that he’s not interested in me … at least, not in that way.
Say something. “I basically grew up in these five blocks”—I sweep my arm out toward the surrounding neighborhood—“so I’m not really from anywhere other than here.”
Nice one, Thea. That mundane response is sure to end the conversation. Clearly, he’s mistaken me for a much more interesting person. And yet, his soft eyes hold my gaze. “This is not the here I was referring to.”
He nods toward the counter. Nadia presents me with two teas, and I tear my gaze from his to accept them. She smirks at both of us and proceeds to serve him a coffee and muffin. He reaches into his pocket, but Nadia shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it, Khi. Consider it a thank-you for helping Mrs. Shen again. She would have wandered around the plaza for hours if not for you.”
Is she talking about the same Mrs. Shen from down the road? I tilt my head at him. The strong angles of his jaw give him a maturity that suggests older than high school. And yet he dresses and carries himself in the same insecure way of some of my friends. Despite zero recollection of having met him before, he seems familiar, like a long-lost childhood friend. But I’d remember meeting him.
He brushes the nape of his neck and says something foreign-sounding under his breath, then accepts the coffee and muffin. With a slight bow to Nadia and me, he heads toward the cafe door. Unable to move, I watch while he exits. What was that all about?