chapter 5
Damn it,” I murmur, trying to duck in the doorway of an old building. I’m suddenly freezing without the Need, and my wet white blouse isn’t helping the situation.
I wrap my arms around myself and wait a few minutes. Soon, just as suddenly as it started, the rain stops. I step away from the building, staring up at the night sky. The weather here isn’t usually this unpredictable.
With a heavy sigh, I limp through the dark city streets, wishing a cab would come by, but remembering that I don’t have the money to pay for a ride anyway. Each step is agony and I’m starving. But what’s worse is that Francisco’s words are still in my ears.
What are you?
I reach for my shoulder but then draw my hand away. I don’t want to touch the golden spot. I’m terrified of what’s happening to me.
I wish I really was just psychic. I wish I was anything. Because right now I feel so wrong—running out into the night instead of hooking up with my boyfriend. Knowing things I can’t possibly know. Seeing people’s souls! Despair hits me and I begin to cry, sniffling hard and rubbing at my cheeks. Maybe I’m cursed.
The sound of a motor cuts through the night from behind me and my muscles tense. Anyone out after dark is looking for trouble. At least, that’s what Mercy would say. Careful not to be obvious, I glance over my shoulder toward the single oncoming light of a motorcycle.
Harlin. I nearly explode with relief. I recognize his bike and worn, brown leather jacket and wave at him. I feel saved.
He drives his bike hard into the curb, jumping off of it before it clangs to the ground. “What the hell, Charlotte?” he yells, running to me. “I’ve been looking for you all night!”
I move toward him, wanting him to hold me and tell me that I’m okay. But he stops short on the sidewalk, the color draining from his face. His eyes are wide with concern, but then he rushes forward and throws his arms around me. “What happened? Are you okay?”
I’m confused, but then I remember the accident. Smacking my head. The warm liquid that soaked my hair and traveled down my cheek. I probably look really bad.
“I got hit by a car,” I answer quietly, watching him as he examines me. I breathe deeply, comforted by his smell. I want to tell him about the Need, about the golden skin. But I don’t. Because once I tell him I can’t take it back and he’ll know for sure that I’m a freak. How can he love someone whose skin is falling off?
“A car! Are you serious?” Harlin pulls back and looks me over from head to toe, just in case I’m missing a leg and he hasn’t noticed before now. “Is anything broken? Didn’t they stop?” He’s shaking his head, overwhelmed. I close my eyes and lean into him, letting him wrap me up in his arms.
I’m too tired to make up a lie right now. “Can you take me to the clinic?” I ask, not lifting my head from his shoulder. The clinic will be closed soon. I really don’t think anything is broken, but I’m bleeding from the head and the emergency room just seems like such a hassle. And then there’s the issue of my skin. What if they see it? They might send me to Area 51 or some top-secret lab.
“Of course I’ll take you.” Harlin keeps his arm around me as he leads me to his motorcycle. “You should tell me why the hell you climbed out my fire escape,” he mumbles. “But first, I think you need stitches.”
I nod, not sure how I’ll explain away tonight’s disappearing act, but instead of worrying, I press my cheek against his chest as we walk to his bike.
“How do you get hit by a car on Broadway at this time of night?” Monroe asks in his British accent. He’s treated all kinds of injuries, but he definitely seems to get more serious when it’s me—maybe because he’s known me for so long. With the situations the Need puts me in, it’s not that rare for me to require the occasional stitch or splint. I can usually avoid the head trauma, though.
He continues with a long sigh. “I give you the night off and you become a streetwalker? It’s embarrassing, really.”
I tell him to shut the hell up, but I’m glad he hasn’t called Mercy. She’s going to have a coronary when she hears about this. I still haven’t thought of a way to explain why I was out.
I shift on the exam table, thinking of Harlin in the waiting room. I’ll have to tell him something. I just don’t know what.
“Stay still, Charlotte,” Monroe warns as he ties off the thread and then grabs the scissors to snip it.
“Sorry.” I sit on the crinkling paper while he cleans off the metal tray and goes to the sink to wash his hands. When he first examined me, Monroe was quick to give me a Vicodin after getting a look at the huge, bumper-sized bruises on my thighs. It’s left me a little groggy, but that’s good. He told me I’d be really sore for a few days, but that there was no permanent damage.
When I told him not to call the cops to report the accident, he definitely eyed me suspiciously, scratching at his slightly graying five o’clock shadow. But Monroe and I have known each other forever—he trusts me. And I’m sure he’ll expect me to explain later.
When I was seven, I came into this clinic with a broken arm that I’d gotten on the school playground. Max Rothsberg didn’t want to hear that I knew he’d stolen money out of the donation basket. Instead, he pushed me down and snap!
Oddly enough, a week later when I went back to school, he didn’t remember even talking to me about it. He’d given the money back while I was gone. I tried to tell one of the nuns right when the Need happened, but she chalked it up to childhood delusions and scolded me for lying. She said that kids can’t see visions—only God can. So after that I kept my mouth shut.
Mercy was volunteering at the clinic during those years and sometimes she’d bring me in with her. I liked hanging around. Monroe would talk with me about school. About my home life. It was nice sometimes, having a person other than Mercy care about me. Monroe’s the closest thing to a father I’ve ever known. So when I turned twelve and Monroe asked me to volunteer, I was happy to say yes.
Just being here at the clinic, I feel a zillion times better. It’s so familiar. Safe.
Monroe steps on the trash can, opening it with a metal clang. Just then, there’s a small itch at my shoulder. At the spot. I know I have to tell someone about the mark on my skin. I can’t keep this a secret. “Monroe,” I whisper, my throat dry. He pauses while removing his gloves, and looks over. I’m sure he can hear in my voice that something is wrong.
“Are you hurt somewhere else?” He shifts in his loafers, darting his gaze over my body. With a quick snap he pulls off his gloves and tosses them on the counter.
“Um . . .” My cheeks start to warm because I’m not quite sure how to say it. I have no idea how to tell him that my skin is flaking away. “It’s . . .” I can’t look at him anymore, and my shoulders slump. I can’t show him.
“Go ahead, Charlotte,” he whispers. “It’s okay.”
I look up and he’s watching me. It throws me off how he’s waiting, his lips pressed together, his eyes narrowed intently. Could . . . could he know? I start to unbutton the silver tabs on my blouse. My heart is racing. I don’t know what’s going to happen next and I’m terrified.
I push the fabric away from my skin, from the spot, and I hear him gasp. My stomach drops and I regret showing him, but he’s immediately next to me, running his finger over it, examining it. He’s not wearing his gloves anymore and I wonder if he’s grossed out.
“My God,” he murmurs, putting his entire hand over the gold, covering it up. I’m ready to cry. What’s wrong with me? But Monroe turns and his blue eyes are glassy. “It’s so beautiful.”
I blink quickly, feeling confused. “What?” I wonder if maybe I have a concussion, or if the Vicodin has made me loopy. There’s no way he just called this beautiful. I’m missing skin. It’s disgusting!
I push Monroe back and hurriedly button my blouse. Maybe I do need to go to the emergency room. But the minute I think it, there’s a knot in my gut. They would want to perform tests, call in experts. The Need is one thing . . . but golden skin? That’s not normal. Not even a little.
I raise my eyes to meet Monroe’s and his face is stoic, frozen, amazed. He slowly starts to shake his head from side to side, a soft smile on his lips. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It’s finally happening. It’s a miracle.”
“Happening? What is happening to me? You have to—”
Just then the door opens and Monroe and I both turn toward it. Harlin looks between us as he eases his way in. “Hey,” he says. “I wanted to check and see if everything was okay. You guys have been in here a while and I—” He stops, staring at Monroe. “She is okay, right?” Harlin’s unshaven jaw is tight I can see he’s about to burst from worry.
“Yes,” I say quickly, and hop down from the table, the deep bruising of my thighs making me wince. “Monroe stitched me up. How many did I need again?” I try to sound light. It’s more pretending. Lying. But I don’t want Harlin to know about how the spot has changed. Not yet.
Monroe takes too long to answer and then finally, like coming out of a dream, he whispers, “Four stitches.”
“Damn,” Harlin says, putting his arms tenderly around me. “What were you doing out there? I’m gonna buy you an ankle monitoring bracelet.”
I laugh.
“You’re free to go,” Monroe announces in a choked voice. He stares as if asking me to stay, but I can’t. I’m overwhelmed and confused. I just want to leave with Harlin.
I don’t talk as Monroe robotically recites stitch care instructions, and instead I just rest against Harlin. My mind is turning over Monroe’s words, trying to understand why he called the spot beautiful. Why he didn’t seem surprised or freaked out when he saw it.
When Monroe’s done talking I turn in Harlin’s arms, my body completely exhausted. “I’m starving,” I say. “Can we go grab something to eat?”
He sighs, like it’s the last thing he feels like doing. “It’s after ten.” When I bat my eyelashes, he laughs. “Fine, we’ll go to Sid’s. I think they’re still open.”
“Thanks, honey,” I say.
“Don’t pull out the ‘honey.’ That doesn’t work on me.”
“The eyelashes did.”
He squeezes me and nuzzles his face into my neck. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he whispers against me, and I feel the playfulness slip away. My worry grows. Could Harlin love me if he knew what was wrong with me?
There’s a sound of riffling papers and I look up to see Monroe holding sheets out to us. “Instructions,” he says. “Call me if there are any new . . . developments.”
I nod before taking Harlin’s hand and turning toward the door. Just before we leave, I glance back at Monroe and he’s watching me, his skin pale like he’s just seen a ghost.