electric meter. And, of course, right beneath the window of my parents’ bedroom.
I listened to the hum of the crickets and toads as Rennick gathered himself. He rubbed his hand across his forehead nervously, and he started to say something twice but stopped himself again. I softened toward him for a second when I realized exactly why he seemed so different from anyone else in New Orleans. It was because he treated me normally. Like people did back in Chicago, back before everything. Easy. Normal. Everyday.
Here in New Orleans, I was not a real person. I was a freak, a weirdo. No one treated me like Corrine. I was a story. The sideways glances. The whispers. I deserved it.
Finally, Rennick pulled a couple of rolled-up papers from his back pocket and handed them to me. I took them reluctantly, carefully.
“Just read them,” he said. “I looked into a few things. It’s hard to know where to start, Corrine.” He looked at me for a moment; the headlights from a passing car flashed in his eyes, and I could see concern there, tenderness.
It hit me, deep under my ribs in a weird way, and my breath caught in my throat. I shook my head. In that moment, in that flash of human interaction, all that I had been missing in the months of my emotional and near-physical quarantine hit me out of the blue. Why he—this near stranger—would wait out here for me, or why he cared, I had no idea. But itwas odd and disconcerting how much it meant to me, here in my darkest hour.
“I’m sorry,” I told him. “You shouldn’t be around me.” The skin on my scalp tightened, itched. The hairs on my arms stood up. The air around us thickened, and the buzz in my molars came back. My hand went to my jaw, and I pressed my fingers against it.
He hadn’t seemed to notice. “Just promise me you’ll read this, and know that—”
A spark jumped then from the electric meter, scaring us both.
“That’s part of it,” Rennick said, excited, pointing toward the meter. “Corrine, you—”
I held my hand up to quiet him. I heard something. Footfalls in the long, dew-wet grass. The swish of Mom’s robe against it.
Mom appeared around the corner of the house, coming out from the front. Mom. In her blue polka-dot pajamas, her white terry-cloth robe.
She cleared her throat. “Corrine?” she said, low, questioning.
“Mom, I just came out—”
Her mouth was a grim line. She looked worried. Did she think maybe I was leaving? Running away?
“Is this the boy who was throwing rocks earlier?” Her voice sounded flat, unimpressed.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I apologize.” He looked at me hard. “Corrine …” I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t.
“Mom, I’ll be in in a minute,” I said. She nodded, gave us our privacy.
“I never meant to scare you off,” Rennick said. “I’m sorry about before.”
“I’m sorry about the knee,” I said.
He gave me a quick nod and was already through the lilac hedge when I called out to him. “Thanks.”
I spread out the four crinkled pages in front of me on my bedspread. The first two sheets were filled with chicken-scratch handwriting, I assumed his.
The realization that he treated me like a normal person softened me toward him, enough to give him some kind of credibility. But still, that made it even harder to entangle him in my curse. I didn’t want to hurt him.
But I had to know what he knew.
The notes were difficult to decipher at first glance. There was a lot of talk of auras, of certain colors, how to interpret them. This color equals this certain trait. There were Web addresses, article titles, references to all kinds of incidents. Articles on electricity—something called dirty electricity. And another term: atmospheric electricity. A new idea that scientists were testing now—that electricity could be gleaned from the air, harnessed, and used, not unlike solar power. Ilooked up some of it on my iPad. It was all very interesting stuff. But the last two pages
I listened to the hum of the crickets and toads as Rennick gathered himself. He rubbed his hand across his forehead nervously, and he started to say something twice but stopped himself again. I softened toward him for a second when I realized exactly why he seemed so different from anyone else in New Orleans. It was because he treated me normally. Like people did back in Chicago, back before everything. Easy. Normal. Everyday.
Here in New Orleans, I was not a real person. I was a freak, a weirdo. No one treated me like Corrine. I was a story. The sideways glances. The whispers. I deserved it.
Finally, Rennick pulled a couple of rolled-up papers from his back pocket and handed them to me. I took them reluctantly, carefully.
“Just read them,” he said. “I looked into a few things. It’s hard to know where to start, Corrine.” He looked at me for a moment; the headlights from a passing car flashed in his eyes, and I could see concern there, tenderness.
It hit me, deep under my ribs in a weird way, and my breath caught in my throat. I shook my head. In that moment, in that flash of human interaction, all that I had been missing in the months of my emotional and near-physical quarantine hit me out of the blue. Why he—this near stranger—would wait out here for me, or why he cared, I had no idea. But itwas odd and disconcerting how much it meant to me, here in my darkest hour.
“I’m sorry,” I told him. “You shouldn’t be around me.” The skin on my scalp tightened, itched. The hairs on my arms stood up. The air around us thickened, and the buzz in my molars came back. My hand went to my jaw, and I pressed my fingers against it.
He hadn’t seemed to notice. “Just promise me you’ll read this, and know that—”
A spark jumped then from the electric meter, scaring us both.
“That’s part of it,” Rennick said, excited, pointing toward the meter. “Corrine, you—”
I held my hand up to quiet him. I heard something. Footfalls in the long, dew-wet grass. The swish of Mom’s robe against it.
Mom appeared around the corner of the house, coming out from the front. Mom. In her blue polka-dot pajamas, her white terry-cloth robe.
She cleared her throat. “Corrine?” she said, low, questioning.
“Mom, I just came out—”
Her mouth was a grim line. She looked worried. Did she think maybe I was leaving? Running away?
“Is this the boy who was throwing rocks earlier?” Her voice sounded flat, unimpressed.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I apologize.” He looked at me hard. “Corrine …” I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t.
“Mom, I’ll be in in a minute,” I said. She nodded, gave us our privacy.
“I never meant to scare you off,” Rennick said. “I’m sorry about before.”
“I’m sorry about the knee,” I said.
He gave me a quick nod and was already through the lilac hedge when I called out to him. “Thanks.”
I spread out the four crinkled pages in front of me on my bedspread. The first two sheets were filled with chicken-scratch handwriting, I assumed his.
The realization that he treated me like a normal person softened me toward him, enough to give him some kind of credibility. But still, that made it even harder to entangle him in my curse. I didn’t want to hurt him.
But I had to know what he knew.
The notes were difficult to decipher at first glance. There was a lot of talk of auras, of certain colors, how to interpret them. This color equals this certain trait. There were Web addresses, article titles, references to all kinds of incidents. Articles on electricity—something called dirty electricity. And another term: atmospheric electricity. A new idea that scientists were testing now—that electricity could be gleaned from the air, harnessed, and used, not unlike solar power. Ilooked up some of it on my iPad. It was all very interesting stuff. But the last two pages
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