Sage's Eyes by V.C. Andrews Page B

father.
    â€œYour mother means, do you feel any older, wiser? Has something about you changed? Do you see the world any differently?”
    What parents asked questions like that on their children’s birthdays? None of my friends ever described their parents asking such questions.
    â€œI guess I do,” I said. “I’d better. I’m in the tenth grade now. The work’s going to be harder, and I’m around older kids more often, so I think I’ll act older.”
    Neither looked satisfied with my response. What did they want to hear?
    â€œAre you going to tell us about another birthday you remember?” my mother asked with a sour look.
    â€œI don’t remember any right now, except, of course, Lucy Fein’s birthday last year. That was a big party. I was surprised she invited me. We had hardly talked in school before she sent out her invitations.”
    â€œYou know I don’t mean that sort of birthday, Sage,” she said. “No dreams, no illusions, no inexplicable memories to plague us with?”
    â€œNo,” I replied. “I haven’t had any thoughts like that.”
    She looked happy and satisfied about that. The truth was that a few days ago, I did dream about being at a birthday party I could not explain. I supposed it would fit the definition of a nightmare more than just another strange dream.
    It took place in a small house. The room was lit by many candles because there wasn’t any electricity. There were at least a dozen adults and two other children. All the adults were dressed in black. I could feel them all watching me as a woman who was my mother brought out my birthday gift on a dish. It was an amber necklace. Before I was given it, she lifted it out of the dish and began to recite something in what sounded like gibberish to me. Everyone around the table joined in, but the chant was hard to understand.When that ended, she turned and brought the necklace to me to put it around my neck. She was behind me, and the necklace was not as long as it had looked. It seemed to be shrinking, tightening around my throat until I gagged and woke up.
    That was a dream I was definitely not going to tell them about tonight.
    My father cut the roast and served me some. I took some string beans and passed the plate to him. I could see how my mother was watching every little thing I did, anticipating something or waiting for me to say something strange. My attention was centered on the gift package they had brought me. I wouldn’t be able to open it until after we had eaten dinner and my birthday cake was brought out. I’d had a glimpse of the cake when I opened the refrigerator earlier. At least it was my favorite, a vanilla cake with an apricot icing.
    As we ate, they continued to ask me questions about my new school. I had been there only a week, but they wanted to know if I had met any girls or boys I would like to have as friends.
    â€œYes, there are a few girls I think I could be friends with,” I said.
    Nothing terribly dramatic had occurred yet, and the other girls were feeling me out the way girls did anywhere. What kind of music did I like? What did I watch on television? What were my experiences with boys? Stuff like that. I tried to give them answers they liked, but of course, I was vague about the boys I had known. I didn’t want to reveal that I had no romanticexperiences while they were unwinding spools of dates, parties, and sexual explorations that honestly made me tingle, especially the way they freely described their orgasms, trying to outdo one another.
    Now my mother was silent for a moment. She glanced at my father and then asked me a strange question. “When you came out of school today, did you see anyone watching from across the way before you saw me waiting for you? A man?”
    â€œWatching? Watching what, Mother?”
    â€œYou, of course.”
    â€œNo. I don’t remember seeing anyone watching me. Who would