Dark Hope Read online

  “Left or right?” he asked me as we approached an intersection.

  “Left,” I said. Almost simultaneously he flicked the signal, as if he had anticipated my response.

  “So what’s your story, Carmichael?”

  “Huh?” I darted a glance at him. He was looking at me, amusement on his face.

  “It’s not a trick question. You know how I came to the lovely burg of Dunwoody. What brings you here?”

  He pulled up to a T stop and signaled for a right turn, not waiting for my confirmation.

  “You need to go left,” I said, a note of suspicion in my voice.

  “Relax, Hope. It’s a circle drive. I can’t make a wrong turn. And don’t duck the question. Why’d you transfer to Dunwoody High?”

  I squirmed in my seat. “It’s a long story.”

  “We’ve got some time. Go ahead.”

  I sighed. He was persistent, so I might as well get it over with.

  “My parents have been separated for a long time. They never really divorced, but they might as well have. My dad always had custody of me because my mom travels a lot for her job. But I decided I wanted to move back with her, so here I am.”

  “Just like that? Here you are? Your dad didn’t have anything to say about it?”

  I looked at Michael. His eyes seemed full of genuine interest. I found myself wanting to trust him.

  “He sort of screwed up. So no, he couldn’t really do anything about it. He isn’t even allowed to talk to me for a while.”

  Michael let out a slow whistle. “That had to be some sort of screwup. What did he do, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  I looked at my hands, twisting in my lap. How to explain my father without having to go through my whole past?

  “Ever since I was really little, he’s been very overprotective of me. He sort of controlled my every move. I guess I managed to deal with it until recently.” I stopped then, unsure if I should continue.

  “What happened?” Michael gently prompted me. His voice was soothing and smooth.

  “There was a new kid in school. Everyone was fascinated by him—you know, that new kid thing—and for some reason he took an interest in me. I lied to my dad and snuck out of the house so I could meet him at the movies.”

  I closed my eyes, remembering how excited I’d been. Danny was the first new kid at Holy Innocents since I’d arrived, the only one at school who didn’t know my story. He was my chance for a real friend, if I didn’t screw it up. I’d been so hopeful, thinking my father would believe my story about staying after school for homework. I was desperate for him to believe it, even though it was so transparent.

  “I thought I’d tricked him, but he showed up at the movie theater and made a scene.”

  “What kind of scene?” Michael prompted.

  I could still remember the feeling of Danny’s fingertips bumping into mine as we burrowed into the bucket of greasy popcorn. The angry stir of the crowd as the crazy man started spouting Bible verses at the top of his voice from the back of the theater. My horror when the crazy man started calling me by name, stalking down the aisle to claim me from my seat and pull me to his waiting car.

  My embarrassment at that moment had paled in comparison to how I felt when I had to deal with the ridicule I’d later faced in school. I’d gone from tolerated misfit to ridiculed pariah in the time it took Danny to spread the story around. I couldn’t blame him. He recognized the opportunity to shoot to super-popularity on the back of someone else’s misfortune. It happened all the time in high school. It had just never happened to me.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said, trying to shrug off the feeling of hopelessness that engulfed me whenever I thought about that time. “He’s just super religious and strict and kind of went too far. So that’s why I wanted to come back to Atlanta. I just needed some space from my dad.”

  I blinked my eyes open, and realized with a start that we were parked in front of my house. I turned to Michael, startled.

  “How did you—?”

  He laughed and flipped up the name tag on my backpack, which I’d neatly placed on the seat between us. “Address on your tag. Easy as pie.” He looked down at me, sheepishly. “I didn’t want to interrupt you while you were talking. It seemed like whatever you were remembering was pretty important.”

  I flushed, scolding myself for how suspicious I’d become. I vowed not to let my father’s craziness infect me.

  “Thanks for the ride, Michael,” I said, flashing him a grateful smile.

  “My pleasure, Hope,” he said, his own grin deepening. He reached across my lap and opened the door for me. Up close, his eyes seemed to dance, shifting into different shades of blue as the sun caught them. I felt my heart give a little thump. “See you tomorrow.”

  When Michael had pulled away from my driveway, Mrs. Bibeau came scurrying out of her house, nearly bursting with questions and waving at me to slow down.

  “Lots of homework!” I yelled before closing the door on her. I let my back fall against the door as I clutched my bag to my chest, a silly smile stealing across my face.

  Several times that afternoon as I worked on my homework I caught myself humming to myself and smiling. So silly, I thought to myself. Are you really so giddy, just because someone was nice to you?

  But all the trauma of my first day at Dunwoody High seemed far behind me. As I brushed my hair out before bed, I had to admit to myself that I was, indeed, giddy with happiness. Today had turned out exactly like I’d envisioned it when I’d planned my move to Atlanta. No, it was even better. This was what I had hoped for, but I hadn’t dared to acknowledge it, even to myself. Anonymity was one thing. But to have a friend, a real friend—someone who didn’t know my past, someone whose picture of me wasn’t skewed by looking at me through the prism of my abduction—that was another.

  And he might even be able to relate, if I shared more of my past with him. After all, he’d said he’d grown up in a cult. I thought almost guiltily of my computer before giving in to the temptation and plopping down in front of it. I launched the search engine and began hunting for any news coverage of a raided cult in Iowa. Nothing. I changed the search terms and switched engines, but still only managed to come up with a bunch of raids in Texas and Utah.

  How odd. My curiosity deepened. I wondered if he was telling me the whole truth. Would the fact that there were children involved mean the media had been blocked from covering the story? I frowned, frustrated, as I hammered away at the keys, launching search after search and coming up with nothing.

  What had really happened in that raid? I couldn’t very well come right out and ask him, could I? Annoyed, I pushed away from my desk and went back to my bathroom, grudgingly picking up the brush. As I ran the brush through my hair, I had to admit that the mystery around Michael’s story only deepened my fascination with him.

  But just what did Michael see when he looked at me? Was it even possible that he could be as intrigued with me as I was with him? Cautiously, almost afraid of what my appraisal would reveal, I set my brush aside and took a hard look at myself in the mirror.

  I gathered the excess fabric of my old-fashioned nightgown in a ball in my fist, pulling it behind me to reveal the body that had been swallowed up by billowing folds. I had the long, lean line of a runner. I turned sideways and saw the slight rise of my breasts, the way my waist cut in over delicate hips. I knew my thighs were strong and muscular from my hours of pounding the treadmill. Thunder thighs, I thought, grimacing. I let my fist open and the gown swirled about me again, hiding my body away.

  I turned forward and examined my face, leaning in to get close to the mirror. My eyes were a deep chocolate brown and almond shaped; they would have given me an almost exotic look if it hadn’t been for the liberal sprinkling of freckles over my high cheekbones. My skin was pale and looked even more so when framed by my long, straight brown hair, which shielded me like a curtain from the unwelcome looks of strangers.

  I ran my fingers
through my hair and swept it over my shoulders. Sighing, I gathered it up in one hand and turned around, taking a mirror in my other hand.

  My Mark.

  If I hadn’t hated it, if it hadn’t symbolized everything that was wrong in my life, I would have thought it beautiful. It seemed to blossom from the base of my skull, the delicate teal markings spreading out like tendrils. I let my hair fall and traced my finger along the Mark, wondering again what it meant.

  “It marks me as a misfit, that’s all,” I sighed to myself, drawing my hair back around me.

  I shook my head. There was nothing in the mirror that could explain why someone like Michael Boyd had taken an interest in me today.

  “Better not to get your hopes up. He’s probably just being nice to you because he felt sorry for you,” I said like a mantra. But still, in the last moments before sleep stole over me, my thoughts returned to Michael, and I fell asleep with a grin on my face.

  three

  I soon settled into the comforting anonymity of the large suburban high school. Even after the “new girl” smell had worn off me, Michael stayed close. I guess that since our lockers were right next to each other and since we had almost every class together and were both new, it was only natural that we should become friends. But the delight and surprise I felt every morning when the bus disgorged me and I found him standing on the sidewalk waiting for me remained strong.

  I knew he didn’t like me romantically. Why would he? I was plain at best, skinny and not even remotely stylish. So when I started noticing the popular girls circling him, I figured my days were numbered. The worst were the cheerleaders. They were hardly subtle, but I was impressed by their ingenuity. It had all started with Jessica Smythe, the varsity basketball cheer captain.

  “Whoopsie!” she’d giggled when she “fell” off the stepladder as she was hanging banners cheering on the basketball team, ingeniously landing right in Michael’s arms.

  “Oh, Michael,” she drawled, fanning herself dramatically, then throwing her arms around his shoulders, “you make me feel so tiny when you’ve got me in your arms like this.”

  “Maybe you should eat more,” Michael said.

  He peeled her arms off of his neck and unceremoniously dumped her back on the floor. She stumbled backwards, taken off guard. “Take a tip from Hope here—she can really pack it in,” Michael said, tilting his head toward me.

  A titter ran through the crowd that had quickly assembled to watch the scene. I blushed, horrified that he’d commented on my eating habits. Jessica’s mouth hung open in astonishment as Michael resumed walking.

  “C’mon, Hope,” he called behind him.

  I ran to catch up, looking over my shoulder at Jessica whom he’d left alone on the floor in the middle of the crowd. She screwed up her face like a spoiled child and stuck her tongue out at me.

  Her failure was like a gauntlet thrown to the entire cheerleading squad. Our universe of classes didn’t overlap much, so they had to squeeze their efforts into the periods between classes and before and after school, as well as lunch. But that didn’t stop them from making the most of their meager opportunities. Sometimes I was witness to their efforts; sometimes I just heard about them secondhand. It started with the predictable “meet cute” bumps in the hallway, but rapidly escalated when their efforts proved to no avail. One time, they bullied the Dunwoody Wildcat mascot into giving up his post.

  “Miii-chael,” one overly made-up blonde wheedled over our lunch table, holding the oversized, tiger-like head of the mascot’s costume on one jutted hip and pouting while the entire squad backed her up, bouncing bowed and beribboned ponytails up and down in unison. “We need your help! We can’t play this Friday without our mascot—it’s a tradition!”

  Michael took the costume from the cheerleader, who looked down at me with a derisive look of triumph. Michael tossed the head in the air as if it were no heavier than a softball and looked down the table.

  “Hey, you,” he called to one spectacularly unathletic freshman. The geeky boy looked up from his lunch tray, surprised. “Do you want to be the Wildcat this Friday?”

  The geeky boy nodded excitedly, pushing up his glasses.

  “Great! Here you go,” Michael said. He tossed the head to the boy, who promptly fell off of his seat with the effort of catching it.

  “Problem solved,” Michael said, taking his chair. “Ladies.” They shrieked with horror and swarmed around the boy, trying to reclaim the costume. I stole a glance at Michael. He seemed oblivious to the commotion he’d just caused.

  On Valentine’s Day, the entire squad decorated his locker with pink, red, and lacy white hearts, spraying the entire thing with so much perfume that we had to wheeze our way through the locker bay. But it didn’t stop there. The cheerleading squad had sold singing “Cupid-Grams” for charity: a few dollars got you candy, a valentine, and a singing telegram, all delivered to your true love in class. So every hour, a scantily clad cheerleader dressed as Cupid or Venus serenaded an amused Michael, delivering professions of love from one of her teammates. By the end of the day, the Cupids had gotten increasingly hostile as Michael refused to let them sit in his lap or give him a kiss. In our last class, after finding Michael unresponsive, the frustrated messenger had simply dug around in her fake bag of arrows and slapped the other valentines down on everyone’s desk, forgoing any singing. As she pulled the last letter out, her eyes narrowed.

  “Who would send you a valentine?” she said acidly as she looked at me, holding the envelope between her fingers as if it were a piece of used tissue or a dead mouse. “Here.” She let it flutter down to my desk and turned on her heel to stomp out of the room, forgetting to give me my candy or a song.

  I looked at the red envelope. Hope Carmichael, period 6, Mrs. Mormon, was written in flawless cursive script across the front. I traced the silver ink and realized I didn’t know what Michael’s handwriting looked like.

  My heart was thumping. I shot Michael a look, but I couldn’t catch his eye. The class was resuming its conjugations so quickly that I shoved the envelope into my back pocket, saving it for later.

  It was burning a hole in my pocket during the entire walk to our lockers and out to Michael’s Charger. We were unusually quiet during the ride home. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw Michael darting me curious glances, his eyes deep as the sky as he watched me.

  When he stopped in my driveway, he reached across my lap to open the door. I held my breath, every inch of skin tingling with the awareness of how close he was. He paused with one hand on the handle, fixing me with a deep gaze. His eyes seemed to sparkle, shifting between different shades of blue as if they were waves dancing in the sun.

  “Aren’t you going to open your valentine?”

  I drew a shaky breath and forced a laugh. “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably a mistake.”

  He arched one eyebrow and grinned, a deep dimple puckering his chin. “Um-hmm. A mistake. Whatever, Carmichael.”

  Only then did he lift the latch, allowing me to flee from his car.

  I placed the red envelope on my nightstand, where it tempted me throughout the night as I went through the forced march of environmental science, math, literature, and social studies homework. Only after I’d packed up my books and gotten into my pajamas did I allow myself to pick it up.

  I sat cross-legged on my bed and drew a deep breath as I stared at it lying in my lap. Finally, I took it in my hand and ran one trembling finger along the script before flipping the envelope over to break the seal. I slid out the card—an old-fashioned lacy heart embossed with roses in shades of cream and pink—and read the verse that had been hand-lettered on the front:

  I will keep you as the apple of the eye,

  hide you under the shadow of my wings.

  I flipped over the card. There was no signature, nothing at all. I felt my brows knitting together as I puzzled over the simple lines. They were familiar, but from where? And what did they mean?

  I r
eached under my bed, pulling out my old Bible, and flipped quickly to Psalms. I trailed a finger across the page until I found the verses I sought:

  Keep me as the apple of the eye,

  hide me under the shadow of thy wings,

  From the wicked that oppress me,

  from my deadly enemies, who compass me about,

  They are enclosed in their own fat:

  with their mouth they speak proudly.

  They have now compassed us in our steps:

  they have set their eyes bowing down to the earth;

  Like as a lion that is greedy of his prey,

  and as it were a young lion lurking in secret places.

  I stared at the page, bewildered. My secret admirer had sent me Bible verses. But he’d altered it, turning it from a plea to a promise of protection. Protection from what? The only thing I seemed to need protection from was overzealous cheerleaders.

  Was it a warning? My mind raced. If so, whoever had written it had expected me to recognize the verse and go to the Bible to discover the rest. But who at my school would even know I would be familiar enough with the Bible to pluck this verse out, to recognize it and find the words that came after it?

  Nobody, the little voice in my head reasoned. Whoever wrote your card probably saw the quote out of context and simply copied it out, no greater meaning intended.

  But that still left the question of who had sent the card. Could it have been Michael?

  I blushed, almost ashamed to admit to myself how much I had wanted it to be from him. But why would he send me a valentine, especially one so weird? No, it couldn’t have been from Michael.

  Then I felt all the blood drain from my face as a more likely culprit occurred to me: my dad. How had he managed to infiltrate the cheerleaders’ Cupid sale and send me a card? Anger and embarrassment rushed through me at the thought of him insinuating himself into my new life, despite all my attempts.