The Halo Chronicles: The Guardian Read online

  THE HALO CHRONICLES:

  THE GUARDIAN

  CAREY CORP

  The Halo Chronicles: The Guardian by Carey Corp

  Copyright © 2011 by Carey Corp

  Digital ISBN:

  Published by Carey Corp

  Cover by Carey Corp

  Photos used to design cover were legally obtained from Shutterstock.com

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or retransmitted in any form in whole or in part without written permission from the author, with the exception of brief quotations for book reviews or critical articles.

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, or actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  For my village,

  I could not do this without you!

  CHAPTER 1

  When I was a little girl, I thought the shadows could harm me. I was terrified of them. Then I learned there are far worse things in this world than the absence of light. Things like hate, racism, pure evil, and high school. Yep, that’s what I said, high school. Most people overlook the real darkness of the world, seeing instead average citizens—adults mostly, some teens, a few kids, an occasional teacher—but I see them for what they are: monsters. Now I look for the shadows, welcome them even. There’s safety in shadows. Especially when your only goal in high school, in life, is to be invisible.

  *

  Seven long blocks.

  I tell myself that’s all it is—a cake walk. Basically, I lie.

  Kate and Steven, the latest in a long line of do-gooder foster parents, have already left for the day, so I linger on their freshly painted front porch taking in the variations of pastel blue and antique white gingerbread trim. Inhaling deeply, the pungent chemical smell of the paint slices through my fear allowing me to clear my head. The acrid scent is strangely soothing.

  For a minute, I regret not accepting the ride offered to me. Kate wanted to stay. Drive me to the first day of school, my being new and all. But I told her that’s not the way it’s done when you’re a sophomore. She got it and let the subject drop. She’s good that way.

  I shut the front door, which is the same shade of red as a Christmas poinsettia, taking extra care to use the spare key and return it to the inner pocket of my new backpack. Looking down, my eyes trace the bottom edge of my jeans as they rest against my new Ed Hardy sneakers. The shoes match my top perfectly, both a vivid shade of electric purple– not a color I’m entirely comfortable with. The whole outfit’s new, like the backpack and my haircut.

  At Kate’s insistence, I capitulated to a back-to-school shopping spree. It seemed to make her sublimely happy to dress me up like Suburban Barbie, and since I don’t care too much one way or the other, I thought it was the right thing to do. So, I now have a new, colorful wardrobe that puts me in the same category as the porch—recently overhauled. But I miss my faded army jacket with its oversized sleeves and holes worn clean through the pockets.

  As I contemplate the walk before me, my heart squeezes in a familiar, unpleasant way that proves, contrary to my makeover, nothing has changed. Nothing ever really does.

  Just seven blocks.

  And Kate’s already gone because I told her I would be fine, that I could handle the first day all by myself.

  I lied.

  Does it make a difference that I’m sorry when I have to lie? I like to think so—but it doesn’t make the lie harder to tell the next time. It’s not any easier either, so that’s something.

  Regardless, lying is what I’m good at. So, I tell myself today will be just fine; that there’s nothing to be afraid of. And despite the cramping in my stomach, I leave the safety of the pretty porch and begin to walk.

  School starts in forty-five minutes. If I amble, I’ll reach Midlands High just as the warning bell rings; I’ve made three dry runs already this week. Even though I have an assigned locker, I don’t plan on using it. To use a locker I would have to stop, turn my back on people. High school’s about staying in motion, staying invisible.

  But I am conspicuously purple. And no longer have my army jacket.

  To console myself, I make believe Derry’s at my side, striding along on his gangly legs, his still-developing center of gravity causing a jerkiness to his gait. Derry’s the only friend I’ve ever had. He’s gone. Missing for thirty-six days. I know this because I’ve been with Kate and Steven Foster precisely thirty seven-days.

  I don’t tell the Fosters this—not that they wouldn’t go out of their way to try and help me—it’s just, Derry is personal.

  Six blocks to go. Like a countdown to an execution, or the tolling of the bells at midnight, the blocks vanish beneath my feet as I move toward something sinister and ominous. It doesn’t help to change direction, no matter which way I go, I’m always moving toward it. Never away. Never toward safety.

  At the corner, I turn right onto Midlands Avenue. As my new shoes shuffle along the perfectly square blocks of sidewalk, I look in vain for flaws in the cement. The morning is so crisp that the details of the neighborhood are a sharp assault to my senses. On both sides of the street, lush, manicured lawns gently slope toward stately, old homes. Flowers bloom from every possible surface in a profusion of colors. The wind brushes against me and I realize that here, even the breeze is pleasant.

  For a moment I long to be back at The Children’s Center with its cracked, crumbling pavement and tenaciously growing weeds. There, the air was stale but familiar. I think about the Center, the closest thing I can call home, for the next two blocks and wonder for the millionth time where Derry is. He can’t take care of himself. He needs me.

  And just maybe, I need him.

  Maybe I need one person in this cursed life to care about me—someone I can care about in return. Then I wonder if I’m asking too much.

  Four more blocks.

  When I reach Fort Thomas Avenue I turn left, surveying the tidy landscaping and brick accents that give the wide street a small-town charm I instantly distrust. In my experience, places that look like this, so safe one feels a false sense of utopia, are the worst. Nowhere is safe.

  To my right are snappy little shops with green awnings and thriving flower boxes. They’re closed this time of the morning. Idly, I wonder if Kate shops there and whether she’ll take me with her sometime. One store’s a used CD place. Maybe I’ll stop there on the way home, if the day doesn’t turn out to be too bad. I’m always looking for more music.

  With a swift stab of pain, I realize it doesn’t matter anyway. I no longer own the MP3 player I got for Christmas as a charity gift. It was dark pink and came with a gift card for 200 downloads, which wasn’t nearly enough since my tastes are eclectic. I gave it to Derry and can’t bring myself to regret the decision, even though it was fully loaded and not an appropriate color for a boy. It was the only part of me I could leave behind for him when I had to go. When Derry listens to all my favorite bands, I hope he thinks of me. At least a little.

  The foot traffic’s heavier now. Kids strolling along in noisy groups. Most wearing shorts, since it’s August. They look bright and shiny, and rich. It occurs to me I’ve ne
ver been to a school this nice, and maybe, because of the affluence, it’ll be different. Better.

  I try to picture what it would be like to stay here in this place, but the harder I focus the more the idea becomes intangible, dissipating like the morning fog. It’s as if I’m trying to capture something that doesn’t exist—something that never can, for me.

  Rounding the next corner, I see the dark spot. Just off the main road, on Orchard Avenue, lurks a clump of guys. On the surface they look normal, but my skin crawls. There are just three of them, but my heart starts to pound in an all-too-familiar nauseating way, and I consider turning around. Skipping school. But I don’t want to disappoint Kate and Steven. Their home feels safe. I’ve never had that before and I want it. Even if it’s foolish.

  Even if it can’t last.

  Loosening my dark hair from behind my ears, I hunch my shoulders, ducking into myself. But my newly cut hair is too short to hide behind. And I don’t have the safety of my jacket. Diverting my eyes, I stare at the sidewalk in front of me, feeling highly vulnerable. I regret declining the designer sunglasses Kate wanted to buy me. If I had sunglasses I could observe things better.

  The three boys notice as I pass. I don’t look, but can feel their repulsive attention all the same. Bile starts to churn in my stomach, rising. My heart’s rioting beneath my ribcage as I pick up my pace.

  Less than three blocks to go.

  The pristine sidewalks are congested with well-dressed kids. Excited chattering surrounds me adding to my anxiety. My stomach rumbles in protest, and I’m glad I’ve not eaten. New environments often make me sick. I’ve learned to take precautions.

  Two blocks.

  The last two blocks are shorter. Up ahead I can see the three story brick citadel of Midlands High School being overrun with shiny, happy people—for the most part, that’s what they are—and I allow myself a brief smile at the R.E.M. reference. Though my reaction’s lessening, I’m still cautious.

  Ahead of me in the semi-circular courtyard, I spot a potential problem. Just one boy, a blob of battleship gray in the buttery sea of students. I alter my course, giving him a wide berth. He doesn’t pay any attention to me, which is just the way I like it.

  Mentally I review my plan. Visualizing my route using the class schedule and campus map I’ve memorized, I cross the street with the oblivious herd of kids and resign myself to the horrors of high school. Main building, second floor, left wing. First period Math. Algebra.

  My heart pounds madly, like a jackhammer on steroids. I focus on my unsullied, purple shoes as I weave my way through the heaving mass of kids, trusting my senses to alert me to any real danger.

  The worst part of a new school is getting the proverbial lay of the land. Interpreting the cliques and teachers, identifying who’s got power and who just thinks they do. Most of all who to avoid. Not the obvious bullies or bitchy popular girls, but the truly malicious, malignant ones. This is my fifth school in two years. I have made surviving an art.

  Relieved to make it to first period without incident, I’m slipping through the classroom doors when uncontrollable sensations assault me. Palpable dread, a leaden ball in my stomach. My mouth goes dry as my heart slams against my ribs, faltering before it speeds up. I inhale sharply, knowing the danger’s in the back of the room on the side closest to the door.

  With a sidelong glance, I look.

  The boy stares apathetically at his desk, his acne-pocked face sullen. Long greasy hair, dyed an inky black, hangs limply around his shoulders. He looks quiet, almost wimpy, but surrounding him is a cloud of churning ash that keeps obscuring him from my view. Crap!

  It’s hard to remember exactly when I first started seeing people as light and darkness. I was very young and already on my own. The first time I saw someone truly dark—almost black—I wet myself. I was six.

  I slump forward, shuffling to the opposite corner of the room near the window. The class isn’t yet full and no one seems to notice my bizarre behavior as I slide into a first row seat. Gripping my desk with both hands, I focus on yogic breathing techniques as the room fills. In this instance, they help.

  I don’t see auras. No pretty colors or hippy dippy philosophies. I see variations of good and evil that halo the entire body and my physiological processes react accordingly. I’ve little control over either phenomenon. And I can’t turn it off—pretend I don’t see.

  Halos are like a color scale ranging from black to gold to white. The center’s neutral, no color or halo of any kind. On one side there’s good, a spectrum of yellows, starting out faint hazy goldenrod, growing brighter and lightening into clear white brilliance. The other side’s bad, starting as an ethereal dull silver mist, turning gray then charcoal, before darkening into the still blackness of pure evil. With an energy all its own, a halo’s pattern and movement mirrors its owner’s emotional and moral states.

  The boy in the back of the room is angry. Hurt, pissed, out for revenge. His halo tumbles around him like an ominous storm cloud.

  As I continue to breathe, the classroom fills. With more bodies between the dark boy and me, the sensations abate. By the time the teacher, and his very bright halo, enter the class, I’m sure I can make it—for now, at least. Mr. Ramirez, as he introduces himself, begins to take roll.

  John Avers. Mindy Butler. Stacey Bucchanan.

  I listen intently for the name of the boy in the back.

  Geena Davies. Luke Davis. Graham Ernst. Alexia Grabovski.

  I listen so intently I don’t recognize my own name as it’s called.

  Alexia Grabovski.

  It’s only after the third time the teacher says it that I react.

  Alexia Grabovski.

  “Here.”

  It comes out as a squeak. Feeling the collective eyes of the class—including the boy—staring at me, I meet Mr. Ramirez’s amused gaze. “Daydreaming already, Miss Grabovski?”

  “No, sir.” I shake my head back and forth a few times. Mr. Ramirez goes back to his list and I gulp before regaining his attention. My cheeks burn with humiliation, as I unavoidably prolong the spotlight. “Uh, Mr. Ramirez?” He pauses. “It’s Alex, not Alexia.”

  He makes a note on his paper, giving me a warm smile. “Okay, Alex.” He’s surrounded by a thin but solid layer of ecru. If I were staying, I would probably like him. A lot.

  But I’m not—staying. And I'm not Alexia.

  Alexia is a pert girl on the cheerleading squad, who spends her time shopping and dreaming of prom. The kind of girl who’d carry a rat-dog around in her handbag. Someday she’ll trade in her pink bedroom for a sorority house full of other cheerful, aptly-named sisters. She has her whole bright future ahead of her.

  I am not that girl.

  My name’s Alex. I spend my days trying to dodge the darkness and, if possible, stay one step ahead of it. The most I can hope for is to make it to my eighteenth birthday so I can get out of the system and fade into obscurity. I take one day at a time, trying my best not to look ahead—the future terrifies me.

  By the end of roll call, I learn the dark boy’s name is Jonah. Jonah Wilkes.

  *

  Second period French. So far so good. I sit down next to a frizzy, red-haired girl with glasses and hand-me-down clothes. She’s benign—harmless—I’m sure of it. Her halo’s gossamer lemon chiffon.

  Most people have very vague halos, slightly good or bad, but for the most part neutral. They may waver with emotion and circumstance, but generally remain on either one side or the other. There are a lot of “good” people surrounded by faint gray halos. These are the people who make the right choices for wrong reasons. The ones that would do wrong if there was no consequence or chance of getting caught. For the most part, society keeps them in check. Those faintly gray people don’t bother me.

  On the flip side there are those who do wrong for the right reasons, like Robin Hood. They possess some of the brightest, most clearly-defined halos I’ve ever seen. Ironically, often a school’s bad boy is a reb
el with heart of gold. And a golden halo to prove it.

  The brighter or darker a person’s halo becomes the more fundamental it is to their make-up. They’re the ones who choose to do good or evil because of their own moral compass, regardless of external expectations. Then there are those rare people who embody goodness or evil. I’ve never seen any up close but I come across them on the news occasionally. Mother Teresa and, at the opposite end of the spectrum, Adolf Hitler are the most famous examples I can think of. The first and only time I saw an image of Hitler, I threw up.

  The French professeur, Madame Mimi, is one of those outwardly nice people who really isn’t nice at all. She’s surrounded by a light fog the color of dirty cement. As she commences the morning’s leçon, I idly wonder if she talks about students behind their backs. Two-faced fits her.

  The whole class has to choose French names. I pick Jeanne, like Jeanne d’Arc. My own grim joke. But no one’s laughing, not even me.

  The lemon chiffon girl, I learn, is Becke Finch.

  I cross Jonah’s path again in third period Biology, but now that I’m more used to him, I know what to expect. Also his halo’s shifting, less chaotic and lighter by the time we’re dismissed. He reminds me of a child, the way his halo fluctuates.

  Children can vary greatly in a short amount of time as their emotional state changes, even flipping from light to dark and back again. They don’t have a developed voice of reason to keep them grounded and without it are often slaves to the feelings of the moment. That seems to fit for Jonah, somehow. Suddenly, I’m feeling hopeful. Maybe he simply needs an outlet for his emotions, a friend or a therapist.

  It’s too soon to know for sure, and I’ll probably be gone long before I can discover the answer. But I find myself wishing for his sake, that his friends might make a difference in his life.