Pivot Point (Pivot Point #1)(40)

I nod, wondering if Trevor really had let it go. And more than that, I wonder if Rowan has a reason to be suspicious of Lincoln High.





CHAPTER 17


PAR?A?pha?sia: n. to lose the power to speak correctly It’s my first time standing at Duke’s front door, and I’m nervous. I haven’t met his parents yet. It feels like a big deal. I ring the bell and gnaw on my lip. A beautiful woman answers, and her smile is contagious, immediately putting me at ease. “You must be Addie,” she says, grasping both my hands for a quick moment and then dropping them. “Come in.”

“Thank you.” I readjust the backpack on my shoulder and step in. The entryway is huge and ends in a wide staircase, straight ahead of me. Actually, every aspect of the house is huge: tall doors, large paintings, thick banisters.

“Upstairs, first door on your right,” she says.

I begin to walk upstairs. Maybe this study date was a bad idea, but it’s the only kind of date my mom would allow with my grounding still in force. The first door on the right is shut, and I knock quietly.

“Come in,” Duke says, and the door slides open.

I step inside. He sits at a desk, his back to me, writing. “Give me one sec.”

His room is bright, the drapes on both windows wide open. From where his house sits, on the very edge of town, the unobstructed view of the mountains is impressive. As I stare out the window, I wonder if the Perceptives change the image throughout the day. Do they elongate the shadows in the afternoon? The thought of a manufactured reality sits heavily on my shoulders from this close up, and I’m suddenly happy I don’t have Duke’s impressive view every day. I’m happy for my daily view of the neighbor’s water-stained fence.

I turn my attention away from the windows. I expect Duke’s walls to be covered with football posters or shelves full of trophies, but they’re a clean beige, like his mom’s pants. A single painting of an ocean view hangs on the wall opposite his king-size bed. As a whole, the room screams hotel—generic enough to house anyone, and yet nobody ever feels like they belong there. It is clean though, which is nice.

He finishes whatever he’s working on and then stands and turns. “Hey, girlfriend.”

“Hi.” My heart flutters. I raise one hand, and when I lower it my backpack slips down my arm, causing me to take a jerky step forward.

He laughs. “Aren’t we past the awkward stage yet? Where is my mouthy Addie who acted like I was nothing special when we first met?”

Sometimes I wonder the same thing. “Are you someone special?”

“There she is.”

He takes several steps forward and scoops me into a hug. When he puts me down, I say, “So this is your room, huh?”

“Yep, this is it. Have a seat.” He points to his bed, and I take the chair he just abandoned instead.

“I thought there’d be more … stuff. Trophies or whatever.”

“Yeah, well, my mom doesn’t like holes in the walls. Plus, my dad has an entire room filled with my … stuff. It’s embarrassing.”

“He’s proud.”

“He just loves football. Has his whole life.”

“So is that why you started playing?”

“Yeah, I was told my dad handed me a football when I was born.”

“Is he Telekinetic too?”

He nods slowly and looks around as if noticing how bare his room is for the first time.

“Have you been to the ocean?” I ask, nodding my head toward the painting.

“Once. A long time ago. I liked it a lot.” He stares at the painting. “Are your walls plastered with posters of hot guys or something?”

“How did you know?”

“Really?”

“No. I actually have a lot of … um …” I pull on my fingers, realizing how uncool I am about to sound and how little he actually knows about me. “Painted words and book pages on my walls.”

“Book pages?”

“Yeah, some are from novels; some are from graphic novels.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Graphic novels? As in, comic books?”

“Yes. But it’s not because I think the characters are cute or anything.” Even though Laila sometimes stares at them with dreamy eyes. “It has more to do with the story lines … usually the parts where I felt the most tense or the saddest. I’ll pin that page on my wall, and every time I read it or look at it, I get that rush of feelings I got reading it.…” Holy crap, this is not normal. Why am I telling him this? “… Never mind.”

“No, wait, tell me. So you’re saying you like to remember certain feelings?”

“Sort of.” I pull up my knee on the chair with me. “It’s hard to explain. In my life, I’m surrounded by people who, no matter if they are trying to or not, can manipulate me. Like my mom. She says she doesn’t use Persuasion on me, but just the fact that I know she can makes me more likely to do what she asks, because I don’t want her to use her power on me. So even though she’s not using it, in a way she’s still manipulating me. I just let her skip a step. My dad too. Since I know I can’t lie to him, I don’t. Does any of this make sense?”

“Yes, of course, but I don’t understand how that relates to pages from books pinned to your wall.”