© Copyright 2011
All work is property of Leah Crichton, any duplication or reproduction of all or part of the work without explicit permission by the author is illegal.

Prestidigitation: (pres-teh-digi-tay-shun)

 Performance of or skill in performing magic or conjuring tricks withthe hands; sleight of hand

a show of skill or deceitful cleverness

We had a student assembly that morning, so I wasn’t forced to say goodbye to him. I was strangely comfortable around him, a fact that made no sense because he made me all queasy inside and my body was in a constant state of flutter whenever he was near. This was only the second day I knew him.  It had taken me about thirty seconds to develop my hopeless crush, and thirty six hours so far in thirty-second intervals amounted to four thousand three hundred and twenty thirty-second intervals to obsess. 

I pushed back against the nagging little voice inside my head that continued to question his motives. Why I had to be such a critic, I didn’t know. Had Chloe just said he was particular about his choice of friends in order to bother me?  If it was true, then why me? I mean, I liked me. I was funny and smart, but why? Was it the crutches? The scar? Did he have a knight-in-shining-armor complex? Was the name game holding his interest?

The lingering doubt was hard to shake, but by mid-morning I'd talked myself into simply enjoying his interest. We sat down in the bleachers and he whispered, “So, Santana, today’s Tuesday. No torture session, right? Can I take you out?”

I hadn't forgotten his offer the day before. He had wanted to show me around the city, yet ended up witness to the unspeakable. I smiled. “I think that can be arranged. Santana is far too cool. My parents could never come up with that.”  

“Santana would be cute.”

Chloe and her sidekick Tyler came in and sat in front of us. Why the hell couldn't she sit somewhere else?  It was like walking up to a bee’s nest and poking the hive. Stupid. Her eyes were sharp as daggers, just like the day before. She was no doubt wishing I'd go back wherever I came from, but her bitch level was wearing on my nerves so, in mid-stare, I beamed the most sickeningly sweet smile I could muster and waved. Her nastiest glare didn’t even touch the ones I was capable of dishing out, but it was more entertaining this way. Kill them with kindness.

The remainder of the day dragged. It felt like every teacher spoke in slow motion to keep up with the painstakingly slow clock. To make matters worse, I shared only two classes with Orion while Chloe and I shared four. In third period I handed her the pen she dropped and she deflated. Being nasty was exhausting. I knew this from personal experience.

At lunch I called Luke to tell him I’d find my own way home. He was surprised by my ability to retain friends longer than a day. Such a vote of confidence.

When the dismissal bell rang I sauntered to the parking lot, scanning it for his Audi. His hands were crammed into his pockets and he stood beside his car looking like a damned billboard. All he needed was a catchy slogan like: Indecently hot. Will burn.

I slid my bag off of my shoulder and held it out to him. He took it and wedged it beside the passenger seat and I settled in. As we pulled out into traffic, I noticed Orion’s car was on the receiving end of a great deal of open mouthed stares. The traffic was so congested I had loads of time to absorb it all: Restaurants, clothing stores, music stores, bars, everything a person could want or imagine.

I saw signs for the seawall and Orion pulled the car to a parking area adjacent to the beach.

“This,” he said, gesturing to the open water, “is my favorite place.”

Easy to see why. White sand sparkled like cut glass and I was suddenly overcome with the desire to remove my socks. I got out of the car and inhaled, smelling the salt of the ocean. “This is incredible.” I leaned against the car and removed my shoes, eager to feel the sand seep between my toes.

His eyes darted to my bare feet right around the same time I was mentally thanking God my mom believed in bi-weekly pedicures.

“What are you doing?”

“Going tap dancing,” I remarked sarcastically then grinned. “What does it look like I'm doing? I want to feel sand slide between my toes.”

He shrugged before untying his own shoes. “So you like the feeling of sand in your toes?”

I wiggled them. “Who doesn’t?”

His wrapped his hand around mine and pulled me along, moving slowly to make sure I could keep up. “Let’s try to walk a little, then,” he suggested. “And you can tell me more about things you like or don’t like, such as your name.”

I sighed and tried not to limp as I followed. “Always about the name with you. What do you want to know?”

“You mean aside from your true identity? I want to know everything.”

I searched my mind for something to say, something that might sound remotely intriguing. “I like ice cream and spaghetti. But not together.” Ugh. Wow. Brilliant.

He noticed my embarrassment and squeezed my hand softly. The sun reflected off of the blue in his eyes, which were simply surreal.  “Who doesn’t like ice cream and spaghetti, but not together?”

I didn't reply. Ignoring it and moving on was the safest way to undo the awkwardness of my dumb remark. “I was sort of mean before the accident,” I blurted out. Surely this was a better topic for discussion than ice cream and spaghetti, but not together. The life span of a housefly would have been more interesting.

His brow furrowed. “I don’t believe that.”

“It’s true,” I declared. “To my parents especially. I was pretty awful.”

“Nope, still don’t believe it.” He looked down and kicked away the sand at his feet.  “Pretty, yes. Not awful.”

Pretty? He thought I was pretty? I wanted to ask him if that was true, but the possibility of sounding desperate stopped me. “Really. I was horrible to them about moving here, about my name. I was so mad at them all the time,” I told him.

“And?”

“And now I’ve lived to regret it. I feel horrible most of the time about it. I have great parents, and I was vile.”

“I don’t think you should feel guilty about anything at all. Your parents love you unconditionally. You love them. That’s all that matters. There is no point in dwelling on the past when you need to look forward to the future, and for the record, I don’t buy for one second that you were vile.”

“You’re probably right about the future, not the vileness in question.” I stepped forward but retracted my foot as soon as I felt the sharp sting. “Ouch!” 

Orion stopped and turned, a look of concern on his face. “You okay?”

Seeing as how I'd placed the super sensitive ball and heel of my foot on the gateway to hell, no, I was not okay. The penetration of whatever punctured my foot filled it with a fire that licked at my nerve endings and brought tears to my eyes.  With a sharp intake of breath, I lied, “I’m fine, I just stepped on something.” My eyes moved down to assess the damage, which, not surprisingly, was on my good foot. The faintest hint of red trickled into the sand and I cursed whatever it was I had stepped on. Had it not been there, I would still be having a pleasant conversation instead of biting my lip in an effort not to cry.

Orion looped his hands under my arms to guide me to the ground. “Sit,” he said. He squatted in front of me and picked up my foot to examine it like it was a specimen in a Petri dish.  Embedded into the skin was a jagged piece of stone.

His fingers rubbed a small circle on the top of my foot. “It’s like ripping off a Band-Aid. Can you take a deep breath for me?”

I nodded and inhaled as he pulled it out. I recoiled, losing my brave face; it hurt like a bitch. I clenched my teeth together as warm, sticky blood leaked freely now the rock was removed. Orion covered my foot with both hands and instantly the stinging subsided. When I was stuck at home, I’d read about psychosomatic reactions to things in one of Luke’s books. I wanted him to touch me, so it felt better.

We sat there like that for a few minutes. He held my foot with his hand and my gaze with his eyes, which were a pleasant distraction. After a while, he set my leg gently on the sand. Nothing hurt and the wet heat of blood was vanished.

My eyes darted to his hands to determine how much of a mess I’d made of them but there was nothing, not even the smallest streak of red. My mouth dropped and in one rapid movement I bent my leg awkwardly to see the battle scar. Nothing. I gasped. “How’d you do that?”

A mischievous smile crossed his face. “Do what?”

“I-I was bleeding. It was cut.” 

“It was just a scratch.”

“If that was a scratch a gunshot wound to the chest is minor,” I argued. “That wasn’t just a scratch.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Are you okay? I can assure you it was merely a scratch. Granted it was a big one, but it was still a scratch.” 

“My foot is fine,” I said. “Flawless. If it were a scratch, which it wasn't, there would be something there.”

“Look again.”

I twisted my leg awkwardly to get a different point of view. Sure enough, where I'd felt the bleeding there was only a raw and red wound. 

Orion stood and held his hand out to help me up. “C'mon,” he said. “Let me take you for spaghetti and ice cream, but not together.”

I was going crazy. I had to be. It hadn't been a scratch. I'd seen saw the blood…

***

We stopped at an Italian restaurant for the spaghetti, which came on a plate the size of a turkey platter. It was delicious, though, and by the time I had eaten so much I thought I might burst, or at the very least loosen a button, I hadn’t even made a dent in the mountain of noodles. Orion’s plate was empty.

Afterward, we drove to the Cone Zone.  He ordered butterscotch ripple ice cream while I opted for mint chocolate chip. I tried to buy my own because I was sure the cost of the dinner had been more than enough, but he was insistent and paid.  Sitting outside the shop on a park bench, I licked the cone and savored the taste. “You know, I don’t think there are two better flavors to go together than mint and chocolate.”

“Oh yeah?” His lips turned upward, entertained.

“Yeah, I mean the refreshing zing of the peppermint and the bitter sweetness of the chocolate. They’re perfect together.” I said, impressed by my own analysis.

“Maybe so, Billie-Jo, but how can you say in the same breath that they go together when they are vastly different things? Chocolate is bitter and mint is sweet.”

“Billie-Jo,” I said with a laugh. “I’m from Churchill, not Podunk. As far as flavors go you’re right, they are vastly different. But the sweetness of sugar and the bitterness of cocoa is what makes it taste so good. So even though they are entirely different, they mesh, you know, perfectly to form this incredible tasty treat.”

Orion’s smile was even bigger now. “You know, maybe you’re right. Two entirely different things can go together perfectly. Personally, I prefer the all-enveloping sweetness of butterscotch, but you have me thinking now, maybe next time I’ll have to try your mint and chocolate.”

I shrugged. “Life’s too short to only taste one flavor.”

When he announced it was time to head back I was sad. I was having a great time and didn't want to leave. Adding to my dismay the traffic had eased up so it was a quick drive. He pulled into the driveway, put the car in park, and came around to my side to help me out. Handing me my crutches and my backpack, he said, “Well, mystery girl, it has been a wonderful afternoon. I had a great time.”

“I did, too.”

“Until tomorrow then?”

“Yeah,” I said, “until then.”

When I got into the house I found Luke standing in the kitchen, his arms folded across his chest. "Who was that, I.Q.?" 

 "That's Orion,” I said. “Not O’Reilly, Luke, but Orion. He took me for ice cream.”

“Careful,” Luke warned. “I don’t like the look of him.”

I rolled my eyes. “Luke, don’t be silly. He’s just being nice.”

“Yeah, whatever. He looks like trouble.”

“He looks like something, but I’m not sure it’s trouble.”

Luke was just jealous and overprotective. Orion was, without question, the kind of guy every girl wanted to be with and the kind of guy every guy wanted to be. Jealousy was a fierce emotion.