The Guardian by Katie Klein
“I’m sure he’s a good guy,” she replies. “But you never really know what people are like deep down. I thought I taught you about this.”
I scoff. “Yeah, because you’re a great judge of character.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her eyes grow wider. She folds her arms in defense and leans back into the cabinet.
“It’s just that I’ve seen the guys you bring around,” I explain. “And I don’t think you’re the best person to lecture someone about this.”
“I am, because I’ve lived it.”
“You’re living it now,” I say, throwing out a tiny laugh. “Again. It’s the same cycle over and over. What’s going to happen this time, Mom? What happens when Mike isn’t ‘The One’ anymore? Are we gonna pack our bags? Sell all our shit? Move again? For the hundredth time?”
“This isn’t about Mike, or my relationships. This is about you seeing a boy that I don’t think I approve of.”
“You don’t even know him,” I point out.
“I don’t have to know him. I have my instincts. You’re just a child.”
“Are you serious?” I hiss, my voice rising. “I’m a child? You think I’m a child? Well then why haven’t you ever treated me like one? My entire life has revolved around you. Do you even know what moving from city to city has done to me? How hard it is for me to make friends? How lonely I was? How lonely I am?”
“You have a great life here,” she interrupts.
My jaw tightens. “I am in a math class with people who are two years younger than I am because I can’t keep up. I can’t keep up because not only am I forced to go to school for eight hours a day, but I have to work. I work. I have a job. And not a job that I want . . . but a job that I need. A job that I need to have because you don’t make enough money to pay the bills. I’ve had some kind of job since I was twelve years old. My job paid for our groceries, or, or for the water bills. And what happened when we didn’t have enough money? Our power was shut off. We didn’t have anything to eat. And somehow it’s my fault . . .”
Mom holds up her hand, motioning for me to stop. “Don’t even. You’re overreacting.”
I dig my heels further into the linoleum. “Are you kidding? You have no right to brush me off! What happened when the power was shut off, Mom?” I don’t wait for her to answer. “I’ll tell you what happened. When I was old enough I had to work it out. I had to start negotiating. Making excuse after excuse! For you!”
“We don’t have the kinds of opportunities that other people have, Genesis. It’s just us!”
“You’ve never even tried to find other opportunities! Every time something got too hard you just picked up and ran away! You left unpaid water bills, and our stuff. . . .” Salty tears sting my eyes, threatening to spill over. A hard lump wedges itself in my throat. “It didn’t matter the reason. Whether you quit your job or were fired, or you’d just broken up with the boyfriend of the month, or we couldn’t pay the rent anymore. . . . It didn’t matter if it was the middle of the school year. You ran away and you dragged me with you! So don’t stand there and tell me that I’m a child, because I’m not a child. I have never been a child!”
I storm out of the kitchen, cheeks on fire and heart racing. The screen door crashes shut behind me. The nerve! The absolute nerve! Telling me that she doesn’t think I should be hanging out with Seth? When is she ever around to care? And I do more than she ever did! I go to school and I work. I work my butt off and then hand my paychecks and tip money over to her so she can pay bills. A child does not do that. I’m just as much of an adult as she is. Even more so, because I can at least tell when I have a good guy. . . .
I unhook my bike from the railing and climb on.
“I don’t want to see him here again!” My mom shouts from the porch as I pedal away.
TWENTY-TWO
Whatever extra time I gained by waking up early was lost during the confrontation with my mother. I pick up speed, thoughts spinning madly, racing down the street. The humidity is already high, and by the time I reach the parking lot of the school, sweat prickles at my skin.
I can only think of Seth. What he heard. What I feel. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, and hope that he hears.
“Genesis?”
I spin around. Selena jogs to catch up with me, bag slung over her shoulder, face still bruised from the airbag deployment from her accident the week before, despite what appears to be a careful application of concealer.
“Can we talk?” she asks, eyes imploring.
Behind us, the warning bell echoes through the sterile halls.
Outside school, the 8am to 3pm world seems strange . . . foreign, somehow. The sun shines brighter, and traffic isn’t nearly as heavy.
Like Carter after his accident, Selena drives more cautiously. I hold onto the bar above my head, anyway. The wrinkled, paper dealership mats are still on the floor at my feet. There isn’t a scratch or a fleck of dust in sight. There are less than fifty miles on the car itself. It smells like leather and plastic. Rich people don’t waste a second in replacing their wrecked vehicles.
“Nice ride,” I mumble.
Her hands tense around the steering wheel. The only sound comes from the motor as she speeds up between stoplights. The radio isn’t even playing. It’s like she needs full concentration. One minor distraction and she’ll lose control.
“Thanks,” she replies.
The rest of the drive is quiet. She finally pulls over and parks in a public beach access parking lot. She cracks the windows, locks the doors, and shuts off the engine. The sound of waves reverberates in the distance—an endless, relaxing loop. A balmy breeze passes through the cab. She leans back in her seat and sighs.
We remain there for a few moments, motionless, quiet.
“I can’t read your mind,” I finally say. “So you’re going to have to tell me why you dragged me to the beach when we’re supposed to be in first period.”
“That’s funny,” she replies. “Because I was thinking you might be able to tell me.”
My jaw tightens. It’s not that I didn’t expect this conversation. I knew that, once she returned to school, Selena was going to want answers. I knew she would come looking for me, seek me out. I debated what I was going to say to her, even, playing out different conversations and scenarios in my head. I knew that if I didn’t tell her, she would never let it go. I knew that, more than likely, she wouldn’t understand the truth. I was jammed into a corner, and there was no safe way out. No matter what I did, there was no guarantee that I would ever be able to turn things back to the way they were before, or that my secret would stay safe.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I play.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she replies. “I want to know how you knew about the wreck.”
I shift in my seat, trying to get comfortable. “I’m not a mind reader,” I say.
“Then what is it?”
I shake my head.
“Please don’t pretend like it’s not a big deal, because something obviously made you come after me. You warned me before it even happened. I’ve had . . . nightmares every night. I’m afraid to drive. I imagine all of the things that could have. . . .” She swallows hard. “And then I remember you. And that you knew it was going to happen. And that you tried to stop me.” She stares at the dunes just outside the window. The rickety wooden fence leaning precariously to the left. The sea grass and the plants sprouting through the sand. “I guess it doesn’t matter, even. I don’t know. I just . . . I wish I would’ve listened to you, is all,” she finishes, voice quiet.
I’m not sure if this is her way of an apology, or a thank you, or if the trip itself is some kind of extended olive branch that will finally make things okay between us. I inhale deeply and let all of the air escape from my lungs before speaking. “Sometimes I see things.”
She glances over at me, eyes curious. “You see things?”
There’s no turning back. I let
“So you’re like, psychic or something?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“I’ve talked to Carter a few times. On the phone, I mean. I asked him about it, because, you know, the two of you followed me. I figured he had to know something. Half the time he acted like he didn’t have a clue what I was talking about, and the other half he was like, ‘you need to talk to her about it, not me. She was the one who tried to help you.’” She imitates Carter’s deep voice. I laugh weakly.
“He knows,” I confirm. “Only I swore him to secrecy.”
“He’s keeping it for you, but that doesn’t surprise me. I think he’d do just about anything for you.”
I swallow hard. “I know.”
A heavy silence falls between us. Part of me remains on edge. The fewer people who know about me the better. Seth said so himself. The other part of me is relieved that I can talk to someone about it. Even if she does hate me.
“Why did you tell me?” she finally asks, breaking the silence. “You could’ve gone on, and not said anything, and it wouldn’t have made a difference.”
And this, I know, is one of life’s difficult questions. Something I battled with not only then, but now. Obviously, Selena refused to listen, and she was in a wreck anyway. If this happens again, odds are the next person won’t believe me. They won’t listen. The person after that won’t, either. And Seth is absolutely right. Even if they listen, and avoid whatever it is I’m warning them against, how will they know the difference? I think about the work that Seth and the other Guardians perform on a daily basis, calculating moves to keep people out of trouble, or to lessen it. It’s the ultimate thankless job, because not everything is preventable, and not everyone heeds the warning.
“I was being selfish,” I finally answer.
Her forehead creases. “What?” she asks, not understanding.
“I was being selfish. Because if I wouldn’t have said anything about it, I would’ve spent the rest of my life feeling guilty. Like, maybe I should’ve said something, because who knows what kind of difference I could’ve made. I don’t know. Maybe you would’ve listened. At least I know I tried. I didn’t sit back and let something happen that I might’ve been able to stop.”
“That makes you a better person than me, then,” Selena says, voice low, quiet, eyes brimming with unexpected tears. “Because, um . . . I can’t honestly say I would’ve done the same thing for you if the roles would’ve been reversed.” She chokes on a few of the words.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “I’m sure you would have,” I assure her.
She shakes her head. “No. I wouldn’t.”
We sit quietly for a few moments, listening to the crashing waves. The seagulls.
“I wanted to hate you, you know,” Selena finally says.
The verb, I notice, is in the past tense. “It’s okay. I didn’t like you very much, either,” I confess.
She smiles, laughs quietly, then twists the key in the ignition. The engine hums to life.
“And you don’t have to worry about me telling anyone,” she says. “Because I won’t. I promise.”
And that’s it. No questions, no pressure, just an understanding: that I have secrets—secrets that need to be kept—and that behind every seemingly unexplainable behavior, there’s an explanation bigger than anyone can imagine.
TWENTY-THREE
My mom and I argued before, but it was never like this.
I clear off the dinner dishes of a family of four, piling plates and silverware and cups into a large, brown bin for the dish washer. The porcelain and glass clink against one another as I carry it across the restaurant.
“I’m on break,” I announce to whoever is listening, leaving the tub on the counter as I pass by. I work to untie the knot in my apron as I head toward the door. I just do finagle it off in time to toss it behind the cash register on my way out.
The dinner rush is over. The sun is setting and the parking lot is nearly empty. A warm breeze floats in off the ocean. I kick a few, stray pieces of gravel across the parking lot, then plop down on the sidewalk. Cars and trucks speed along The Strip in front of me. I watch them pass, following one until it disappears before seeking out another one. Times like this I kind of wish I still smoked. At least it passed the time.
“Hey.” Arsen moves in and sits down on the concrete beside me. “Rough day?”
“You could say that.”
“What’s up?”
“Oh, um, nothing, really,” I reply, picking at the grass growing between the sidewalk and the pavement. “The details are boring.”
“It wouldn’t be boring to me,” he assures me.
I let out a quiet laugh. “It’s okay.”
“Come on,” he urges.
Maybe I’m not in the mood to talk about it. Maybe I don’t want to talk to anyone at all. Maybe I came outside for a reason—to be alone. I sit still, thin-lipped, refusing to go on.
“Okay,” Arsen finally says, as if reading my mind. “I’m a really good listener, though, if you ever need someone to talk to.”
I toss a few pieces of grass in the air, watching as they flutter back to earth. We sit in silence for a few moments, listening to the cars rush by, an occasional horn demanding something speed up or get out of the way.
“I was going to ask you,” I say. “There was an accident at the beach the other day. A surfer drowned, or died or something.”
“What am I supposed to know about it?”
The iciness in his tone tugs at my skin. I glance over at him. “N—nothing, I guess,” I stammer, working to recover my composure. “I just didn’t know if you knew about it is all. Or if you were there. Since you surf.”
The tension in his features seems to slacken, before melting away completely. “No, I wasn’t there,” he says. “I don’t know who she was.”
Did I mention the surfer was a “she”?
He must have heard about it, though. It’s all over the papers, and everyone who came into the restaurant was gossiping about it.
“So how about that movie?” he asks, changing the subject. “There are a few really great ones playing. I’ll let you pick and everything.”
“That’s sweet, Arsen, but . . .”
“Genesis, come on,” he interrupts. “Give me a chance. I think you’re cool. I just want to hang out.”
“I think you’re cool, too,” I reply.
He lets out a nervous chuckle. “Then why do you keep turning me down?” He glances over at me, arms resting against his knees.
“It’s just a really weird time right now,” I say. “That’s all.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s not me, it’s you.”
“It’s true,” I counter.
“It’s just a movie. I don’t see why hanging out is such a big deal. Friends do it all the time. We’re still friends, right?”
“Yeah, of course,” I answer, though I’ve only known him a few weeks, we’ve only gone out once, and our work environment is hardly conducive to meaningful interaction.
“Then what’s the problem?” he asks.
“There’s not one, I guess. It’s just that . . .”
He holds up his hand to stop me. “Don’t tell me it’s complicated.”
I laugh. I hate that word, truly. “But it is,” I whine.
“It’s only complicated if you make it complicated. You really need to learn to relax.” He leans back onto the sidewalk, staring up at the murky, indigo sky.
“You’re probably right.”
“I know I’m right. You’re uptight all the time. Whenever I watch you, it’s like you’re on the verge of this nervous breakdown or something. What you need is to get out more. Live a little.”
“The past few weeks have been kind of stressful,” I admit.
“Which is why,” he goes on, “you need to let me take you
He pulls himself upright and kicks at a few shards of glass that glitter against the asphalt. In the next moment, he’s on his feet, moving reluctantly down the sidewalk.
I watch his retreating figure. “I’ll think about it,” I reply, though he’s already disappeared inside the diner by the time the words escape my lips.
* * *
I jerk awake, bolting upright. Sweat trickles down my cheek and gathers near my brow. I swipe at my dampened hairline with the back of my hand, breathing heavily, heart pounding, sheets twisting around my legs.
The streetlight casts strange, liquid shadows around my room. A siren wails in the distance.
In a moment, Seth is here. “Are you okay?” he whispers, trailing his fingers down the length of my cheekbone.
“I had the worst dream,” I confess. I curl into a ball, bringing my knees to my chest, and bury my forehead in my palm.
Seth lowers himself onto the bed beside me, voice etched with concern. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” I mumble. “Someone . . . someone was lost. In trouble. I can’t remember.”
“It’s over now.” He takes my hand in his, pulling me into him.
“No,” I mutter, pushing him away. “It was so real. I have to think.”
Seth remains still, motionless, while I sit there, rocking back and forth, eyes closed and face covered, trying to recall what was so urgent that it seized my subconscious, releasing nightmares. Like many dreams, though, the details have already slipped away, snatched from me the moment I jolted back to reality. They haunt my memory, but I don’t know why.
“I can’t,” I mutter.
“It was nothing,” Seth declares, a thick edge in his tone. “It’s not important.”