Rules for Orion

chapter thirty-one

Thirty-one: Logan
October 14, 10:10 AM. Dwyer, VA.

Everything's so cold it hurts. I sit up; my temples pulse with the motion of it. I rub the awful feeling off my skin and reach for my hoodie.
     Avery's in the corner, silent, bent over a mess of papers.
     The whole place smells overwhelmingly of flowers, and something else, too, clinical—like bleach.
     Fey. A strong one, too. Really strong.
     Then a messy remembrance of where and why I am lands at my feet. I don't know if I'm exactly grateful for it, like a dead bird from the mouth of a cat.
     I'm in the theater, I'm supposed to have talked to Avery and told him to stay away from me. But I don't remember doing that. I'm pretty sure I didn't do it at all. We have to get out of here, anyway—the scent's getting stronger, though I didn't even know it could. I say, "Hey."
Avery looks up. "Yeah?"
     I get something like vertigo from that. Like, I feel it. Physically. It feels like falling or getting punched. I'm completely sure that's the first time I've ever heard him say yeah. I don't know why it freaks me out so much.
     "I should—"
     "You"—he stops, still pointing at me. "That is my shirt."
     God. I look down at my torso and he's right. God. I'm wearing Crisis Yellow; I've basically sabotaged myself.
     "Yeah, I..." I shuck the shirt as fast as I can and pull on my hoodie even faster. "...Wanted to give it back, but I realize now that I probably should've, y'know, washed it."
     He shrugs. "No, it's really fine—are you alright?"
I'm fine. I just need to not worry about three things at once.
     "Yeah. Yeah, I just—do you want to get out of here?"
     Avery shrugs again. "If you do." He sticks his tongue in his cheek and studies me. "Something is wrong."
     "It—" I reach my hand to the back of my neck. "This building's old. Tons of gas leaks. They're dangerous." I pray to something that Avery doesn't know what a gas leak smells like.
     "Tons of what?"
     "Gas leaks."
     He stares at me, completely blank. I get that weird, uncomfortable feeling in my stomach again. It's never occurred to me that it might've just been intuition all along. I repeat weakly, "They're dangerous."
     He nods succinctly. "Understood." He stacks his papers and stabs his pen into his back pocket. "We will go, then. Do you want breakfast?"
     What am I supposed to do when we get outside? Just tell him, Can you never talk to me again, thanks, and ditch him? He might just go back into the theater, which could get him hurt, or kidnapped, or traumatized, or something else—worse, maybe.
     Or do I just not say anything? Then I'll never say something; I know myself well enough.
     "Hey—"
     Avery pauses, shirt halfway over his head. He keeps all his clothes in a pile in the opposite corner.
Honestly, the fact that he lives in an abandoned community theater should be enough to throw you off.
     (It had.)
     (Almost.)
     "Logan?"
     Avery's waiting for me to talk.
Get it over with. It'll be easy once you say it.
Silence. Silence. Silence. I have to wait until I know I won't stutter. "I kind of can't talk to you anymore."
     He just tilts his head.
     I stick my thumbs in my pockets and say, "More like... shouldn't. My friends don't trust you, and I—" I stop—God damn it—"I think I don't, either."
     Avery un-tilts his head. The look he gives me is strange: squinting, almost barely smiling; he's not taking me seriously.
     He's silent for a good ten seconds before I realize what's happening. He's not paying attention at all, he probably didn't even hear—he's looking at something else.
     Something behind me.
     He grabs my arm as soon as I start to turn, like he planned for it. The Thing I Can or Should Not See exists just at the edge of my perception, just where I stop feeling on the back of my neck. I was already on edge, but this is just too much for some reason—the unprecedented contact, the scent of fey; I rip my arm back and step back, right through the doorway of the booth. When I turn around, there's nothing. Of course there's nothing. A huge, hollow sound directly from the void in the direction of the stage startles me into action. I don't say anything when I go for the stairs. Avery doesn't say anything either, not real words.

    Breathing the air outside is like trying to breathe on the wing of a plane. It's so thin compared to the liquid flower-shop scent of the theater that it's insubstantial.
     I half-expect Avery to appear from the theater doors (what the Hell was that crash?), but it's completely silent out here, apart from my breathing. The bricks behind my cut right through my hair, pressing against my scalp. I loop my keyring over my thumb in my pocket.
     It's over, though. It's over and that's all that matters.
     He made it kind of easy, I guess. It was the weirdest I'd ever seen him act. Something with his face, like I'd just told him he'd been in a coma for twenty years. And when he was looking behind me—shit, when he was looking behind me, it's like I wasn't even there. Like he couldn't see me at all.
     I turn my phone over in my palm. I don't know why I'm still standing here. Maybe I'm waiting for Avery, although I know he's not going to come out—the reason for that could be morbid, could not be. I just have to hope I drew whatever was in there (because there was definitely something in there) out with me when I left. God, why did I leave? He doesn't know how to handle any of that.
     I try and ignore the thought that I probably drew it in there, too.
     I'm so stupid.
     The finality of this thought makes me want to talk to Devi as much as I want to talk to a pit viper, so I opt to put my phone back in my pocket, but I catch sight of the crowded lockscreen first.
     Texts from my mother.

Two missed calls from my father. No voice mails.
     Texts from Jay, too.

Devi.

One voice mail from Blaise.
     "Hi, Logan, it's Blaise. Everyone's been trying to get a hold of you, and they all asked me about it. Obviously, you're not with me, so I'm just calling to remind you that it's past your curfew. I'm sure it's reasonable, just call your mom, okay? I'm at Jay's if you need to come over. For... some reason. Love you."
     When the voice mails ends, there's a click, and even the grainy background noise cuts off. My shoes crunch on the gravel as I shift back and forth. The doors of the theater don't open and part of me thinks they never will.
     I get in my car and head to Jay's.