Catalyst

Chapter Four

When they reached Phoebe's house, James was still being unnaturally quiet. She could see the arguments against her accompaniment bouncing back and forth behind his eyes, but she could fight every single one and he knew it. She was a stubborn person, even more stubborn than him. It was only a matter of time until he found no other option than to comply with her request, nay, her demand.

Her Escort jerked to a stop at the top of her driveway and she kept her eyes firmly trained on the front porch, waiting for the acceptance. She counted it down in her head. She knew him. 5, 4, 3, 2...

He sighed, rubbing both hands over his face.

"Fine, Pheebs. But if this...gets dangerous, and I mean, it most likely will, I'll tell you to go and you will go. Understand me?"

She raised her hand in a mock solute and couldn't help but grin as he rolled his eyes.

"You're going to get killed and it's going to be my fault," he said, beaten, as he climbed out of the car. He took off jogging down the street toward his own house, but shouted over his shoulder that he'd be back within the hour to get her.

If he were anyone else she might worry that he was lying to her. He could grab his things and skip town without so much as a wave. But this was James. And James never lied.

Well, only about his species and his family and his life, she amended. She sprinted into her house, rapidly estimating the amount of clothing she could stuff into her old dance bag. She wouldn't give him the chance to leave without her. Just in case.

Phoebe checked the clock in the entryway before running up the stairs. Quarter past four. Her dad would be home in an hour. She had to be gone by then otherwise he would know she was lying about going on a camping trip. He would see it on her face. Plus she didn't think he would be too keen on the idea of James and her going on a week-long trip alone. They went in groups sometimes, and her parents were usually cool with that, so long as it happened when school was out. But alone? Together? Probably not.

The duffel was under her bed. It was from freshman and sophomore year when she had danced on the high school team, and it was covered in dust bunnies. She started pulling random clothes from her dresser and rolling them into tight balls. A sweater, some shorts, a half-dozen t-shirts, some tanks, jeans, underwear, bras, socks, a pair of sandals. She grabbed the first things she saw when she opened drawers, her mind buzzing. What was she doing? She had no idea where they were going, or for how long. What if she needed a winter coat? Sunscreen?

"Well, this is what credit cards are made for, right?" she laughed to herself. She went into the bathroom and grabbed her deodorant, a brush, her toothpaste, and a travel toothbrush. It had to look like she was taking her usual camping gear, so she grabbed the bug spray and a flashlight out of the kitchen. She flew so quickly down and then up the stairs again that the world seemed impeccably slow. She was soaring on the rush, the adrenaline, and it felt incredible.

The Godiva tin full of her "in case" cash was behind a series of hardcover novels in the bookcase cramped in the corner of her room. She dumped the tin out on her bed and rapidly counted the bills. It wasn't a lot, but it would do. She had a few hundred in her bank account; she could withdraw it before they left if James thought they needed it.

She threw a couple of small novels on top of her clothes and pressed everything as hard as she could down into the bag, hoping everything would fit. She kept feeling like she was forgetting something, but in the chaos of packing for a trip she couldn't guess at, Phoebe knew she was bound to miss something.