Marked by Alex Hughes Page B

to go in and get it?”
    â€œNo problem.”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    â€œHe’s been in there ten minutes,” I said.
    â€œThere’s a line. You can see it through the door. And besides, you were the one who didn’t want fried tofu again,” Cherabino said. “It takes longer.”
    She sighed, and time passed.
    â€œYou’re brooding again,” Cherabino said.
    â€œAm I?” I looked up, and noticed the shields between us had thinned. “I’ll try to do it quieter.”
    â€œYou can’t let all of this stuff eat at you. It’s not healthy. Plus I have to listen to it through that Link of yours. I’m not a telepath. Normal people shouldn’t have to listen to people brooding. They shouldn’t, damn it.”
    â€œIt’ll fade,” I said, a quick, habitual protest.
    â€œIt’s fading already, maybe,” she said. “But it’s not gone yet. Anyway, try to cheer up, okay?”
    She sighed, moved some papers around, and pointed to the glove box. “Here, open that.” A picture flashed between us, a picture of a nice pair of black men’s gloves set in a box. She was nervous, somehow.
    I had to force myself not to comment on the image or the emotion; she hated it when I jumped ahead. So I pulled open the compartment she’d requested.
    A wrapped package in garish paper sat self-consciously, just the size of the box of gloves I’d seen in her mind. I picked it up. What did she want me to do with it?
    The thought must have leaked across the Link, because she said, “Open it.” She swallowed the added “idiot.” I felt it go by but said nothing. Apparently I was the only one here who wasn’t allowed to jump ahead.
    It was a truly hideous wrapping paper. Her niece’s school sales project, her mind supplied. Twelve ROCs a roll. I opened the paper, pulling the bow off and ripping into the paper, which did not deserve reuse.
    Inside was a linen-paper box, the expensive kind, with a pressed seal on its top outlined in ink. Some logo I didn’t understand. I sat there for a minute trying to figure out what the lines were trying to represent.
    She pulled the box out of my hands and lifted the lid, offering it to me. “They’re gloves.”
    â€œI see that.”
    She pushed the box back into my hands. I took it, cautiously, in case she wanted it back.
    â€œFor you. They’re for your birthday, Adam. I looked it up. Your birthday is tomorrow, right?”
    I stared at the gloves, uncertain. I mean, they were just gloves, right? “Yeah, my birthday is tomorrow.” She’d never given me anything before. Crap, I’d never given her anything either. I’d thought we weren’t birthday people. To be honest, the only person in the world right now who cared about my birthday was Swartz, or that’s what I’d thought.
    She pulled one out of the box. “See, they’re hydropolimat. They maintain body temperature better than wool, but they don’t get too hot, and if you get blood on them at a crime scene, they’ll wash clean. They also have a built-in protective layer, so as long as you don’t leave the gloves in a puddle or anything they’ll keep the blood and mud and ickies away from your hands. They’re nice gloves.” She paused then, glove in hand. “I’m hogging your present, aren’t I?”
    â€œUm, yes?”
    She plopped the glove back in the box, and it settled half in, half out, on top of its brother. Then she settled back in the seat. “Sorry.” Thoughts buzzed around her head like bees, none settling into permanency, and she’d remembered enough shielding that I didn’t get them by accident.
    The sun was falling into the car through her window, puddling on her face and behind her head like a halo. She looked away for a moment, and her profile was illuminated, as was the skin beneath the