Hourglass (Hourglass #1)

Hourglass (Hourglass #1) Page 7

At avoidance I was a master.

“Why don’t you tell me about yourself? I’m sure I would be more comfortable with this whole situation if I knew more about you.” There. He couldn’t argue with that. And I really did want to know more about him. A lot more.

Michael placed his hands on the table. His fingers were long, his nails squared off but a little longer on his right hand, making me wonder if he played the guitar. He wore a silver ring on his left thumb.

“I have a sister; her name is Anna Sophia. My mom is in real estate, high-end historical homes, very successful—a lot like Thomas. She’s also my hero. My dad has been out of the picture since I was eight or so.” He gave me a small smile. I wondered about the rest of the story. “I grew up outside Atlanta, and I’ve been working for the Hourglass for almost a year.”

Since my Internet research returned void, I knew nothing about the Hourglass, but the mental image in my brain involved Marlon Brando in the back room of an Italian restaurant surrounded by cigar smoke and heavily armed men named Paulie and Vito. I needed a clearer picture. Or at least a less frightening one.

“What does the Hourglass do, exactly?” I asked.

“Consulting jobs, mentoring.”

“How did you find them? Or did they find you?”

“They found me. I was assigned a mentor, who helped me learn about my ability. When I came here for college last year, I started doing small consulting jobs. Talking to kids who needed a friend, gathering information, stuff like that. Then things changed. When my mentor died”—he paused, taking a deep breath—“I asked for more responsibility. I wanted to give back what I had been given.”

Michael’s eyes and the set of his mouth expressed pain and something else, maybe anger. I could only guess how much emotion was swirling underneath the surface.

“I’m sorry about your friend.”

“Life is about gains and losses,” he said, the pain winning out over the anger in his eyes. “You know that firsthand.”

Except my life was too heavy on the losses. “What kind of job am I? Consulting or mentoring?”

“Part of what I do is talk to people who are struggling to accept themselves. I listen.” He shrugged.

“Like you’re listening to me.”

“You’re different.”

“I am?”

“Yep.” He grinned, and the butterflies in my stomach were sucked up into a hurricane. “I’d listen to you anyway.”

I stuck my face in my tiny cup again. After I took another sip of coffee I asked, “So you’re already in college?”

“I’m getting ready to start my sophomore year. What about you?”

“Thomas’s plans are to enroll me at Ivy Springs High School for my senior year. I only have a semester left because I’ve done summer school the past two years. Really, I just want to take my G.E.D. and get it over with. But Thomas won’t let me.” I laughed, but there was no joy in it. The last thing I wanted to do was go back to the scene of my public mental collapse. “I wish he would. I need a break.”

“My guess is that if anyone deserves a break, it’s you,” Michael said, his voice full of understanding. “Maybe you can find another alternative for school that you and Thomas can agree on.”

“Maybe.” But doubtful. “Anyway, I’ll try to get myself straightened out as soon as possible. So you can move on to keggers, football games, and sorority girls.”

“I don’t drink, I prefer professional baseball, and sorority girls aren’t really my type.”

I bet they wished they were.

“And Emerson,” Michael said, resting his forearms on the table and looking into my eyes. “Just to be clear. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Uncomfortable with the sentiment and his proximity, I looked away. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. But I disagree. No offense.”

I heard him sigh. “I know you have more questions. Why don’t you go ahead and ask them?”

Stalling, I twisted my napkin between my fingers under the table. Michael could see the same things I could, but he wasn’t freaked out. He came across as calm, comforting. Talking to him almost made the tightness in my chest go away. I wanted to trust him. I wanted to ask him questions. I wanted to know why it was different for him than it was for me, because it obviously was.

“What was it like the first time you saw a vision from the past?” I asked in a low voice.

“My mom found a deal on a house in the Peachtree District of Atlanta. Civil War era.”

I thought of yesterday’s experience with Scarlett and couldn’t suppress my groan. Right after I started seeing things, I was forced to go on a field trip to one of the unfortunate Civil War reenactments we’re so given to here in the South. I’d had no idea who was dead or alive. I didn’t come out of my room for a week afterward.

“The things we see … what are they?” I met his eyes. “I mean, I have no idea why, but I never really thought of them as ghosts. But I don’t know what they are. Do you?”

Michael leaned closer. “I call them time ripples, rips for short. Almost like time stamps left by those who make a deep impression on the world while they’re alive. That’s the basic definition.”

“Isn’t that the same thing as a ghost?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.”

“How?”

“It’s kind of hard to explain,” Michael answered, frowning and drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “It involves theoretical physics, but I’d be glad to—”

I held up one hand. “No, thanks. I’ll just believe you. For now.”

I thought about his definition. The man I saw yesterday came immediately to mind. I was sure he’d made impressions in his own way. “Time ripples. At least that explains why I see people from the past. It makes sense, as if crazy ever could make sense. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” He frowned again. “I don’t want you to edit anything you say.”

“You won’t have to worry about that.” I gave him a bleak look. “Most of what comes out is complete truth. My edit button is broken.”

“Good.” Michael leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and stretching out his long legs underneath the table. His black biker boots were huge next to my small sneakers. “I’m a big fan of the truth. I hate it when people hide things.”

I knew all about hiding things.

“How many people know the truth about you?” I asked.

“My family, the Hourglass.” He cleared his throat and twisted the ring on his thumb. “A few good friends. A select few.”

I wondered if the select few included a girlfriend. I wanted to ask, but figured I should probably keep things professional. “Was it hard? Telling them about the things we see?”

“Not really. Some of them have special qualities of their own.”

“The same as us?” I liked grouping myself in his category. It was disturbing to realize how much I wanted to be the only one in it besides him.

“No.”

“So there are other people who have … special … things they can do?”