The Bodyguard: an alien romance Read online

  “Van?” I say.

  I'd think that with all the sitting alone in his car he does, he'd be asleep every time I look out my window at him. But this is the first time I actually manage to surprise him, the man who's sneaked up on me more times than I can count. I can't help but smile when he sits up all of a sudden and clears his throat.

  “Can you drive me into town?” I ask.

  I could wait for the Berry Ferry to take me, but I don't mind spending time with Van. He's different than the rest of the boys I've spent my adolescence with here. I can't quite put my finger on the feeling I get from being around him because as a general rule I don't have feelings. The closest I do get to them are these random attacks that come out of the blue. They're really just memories of people who've gone from my life. When it happens, I get so fidgety that I can't read, write, or think about anything to take my mind off of wondering what's wrong with me that people leave me. Since my parents divorced, I've become such an insecure weirdo that sometimes it's all-consuming. I'm paralyzed by it. I wonder all the time where people like Anna get their self-confidence. We both make good grades. We're both attractive-ish. We both have bright futures ahead of us, or so we're told by our teachers. The only difference between us, besides her alabaster hair, are our families. But as I stand here, watching Van straighten his button down shirt as though he's a little embarrassed that I caught him sleeping, if I had to name what I'm feeling, it would be calm—peace. I know that's not an emotion, but it's as close as I can get. I guess needing calm from another person sounds pretty dumb coming from a sixteen year old. I mean, how stressful could life be when everything I need is provided for me? (At least, that's what my stepfather asked me once when I complained about school.) But it's like none of what I worry about matters when I'm with Van. I don't wonder who I am or worry about compromising when I grow up, the way my mom did.

  “Does George need more cat food?” Van's voice is still gruff from sleep. Its deepness sends shivers up and down my spine.

  “No, I want to check on Berryville. See if anyone is back. No one here has any idea why no one was there the other day. I want to see for myself if everything is okay.”

  He reaches across the seat and opens the passenger door for me. “Get in.”

  As I watch him drive, I try to rationalize the Jedi mind trick he used on me to make me a math genius, but I can't. Not even Buddhist monks could pull off something like that. The more I think about it, the weirder it seems.

  I need to talk to someone about it. I've texted Anna a dozen times since she left, but no reply. And that's not like her at all. Something's wrong. She never misses a text. Maybe her folks took her phone away from her, but they're not like that.

  Sure enough, just as I suspected, as soon as we reach the Berryville city limits, we pass a car going the opposite way, then a pickup truck, then another, and another. There's even a farmer out in his field.

  “I guess the other day was just an off day,” I say more to myself than to Van, who's concentrating on the road. “Maybe everyone was at a football game.” Even as I speculate, I hear how ridiculous the words sound. There was no one here that day. Yet here they all are now as if nothing happened.

  His dark brow puckers. “Football?”

  “Have you heard of it?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it's different than what we call soccer. Our football is kind of like rugby.”

  “I have seen these on television, but never played them.”

  “You don't have sports where you come from?”

  “We do not have competition in any form.”

  “Wow! Must be nice not to have to compete for things you want. It can bring out the worst in people.”

  “That is why we eliminated it centuries ago.”

  “So your people all get along with each other then?”

  “Are you asking me if my people agree with each other?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Then the answer is no. We do not always agree.”

  “Don't you have laws?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about prisons for people who break the law?”

  “We have no need of prisons.”

  “Then you don't have policemen either?”

  “We have intermediaries in case a problem arises that a citizen cannot solve on their own, but there is no judgement one way or the other.”

  “You don't have judges either, I guess.”

  “There is no need with a self-governing body of people.”

  “Haven't you got a president or senate or something like that?”

  “We have a quorum.”

  “Who makes up the quorum?”

  “The elders.”

  “That's pretty smart. You can't lie, buy, or swindle your way into a seat like that the way politicians do here. You're either old enough or you're not. How old do you have to be?”

  Van looks like he's doing math in his head then says, “Approximately one hundred years old.”

  “Must be a small group. Something like that might work here too. Not to mention taking away teams would eliminate all the problems at school with jocks.”

  “I am not familiar with that term.”

  “I mean the ones who play football. Bullies are what they really are. They think they're better than the guys who don't play sports. And they think all the girls are in love with them.”

  Van's blue eyes cut to me in a sideways glance, and he smiles.

  “Yesterday, you said some people aren't meant to be musicians.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you believe that there's a power like karma, fate, or destiny driving each person's life?”

  “No.”

  “Then what did you mean?”

  “A person's natural curiosity leads them. If a person has no desire to become a concert pianist, then all the knowledge will not make them one. The reality has to come from within.”

  “I guess I can understand that.”

  As we get closer to town, the streets seem cleaner, the poinsettia flowers in front of the stores are a little brighter, and the people walk a little straighter. Even the kids walking next to their parents move in straight lines.

  I look down to check my phone, and I'm surprised to see my hands are shaking.

  Van must have noticed too because he reaches for me, taking my hand in his in a possessive gesture. His large hand covers mine. His gentle touch is soothing, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of my palm. My pulse starts to slow.

  Whatever's going on with the people in this town is the same thing that attracts me to Van—calm. It's as though the whole town has taken a Xanax.

  I squeeze Van's hand tight, and he turns his otherworldly gaze to mine. My heart skips a beat, not from fear this time. It's as though Van has a power over me I don't comprehend, but part of me doesn't want to. It's enough to feel—for the first time in my life—to feel something I don't want to run away from. I want to be with Van.

  Van and I spend most of the day in Berryville's art museum. It's an old gin warehouse turned upscale with can lights that hang suspended from the ceiling over the artworks. I can't believe a whole morning has gone by when I check my phone. He suggests we eat lunch in town before we head back. I think that's a good idea since it's overcast, I'm hungry, and frozen pizza is all that's waiting for me back in the dorm freezer.

  One of my favorite places in Berryville is the converted train depot where they serve ice cream and sandwiches in the summertime and hot cocoa when it's cold like today. String lights hang from the brick walls, making it feel warm inside no matter the season. An eighties ballad playlist fills the space with electric guitar chords and crooning tenor male voices. This is Anna's favorite place to eat. I miss her.

  I order our sandwiches from the counter and plunk down enough cash to pay for mine and Van's supper. We don't talk, just soak in the atmosphere until the waitress brings the food to our table in the corner.

  We sit close, but I still have
to lean forward to be heard over the din of voices at the crowded tables around us. If we were to stand on the tables and start to dance, I don't think anyone would notice today. Everyone's behaving as if they're sleep walking.

  “How long were you hired to be my bodyguard?” I say.

  Van examines the top and bottom of his chicken salad sandwich with a look of bewilderment, then he looks at me. The skin between his beautiful blue eyes puckers together.

  “When does your job watching me end,” I say, “when next term starts back up?”

  His confused expression clears. “It does not end.”

  That can't be.

  “You mean the major general hired you to stay here until I graduate in a year and a half?”

  “He hired me to...” Van's expression is tight with strain.

  I feel like I should duck under the table. I'm sure whatever he's about to tell me will break some kind of confidentiality clause in his contract. “Whatever you tell me, you know I won't tell the M.G.”

  His lips twist into a cynical smile, then he picks up his sandwich and takes a hesitant bite.

  This is too ridiculous.

  “You can't be my babysitter for the rest of my life.”

  “I am not a babysitter.” His mouth dips into a deep frown. “You are not a baby. You are a young woman.”

  “You know that,” I scoff, “and I know that, but does the major general?”

  “What subjects will you study next term?”

  The sudden change of subject throws me. I stare at him for a moment. Does he just pretend not to understand me and the little things I say, or is he just pretending?

  “Oh, you know, the usual,” I answer, “Calculus, Physics, English Lit. The only one I'm not looking forward to is Latin. I've heard it's brutal.”

  He gives me a smile that makes my heart thud against my chest.

  “Do you think I'll make it?”

  “What do you mean?” he says.

  “Will I even live to see next term? Or will this be the end for me? For us?”

  He covers my hand with his much larger one. “You have me watching out for you now.”

  “That's what I thought you were gonna say.” I hope my words came out as casual as I meant them to, anything to hide the way he makes my breath leave my lungs. Then I look again at his expression. If this whole foreigner in a strange land act is real, then he's good, because I buy it. Then he goes and shows me how confident he is in himself. He's not so different from the M.G. really. He also considers himself the only thing anyone could ever possibly need.

  Van drops the rest of his uneaten sandwich back on his plate. “I can teach you Latin now.”

  My turkey club slips from my hand back onto my plate. “Now? Here? In front of all these people?”

  “You said they would not take notice if we got up and danced on the table.”

  “I didn't say that out loud.” Did I?

  Before I have a chance to think, he's on his feet and hauling me from my chair. “Let us go outdoors.”

  In the park across the street from the Train Depot, it's not hard to find an empty bench because the wind is blowing what's left of the brown leaves from the oak trees. I button up my coat and put on my gloves, but Van doesn't seem to feel the cold. He's wearing his typical uniform of dark pants, button down shirt, open at the neck enough that I can see he wears an undershirt, and his hooded jacket unzipped with the hood down. The branches of the crepe myrtle tree above us reach out over our heads. Even though the cold chased away its leaves weeks ago, it still makes the bench beneath it feel private, like a tent, our own space the rest of the world isn't privy to.

  He gazes into my eyes, and for a moment, I think he's thinking about kissing me. I’ve never been kissed before, and to tell the truth, I'm not ready yet. I look away. I can't look him in the eyes. I’ve seen enough of these moments in movies to spot it. If he does, I don't think I would freak out though. But how would I tell him that he's too old for me?

  Then instead of doing what the hero in every romance movie does, he lifts his hand to my forehead and gently touches me there, the way he did before I aced my Trigonometry test, only this time, he looks me in the eyes.

  Even though I believe he can do it, I'm skeptical that it could work on any subject. It takes years of exposure to a language to learn it, or so I thought. He said his native language isn't English, yet he speaks it perfectly. The only thing that seems to trip him up are colloquialisms. But they can trip up anybody who's not from around here.

  When he's finished, he blinks. And just before he removes his hand from my forehead, he lets it drift down to my cheek so that his knuckles brush the sensitive skin there.

  For the briefest of moments, I can see the world from a great distance, as though I’m floating in space, and instead of frightening me, it's a peaceful feeling. Everything makes sense, but just for that moment, because when his hand leaves, I’m right back here on the bench, feeling as though I’ve been dropped from a great height and landed with a thud. I’ve never given too much thought to gravity before, but I feel now as though it's not only holding me in place but pulling me down, like it's responsible for tethering me to my preconceived notions about life, my life, my problems, and what I’m doing here—and they've all been wrong.

  He takes my hand in his, and we walk through the gates of the cemetery. All of a sudden, it's like being in kindergarten all over again, the teacher showing the class flash cards of alphabet letters with pictures below them. My mind sees the words on the sign hanging from the gate, beware of dog, but reads them, cave canem.

  I'm stunned. I can read words in English and interpret their meaning in Latin. This can't be happening—anymore than he can touch my forehead and I ace a Trig test—but it is.

  Van smiles down at me and squeezes my hand, as though he can read my thoughts.

  He's just saved me months, year’s worth of study. Instead of having to force myself to concentrate to gain this knowledge, his touch conveyed everything I need to know. He taught me Latin. I can't believe it!

  Now, I can't wait to test myself. I walk further inside, and he keeps a hold of my hand as though he's afraid I’ll get ahead of him. A headstone, with the words, rest in peace, I read as, requiescat in pace. One marker reads, our brother is home now. The word home, I read as domum, and brother as frater.

  In the pet cemetery up ahead, I can see words all over the place that English and Latin have in common. Small headstones of beloved pets have words like canis, which means dog, and cattus, which is Latin for cat.

  We make our way out the other side of the cemetery through the open gates. We keep walking around town, my mind abuzz. No one we pass seems to notice this sudden change in me. In fact, no one seems to notice us at all, or maybe that's because I feel like Van and I are the only two people in the world.

  “This is what I meant by application of knowledge,” he says. “Instead of spending years in a classroom, the way your society does, we transfer knowledge at a young age when minds absorb quickly so that students can get out into the world and combine their knowledge with experience.”

  “We have something like that. It's called student exchange, but you have to be at least seventeen years old, and it only works with one language at a time.”

  He smiles down at me. It's a gentle smile, like the one my kindergarten teacher had when we grasped something she'd taught us.

  I can't help but wonder what Van's thinking. I know he's been hired to be my bodyguard, but what does he think of his commission?

  “What did my stepfather tell you about me?”

  His gentle smile disappears and a frown takes its place. “Your name and where I could find you.”

  “Does the school know you're here?”

  “Yes.”

  “No one told me.”

  “Your father told them not to.”

  “He's not my father, you know. My real father lives in Toronto. He comes down to Alabama once a year at Christmastime to see
me. I guess he's not coming this year.”

  I don’t know where that all came from. I never talk about my family, to anyone.

  “What about your family?”

  “What about my family?” he says.

  I can't help but notice the way he repeated my words back to me, his mouth clamped and his eyes fixed. “Don't you celebrate Christmas? Won't they miss you?”

  “Miss? That is not a word I am familiar with in this context.”

  “I mean, aren't they going to be disappointed that you're not with them?”

  He chuckles softly. “No.”

  “No, they won't be disappointed, or no, they don't celebrate Christmas?”

  “No to both.”

  I have to think about that for a minute. Christopher, this guy who's in all my classes, is from a Jewish family. They don't celebrate Christmas, but he goes home for Hanukah. If Van's family isn't going to miss him at all, then there must be more to Van's story than he's letting on.

  “What are your parents doing now?” I say.

  “I have no way of knowing.”

  “I don't mean exactly right now. I just mean, do they work, or are they retired? Do you have siblings who are married? Do they have kids?”

  “I do not keep track of such things.”

  I know my mouth fell open because I feel myself staring at him in amazement. “You mean you don't keep in touch with them at all.”

  “I have no means to. I do not know them.”

  “You don't know who your family is?” Was he an orphan? Suddenly, I feel terribly sorry for him. “You mean you've never met them?”

  “I was born to my mother. I do not know my father other than that he was a U.S. Marine.”

  “Where did you grow up? Who raised you?”

  “I have been training to be a Shido ever since I learned everything I needed to know.”

  “Shido?”

  “It is the name given to all knights who follow the path. The name combines two Japanese words, shi for knight and do for ways.”

  “Your mother sent you off to train to become a knight when you were just a kid?”