Page 7 of The Art of Exiley

Michael’s eyes are rapidly roving over me, but not in a suggestive way; it’s more… clinical.

“Do you heal easily?” he asks.

Alarm ignites in my gut. This line of questioning practically confirms my hunch. The answer to his question is “yes.” Though I’ve injured myself many times, it’s never been serious. Like the first time I went snowboarding and crashed into a tree but was completely fine, or when I cut halfway through my finger with pruning shears and didn’t need stitches.

When I don’t answer, he presses on. “Does your hair grow fast?”

Yes again. My wavy brown hair, and my nails too, no matter how often I cut them, constantly seem to grow, grow, grow. I have always suspected that these traits are symptoms of what makes me different, but the only way Michael could guess these things is if this rendezvous was less of a coincidence than I thought.

I still haven’t responded, but he senses the affirmative in my gaze.

“Eureka,” he says in a quiet voice. His playfulness has been replaced with seriousness, and now he looks older. More his age. “I’ve been coming to this place every night this week to recruit a pianist when I should’ve been looking for you all along.”

I should be excited by this; instead, my stomach is heavy with disappointment. I just wanted to go on a date with a cute boy.

Not a boy, I remind myself. A man.

And over the course of our flirtatious banter, I have learned almost nothing about him. I don’t know where he’s from or what he’s really doing here in Italy.

Which probably has to do with whyIwas sent to Italy.

My pulse picks up. I’m so close to what I came here for, but I’m also scared. I’m alone at night with an older stranger, who I accepted a drink from, who’s watching me like I’m a science experiment. I need some space.

“I need to use the bathroom,” I say.

“Oh, okay. I’ll wait here for you.”

I reenter the restaurant and wind my way through the throng of people to the hallway in the back. A draft from the service entrance to the parking lot chills me as I push through the bathroom door.

I go to the sink and press cool water to my flushed cheeks. The door creaks, and I twist around, but no one’s there. The hair on the back of my neck rises, and I turn off the water. The faucet continues to drip.

Drip.

Drip.

I see movement in the mirror, but when I whip around again, there’s still nothing. I reach into my pocket for my phone, fumbling to unlock it, too scared to even breathe.

A large arm snakes around my torso. Panic jolts through me as my phone drops and skitters across the tiled floor. I push against my attacker and almost manage to slither out of his grasp, but then pain explodes behind my eyes as I’m struck on the back of my head. Everything goes fuzzy around the edges.

That’s when I’m shoved into a box.

2

I’m considering peeing my pants.

I’ve spent all my time in this box calming my fears to prevent that tingling in my hands, which seems to trigger the gloves to burn me, but now my anxieties have been reduced to one thought:

Hold in the pee.

But who knows how much longer I’ll be in here?

Izzy had said she had a bad feeling about this trip, and now I wish I’d taken her more seriously.

Maybe I should just…

Is this really what it’s come to? I finally get to become part of my family’s historic order. I finally get the chance to do something meaningful with my life. And I fumble it all so bad that it ends with me peeing my pants? Am I actually doing this?

Cons of just doing it:

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