The Guardian by Katie Klein Page B

everything I know I got from you. Namely that you don’t like him very much.”
    “Mom just . . . I don’t know . . . has this history with guys, I guess. Things always seem to end badly.” A silence settles between us, but I will not go on or elaborate. “Wh y am I even telling you this?” I ask. “Shouldn’t you know it already?”
    “I told you. I’m not omniscient. And I haven’t been guarding you all that long.”
    “Oh.” I finish stacking and organizing my makeup and walk over to my bed. “I just assumed you’ ve always been around.”
    “It doesn’t work that way,” he informs me. “Generally, Guardians don’t move very much. In fact, every time you and your mom relocated, you were assigned new ones.”
    “My mom has a Guardian?” I sit down on the edge of the bed.
    “Everyon e has a Guardian,” he replies. “Unless you’re a reprobate.”
    “Reprobate?”
    “Not savable. Well, you still might have a Guardian, but he or she spends more time protecting others from you than protecting you.”
    I lie down on the bed across from him, stretching until I’m comfortable. I tuck my arm beneath my pillow and stare into his transcendent brown eyes. “So . . . where have you been?” I ask quietly.
    “Watching,” he replies.
    “I know that, but where do you go? When you disappear, I mean.”
    He shrugs. “It’s hard to explain.”
    “Try me.”
    He clears his throat. “We, um, live on a different plane. In sort of a different dimension. We’re here, on Earth, but it’s not the Earth that you know. We can see what’s going on, but unless we materialize, we can only see in shadows , mostly.”
    “So when you’re hiding in my room, you can’t really see me or what I’m doing.”
    “I can see what you’re doing, but you’re like a silhouette. You’re dark. Shadowed. I can’t always make out your face, and I can’t always hear what you say. I only kno w what you’re feeling.”
    “How did you become a Guardian?” I ask.
    “I’m not sure. I guess I’ve always been one. It’s all I remember knowing, anyway.”
    Outside, there’s a tapping. I turn toward the window, where a monster of a moth flaps manically, trying to g et to the light. He hits the glass with a dull thud—again and again and again—leaving a powdery film behind each time he makes contact. I spin out of bed and move to the light switch. With a flip the room plunges into darkness. I wait for my eyes to adjust . The streetlamp shines brightly through my window, lighting the floor and reflecting in the mirror. The moth flies away. I climb back into bed.
    It takes a moment before I can make out Seth’s features again. We lie there in silence.
    “I think I broke up wi th Carter,” I finally tell him.
    “I know.”
    “I thought you said . . .”
    “I said that I can’t always see you or make out what you’re saying,” he interrupts. “That implies that sometimes I can.”
    “So you heard.”
    “I was there,” he affirms.
    “Good to know.”
    “It was a smart decision. You’re too good for him.”
    I roll my eyes. “You keep saying that. Is there something you know that I don’t?” I ask.
    “You,” he replies, matter of fact.
    I feel a smile pulling at my lips, even as the weariness of sleep washes over my body.
    “Strange. I’m so tired,” I say, yawning. I never tire this early, and even exhausted I usually struggle to fall asleep.
    “So sleep,” he whispers, running his fingers gently through my hair.
    “I’d rather stay here with you.”
    “I’m not going anywhere.”
    “ But the last time you were here you said . . .”
    “I know, but you couldn’t make me leave you right now.”
    “Why?”
    I yawn again, eyes closing, beginning to drift as I wait for him to say something else. To answer. He never does, and I just do feel a warm flut ter, lips touching my closed eyes, dancing me off to sleep.

 
     
     
    T HIRTEEN
     
     
     
     
    When I awake the following morning, Seth is still