Fearless

Genres: YA Action & Adventure; YA Paranormal

Synopsis

I am powerful. I am graceful. I am angry. I am pure. I am raw. I am alone. I am Gaia. I am just like you. But I'm not -- I'm Fearless™. NO RULES. NO LIMITS. NO FEAR.

Release date: June 22, 2002

Publisher: Simon Pulse

Print pages: 224

Sample

GAIA

Losers with no imagination say that if you start a new school, there has to be a first day. How come they haven’t figured out how to beat that? Just think existentially. All you do is take what’s supposed to be the first day and bury it someplace in the next month. By the time you get around to it a month later, who cares?

When I first heard the word existential, I didn’t know what it meant, so I never used it. But then I found out that no one knows what it means, so now I use it all the time.

Since I just moved to New York last week, tomorrow would have been my first day at the new school, but I existentialized it, and now I’ve got a good thirty days before I have to deal with it. So, like, it’ll be just a regular day, and I’ll just grab my usual school stuff, jeans and a T-shirt, and throw them on. Then just like I always do, I’ll take them off and throw on about eighteen different T-shirts and four different pairs of jeans before I find the right ones that hide my diesel arms and thunder thighs. Not good things on a girl, but no one else seems to see them like I do.

I won’t bother to clean up when I’m done. I don’t want to trick my new cohabitants, George and Ella, into thinking that I’m neat or considerate or anything. Why set them up for disappointment? I made that mistake with my old cohabitants and . . . well, I’m not living with them anymore, am I?

George Niven was my dad’s mentor in the CIA. He’s old. Like fifty or something. His wife, Ella is much younger. Maybe thirty. I don’t know. And you certainly can’t tell from the way she dresses. Middle of winter she finds a way to show her belly button. And she’s got four hundred of these little elastic bands that can only pass for a skirt if you never move your legs. Top that with this unbelievable iridescent red hair and you’ve got one hot seventeen-year-old. At least that’s what she thinks. We all live cozy together in Greenwich Village in a brownstone—that’s what they call row houses in New York City. Don’t ask me why, because it isn’t brown, but we’ll let that go for now.

I’m not sure how this transfer of me and my pathetic possessions was arranged. Not by my dad, He is Out of the Picture. No letters. No birthday cards. He didn’t even contact me in the hospital last year when I almost fractured my skull. (And no, I didn’t almost fracture my skull to test my dad, as a certain asshole suggested.) I haven’t seen him since I was twelve, since . . . since—I guess it’s time to back up a little. My name is Gaia. Guy. Uh. Yes, it’s a weird name. No, I don’t feel like explaining it right now.

I am seventeen. The good things about seventeen is that you’re not sixteen. Sixteen goes with the word sweet, and I am so far from sweet. I’ve got a black belt-in kung fu and I’ve trained in karate, judo, jujitsu, and muay thai—which is basically kick boxing. I’ve got a reflex speed that’s off the charts. I’m a near perfect shot. I can climb mountains, box, wrestle, break codes in four languages. I can throw a 175-pound man over my shoulders, which accounts for my disgusting shoulders. I can kick just about anybody’s ass. I’m not bragging. I wish I were. I wish my dad hadn’t made me into the . . . thing I am.

I have blond hair. Not yellow, fairy-tale blond. But blond enough to stick me in the category. You know, so guys expect you to expect them to hit on you. So teachers set your default grade at B-minus. C-plus if you happen to have big breasts, which I don’t particularly. My friend from before, Ivy, had this equation between grades and cup size, but I’ll spare you that.

Back in ninth grade I dyed my way right out of the blond category, but after a while it got annoying. The dye stung and turned my hands orange. To be honest, though (and I am not a liar), there’s another reason I let my hair grow back. Being blond makes people think they can pick on you, and I like when people think they can pick on me.

You see, I have this handicap. Uh, that’s the wrong word. I am hormonally challenged. I am never afraid. I just don’t have the gene or whatever it is that makes you scared.

It’s not like I’ll jump off a cliff or anything. I’m not an idiot. My rationality is not defective. In fact, it’s extra good. They say nothing clouds your reason like fear. But then, I wouldn’t know. I don’t know what it feels like to be scared. It’s like if you don’t have hope, how can you imagine it? Or being born blind, how do you know what colors are?

I guess you’d say I’m fearless. Whatever fear is.

If I see some big guy beating up on a little guy. I just dive in and finish him off. And I can. Because that’s the way I’ve been trained. I’m so strong, you wouldn’t believe. But I hate it.

Since I’m never afraid of anything, my dad figured he’d better make sure I can hold my own when I rush into things. What he did really worked, too. Better than he expected. See, my dad didn’t consider nature.

Nature compensates for its mistakes. If it forgot to give me a fear gene, it gave me some other fantastic abilities that definitely work in my favor. When I need it. I have this awesome speed, enormous energy, and amazing strength all quadrupled because there’s no fear to hold me back.

It’s even hard for me to figure out. People talk about danger and being careful. In my head I totally understand, but in my gut I just don’t feel it. So if I see somebody in trouble, I just jump in and use everything I’ve got. And that’s big stuff, and it’s intense.

I mean, you ever hear that story about the mother who lifted the car off her little boy? That’s like the kind of strength regular people can get from adrenaline. Except I don’t need extra adrenaline because without fear, there’s nothing to stop you from using every bit of power you have.

And a human body, especially a highly trained one like mine, has a lot of concentrated power.

But there’s a price. I remember once reading about the Spartans. They were these fantastic Greek warriors about four hundred something B.C. They’d beat everybody. Nobody could touch them. But after a battle they’d get so drained they’d shake all over and practically slide to the ground. That’s what happens to me. It’s like I use up everything and my body gets really weak and I almost black out. But it only lasts a couple of minutes. Eventually I’m okay again.

And there is one other thing that works in my favor. I can do whatever I want ‘cause I’ve got nothing to lose.

See, my mother is . . . not here anymore. I don’t really care that my dad is gone because I hate his guts. I don’t have any brothers or sisters. I don’t even have any grandparents. Well, actually, I think I do have one, but she lives in some end-of-the-world place in Russia and I get the feeling she’s a few beans short of a burrito. But this is a tangent.

Tangent is a heinous word for two reasons:

1. It appears in my trigonometry book.

2. Ella, the woman-with-whom-I-now-live-never-to-be-confused-with-a-mother, accuses me of “going off on them.”

Where was I? Right. I was telling you my secrets. It probably all boils down to three magic words: I don’t care. I have no family, pets, or friends. I don’t even have a lamp or a pair of pants I give a shit about.

I Don’t Care.

And nobody can make me.

Ella says I’m looking for trouble. For a dummy she hit it right this time.

I am looking for trouble.

A WALKING TRAP

HE LAY SPRAWLED IN A HALF-CONSCIOUS PILE, AND SHE WAS TEMPTED TO DEMAND HIS WALLET OR HIS WATCH OR SOMETHING.

THE POINT

Don’t go into the park after sunset. The warning rolled around Gaia Moore’s head as she crossed the street that bordered Washington Square Park to the east. She savored the words as she would a forkful of chocolate cheesecake.

There was a stand of trees directly in front of her and a park entrance a couple hundred feet to the left. She hooked through the trees, feeling the familiar fizz in her limbs. It wasn’t fear, of course. It was energy, maybe even excitement—the things that came when fear should have. She passed slowly through a grassy stretch, staying off the lighted paths that snaked inefficiently through the park.

As the crow flies. That’s how she liked to walk. So what if she had nowhere to go? So what if no one on earth knew or probably cared where she was or when she’d get home? That wasn’t the point. It didn’t mean she had to take the long way. She was starting a new school in the morning, and she meant to put as much distance between herself and tomorrow as she could. Walking fast didn’t stop the earth’s slow roll, but sometimes it felt like it could.

She’d passed the midway point, marked by the miniature Arc de Triomph, before she caught the flutter of a shadow out of the corner of her eye. She didn’t turn her head. She hunched her shoulders so her tall frame looked smaller. The shadow froze. She could feel eyes on her back. Bingo.

The mayor liked to brag how far the New York City crime rate had fallen, but Washington Square at night didn’t disappoint. In her short time here she’d learned it was full of junkies who couldn’t resist a blond girl with a full wallet, especially under the cover of night.

Gaia didn’t alter the rhythm of her steps. An attacker proceeded differently when he sensed your awareness. Any deception was her advantage.

The energy was building in her veins. Come on, she urged silently. Her mind was beautifully blank. Her concentration was perfect. Her ears were pricked to decipher the subtlest motion.

Yet she could have sensed the clumsy attacker thundering from the brush if she’d been deaf and blind. A heavy arm was thrown over her shoulders and tightened around her neck.

“Oh, please,” she muttered, burying an elbow in his solar plexus.

As he staggered backward and sucked for air, she turned on him indignantly. Yes, it was a big, clumsy stupid him—a little taller than average and young, probably not even twenty years old. She felt a tiny spark of hope as she let her eyes wander through the bushes. Maybe there were more . . . ? The really incompetent dopes usually traveled in packs. But she heard nothing more than his noisy X-rated complaints.

She let him come at her again. Might as well get a shred of a workout. She even let him earn a little speed as he barreled toward her. She loved turning a man’s own strength against him. That was the essence of it. She reversed his momentum with a fast knee strike and finished him off with a front kick.

He lay sprawled in a half-conscious pile, and she was tempted to demand his wallet or his watch or something. A smile flickered over her face. It would be amusing, but that wasn’t the point, was it?

Just as she was turning away, she detected a faint glitter on the ground near his left arm. She came closer and leaned down. It was a razor blade, shiny but not perfectly clean. In the dark she couldn’t tell if the crud on the blade was rust or blood. She glanced quickly at her hands. No, he’d done her no harm. But it lodged in her mind as a strange choice of weapon.

She walked away without bothering to look further. She knew he’d be fine. Her specialty was subduing without causing any real damage. He’d lie there for a few minutes. He’d be sore, maybe bruised tomorrow. He’d brush the cobwebs off his imagination to invent a story for his buddies about how three seven-foot, three-hundred-pound male karate black belts attacked him in the park.

But she would bet her life on the fact that he would never sneak up on another fragile-looking woman without remembering this night. And that was the point. That was what Gaia lived for.

AN EASY CROWD

“Who can come to the board and write out the quadratic formula?” Silence.

“A volunteer, please? I need a volunteer.”

No. Gaia sent the teacher telepathic missiles. Do not call on me.

“Come on kids. This is basic stuff. You are supposed to be the advanced class. Am I in the wrong room?”

The teacher’s voice—what was the woman’s name again?—was reedy and awful sounding. Gaia really should have remembered the name, considering this was not the first day.

No. No. No. The teacher’s eyes swept over the second-to-back row twice before they rested on Gaia. Shit.

“You, in the . . . brown, is it? What’s your name?”

“Gaia.”

“Gay what?”

Every member of the class snickered.

The beautiful thing about Gaia was that she didn’t hate them for laughing. In fact, she loved them for being so predictable. It made them so manageable. There was nothing those buttheads could give that Gaia couldn’t take.

“Guy. (Pause) Uh.”

The teacher cocked her head as if the name were some kind of insult. “Right, then. Come on up to the board. Guy (pause) uh.”

The class snickered again.

God, she hated school. Gaia dragged herself out of her chair. Why was she here, anyway? She didn’t want to be a doctor or a lawyer. She didn’t want to be a CIA agent or Green Beret or superoperative X-Files type, like her dad had obviously hoped.

What did she want to be when she grew up? (She loved that question.) A waitress. She wanted to serve food at some piece-of-crap greasy spoon and wait for a customer to bitch her out, or stiff her on the tip, or pinch her butt. She’d travel across the country from one bad restaurant to the next and scare people who thought it was okay to be mean to waitresses. And there were a lot of people like that. Nobody got more shit than a waitress did. (Well, maybe telemarketers, but they sort of deserved it.)

“Gaia? Any day now.”

Snicker. Snicker. This was an easy crowd. Ms. What’s-her-face must have been thrilled with her success.

Gaia hesitated at the board for a moment.

“You don’t know it, do you?” The teacher’s tone was possibly the most patronizing thing she had ever heard.

Gaia didn’t answer. She just wrote the formula out very slowly, appreciating the horrible grinding screech of the chalk as she drew the equals sign. It sounded a lot like the teacher’s voice, actually.

At the last second she changed the final plus to a minus sign. Of course she knew the formula. What was she, stupid? Her dad had raced her through basic algebra by third grade. She’d (begrudgingly) mastered multivariable calculus and linear algebra before she started high school. She might hate math, but she was good at it.

“I’m sorry, Gaia. That’s incorrect. You may sit down.”

Gaia tried to look disappointed as she shuffled to her chair.

“Talk to me after class about placement, please.” The teacher said that in a slightly lower voice, as if the rest of the students wouldn’t hear she found Gaia unfit for the class. “Yes, ma’am,” Gaia said brightly. It was the first ray of light all day. She’d demote herself to memorizing times tables if meant getting a different teacher.

Times tables actually came in pretty handy for a waitress. What with figuring out tips and all.

NOT CLOYING

He saw her right after the seventh-period bell rang. She seemed dressed for the sole purpose of blending in with the lockers, but she stood out, anyway. It didn’t matter that her wide blue eyes were narrowed or that her pretty mouth was twisted into a near snarl—she was blatantly beautiful. It was kind of sick the way Ed was preoccupied with beautiful girls these days.

There weren’t many people left in the hall at this point. He, of course, had permission to take his own sweet time getting to class. And she was probably lost. She cast him a quick glance as she strode down the hall. The kind of glance where she saw him without actually seeing him. He was used to that.

He felt a little sorry for her. (He was also preoccupied with finding ways of feeling sorry for people.) She was new and trying hard not to look it. She was confused and trying to look tough. It was endearing is what it was.

“Hey, can I help you find a classroom or anything?”

She swiveled around and glared at him like he made a lewd remark. (Was she some kind of mind reader?)

“Excuse me?” she demanded. She wasn’t afraid to give him a good once-over.

“You look lost,” he explained.

Now she was angry. “This is not what lost looks like. This is what annoyed looks like. And no, I don’t need any help. Thanks.”

It was the spikiest, least gracious “thanks” he’d ever heard. “Anytime,” he said, trying not to smile. “So what’s your name?”

“Does it matter?” She couldn’t believe he was prolonging the conversation.

“Mine’s Ed, by the way.”

“I’m so happy for you.” She gave him an extra snarl before she bolted down the hall to the science wing.

He smiled all the way to physics class. He almost laughed out loud when he passed through the door and saw her shadowy, hunched-over form casting around for a seat in the back.

She was in his class; this was excellent. Maybe she’d call him a name if he struck up another conversation. Even curse him out. That might fun. God, he’d probably earn himself a restraining order if he tried to sit next to her.

He was so tired of saccharine smiles and cloying tones of voice. People always plastered their eyes to his face for fear of looking anywhere else. He was fed up with everybody being so goddamned nice.

That’s why he’d already fallen in love with this weird, maladjusted, beautiful girl who carried a chip the size of Ohio on her shoulder. Because nobody was ever mean to the guy in the wheelchair.

September 23

My Dearest Gaia,

I saw a mouse race across the floor of my apartment today and it made me think of you. (What doesn’t make me think of you?) It reminded me of the winter of Jonathan and your secret efforts to save his little life. I never imagined I’d think longingly upon an oversized gray field mouse whose contribution to our lives was a thousand turds on the kitchen counter, but I grew to love him almost as much as you did.

Oh, Gaia. It feels as if it’s been so long. Do you still love rodents and other despised creatures? Do you still carry a pocket full of pennies for luck? Do you still eat your cereal without milk? Do you ever think about me anymore?

I write it and think it so often, it’s a mantra, but Gaia, how desperately I hope you’ll forgive me someday. You’ll understand why I did what I did, and you’ll know it was because I love you. I have so many doubts and fears, my darling, and they seem to grow as the days between us pass. But I know I love you. I’d give my life for you. Again.

Tom Moore lifted his pen at the sound of the text. God, he hated that sound. He didn’t need to look at his phone to know who was summoning him. It wasn’t as if he had friends and family swarming about—it was his self-inflicted punishment that if he couldn’t be with his daughter, he would be alone.

He snatched the wretched little device from his desk and threw it across the room, mildly amazed at his own rare show of temper as the text bounced off the windowsill and skittered across the wood floor. It was always the same people. It was always an emergency. By tomorrow he’d be in a different time zone.

Before he picked up the phone, he walked to the ancient aluminum filing cabinet and opened it. He thumbed through the files without needing to look. Locating the thick pile of papers, he placed the letter at the front, just as he always did with all the others, unsent and locked in the drawer.

A STUPID HOBBY

MACDOUGAL AND LAGUARDIA—BZZZZT—SLASHING VICTIM, FEMALE, AFRICAN AMERICAN IN HER THIRTIES—BZZZZT—YOUNG MALE PERPETRATOR—BZZZ . . .

HER FAVORITE PLACE

“Hello, Ceeendy.”

“Hi, Zolov. What’s shaking?”

“Shakeeeng?”

Gaia laughed. “How are you playing?”

Zolov worked his mouth. He drew his wrinkly brown hand over his lips, thinking about the question seriously, “I beat everyone.”

“Of course you did,” Gaia said loudly. “You’re the best.”

He nodded absently. “Tank you. You are a good geerl.”

In spite of the fact she was practically shouting at him, Gaia could tell he was reading her lips and that it was tiring for him. He sat back in the sunshine, ready for his next opponent, who would very likely not show. His favorite chessboard was set. As always, it was presided over by one of the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, a red, helmeted action figure he’d probably picked up in somebody’s garbage. He never played without him.

Gaia would have sat down across from him if she’d had more than twenty cents in her pocket. Instead she lay back on the bench and closed her eyes.

This park, these chess tables, was Gaia’s favorite place. It was her home in New York more than George and Ella’s house ever would be. Zolov was at least ninety years old and thought her name was Cindy, but even so, he was her favorite person.

Who says I have no life? she mused as she stretched her arms behind her head, feeling the fabric of her gray T-shirt creeping over her belly button. She inhaled the scent of sugary nuts roasting in a pushcart nearby. This was her favorite place, and that was her favorite smell. It was so sweet and strong, she could practically taste it. One of these days she was going to buy a big bag of those nuts and scarf them down without even pausing to breathe.

She felt a shadow come over her face and squinted one eye open. “Hey, Renny,” she said. “You ready for ‘dimes of demonstration’?”

Renny was a thirteen-year-old Puerto-Rican boy—Gaia’s second-favorite person. He was a self-proclaimed poet and such a whiz at chess he hustled great sums of money out of almost anybody who was dumb enough to sit down across from him. Today his face didn’t light up with its usual bravado.

Gaia sat up and put a hand over her eyes to block the sun. “You’re scared I’m going to steal your money and make you cry?” she taunted. She scanned the tables for a free board.

As she did, her eye snagged on a new piece of graffiti splayed on the asphalt just to the left of Zolov’s usual table. A swastika. It was at least a foot across, and the white paint was as fresh and bright as a new pair of sneakers. Gaia’s stomach was filled with lead. Could it be for her benefit? she wondered. Could somebody possibly know how the Holocaust had decimated her mother’s family and made her grandparents into heroes? No. Not likely, She was being paranoid. How would anyone know about her Jewish background? In fact, when she told some people, they acted all surprised—like if you had fair hair and blue eyes, it wasn’t possible. That really annoyed her.

Her eyes flicked over the ugly shape again. Had Renny seen it? Had Zolov? But did they think anything of it?

For some reason Renny wasn’t jumping in with his usual rhyming insults and eager put-downs.

“Gaia, you oughtta go home,” Renny said almost inaudibly in the direction of his sneakers.

This was odd. “What’s up, Renny?”

“It’s gonna get dark,” he noted.

“Thanks, Ren. It usually does.”

He was wearing a stiff new jacket that advertised its brand name from three different spots. He licked his lips. “You oughtta, you know, be watching out,” he continued.

“For what?” she asked.

He considered this question a moment. “The park is real dangerous after dark.”

Gaia stood, impatient. She swept a strand of hair behind her ear. “Renny, cut the bullshit. What’s the matter? What are you talking about?”

“Did you hear about Lacy’s sister?” His face was slightly pink, and he wasn’t meeting her gaze.

“No, why?”

“It was on the news and everything. All the kids are talking about it. She got slashed in the park last night,” Renny explained. “She had to get sewn up from her eyebrow to her ear.”

“God, that’s awful,” Gaia said. “What kind of blade?”

“What?”

“What kind of blade?”

Renny gave her a strange look.

“Was it a razor blade?” Gaia persisted.

“I guess. I don’t know.” He looked up at her a little defiantly. “How am I supposed to know?”

“Just asking, Renny.” She softened her tone. “Thanks for warning me. I do appreciate it.”

He nodded, his face growing pinker. “I was just . . . you know, concerned about you.” He tried to look very tall as he shuffled away.

Gaia swung her beat-up messenger bag over her shoulder as she watched him. She had a bad feeling about this. She sensed that Renny was no longer satisfied with the insular world of chess misfits. He was starting to care what the big boys thought—those stupid boys who hung around the fountain, trying to look tough. Renny was smarter and funnier and more original than they’d ever be, but he was thirteen. He was at that brutal age when many kids would sell all the uniqueness in their character for the right pair of shoes. She longed to tell him not to spend so much time in the park, to go home to his mother, but who was she to talk?

Yes, Renny might be concerned about her. But not as concerned as she was about him.

She herself loved this misfit world, Gaia mused as she surveyed the tables. Curtis, a fifteen-year-old black kid, was sitting across from Mr. Haq, a Pakistani taxi-cab driver who appeared to like nothing more than parking his yellow cab on Washington Square South and killing an afternoon over a chessboard.

She loved that people who couldn’t begin to pronounce each other’s names played and talked for hours. She loved that a forty-something-year-old cab-driver and a fifteen-year-old from the Manhattan Valley youth program had so much in common. She loved getting a break from the stupid hierarchy of high school.

She loved that there weren’t people like . . . well, people like . . . him.

The him was walking by slowly, looking confidently over the boards in play. His hair was light in color—a tousled mixture of blond and brown and even a little red. His chinos were cuffed, and his preppy gray jacket flapped in the autumn breeze. Gaia felt her stomach do a quick pitch and roll. She felt queasy and strangely alert at the same time.

You didn’t find people who looked like that . . . as in, stunningly, astonishingly good. People like him sipped coffee at Dean & Deluca or swing danced on Gap commercials or spouted Woody Allen-style dialogue on Dawson’s Creek, where they belonged.

So what the hell was he doing lingering over chessboards with the freaks and geeks? She had half a mind to walk right over and tell him to get lost.

This was her favorite place, and he had no business here, reminding her of things she would never be.

DON’T BE AFRAID

“Thank you, Marco, you’re a sweetheart.”

Marco nodded at the woman, making sure to tilt his chin so she had a good look at his left side, the side where his broken nose hardly showed at all. “No problem.” He kept his voice deep and smooth. She probably thought he was like twenty-five or something.

She took a long sip from the bottle of Coke he’d brought her, exposing her pale neck. She lifted one leg to rest on the low wall of the fountain, revealing several more inches of thigh under her stretchy aqua miniskirt. He tried not to stare. Or did she wa