“I think that’s normal,” he says. “You don’t remember everything at once. It can take two or three lifetimes before it all comes back.”
“Do you remember everything? From every lifetime?” Even as I say it, I’m shocked at how normal this conversation feels. Like he’s telling me about his vacation to Hawaii or something.
He nods. “When you’ve been Akhet for a while, there are some things that improve every time you come back. You remember more things. You have more experience and can do things better. Quicker.”
“What kinds of things? Like psychic stuff?”
“That would be great. But no.” Griffon smiles. “We can’t read minds or move anything without touching it. At least, no Akhet I know have figured that out yet. It’s more like memory, languages, numbers, dates. They say that people only use a small percent of their brainpower. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but because of our experience, Akhet use a lot more.”
“Sounds like those autistic people who can tell you what day of the week any date is.”
He shrugs. “Sort of. Because I’ve been alive so many times, I remember everything I read and experience. Comes in handy sometimes.”
“Right,” I say. “You’re a genius.” I smile just a little. “But can you tell me what day of the week I was born on?”
“When’s your birthday?” he asks, still serious.
“Come on, you can’t really do that.”
“Hey, you asked. What’s the date?”
“August twenty-seventh.”
“And you’re going to be seventeen, right?” He barely pauses to see my confirmation. “A weekend baby. That was a Sunday.”
I stare at him, alternately amazed and a little irritated. For once, I want him to not be able to do something. Not have all the answers. Not catch me as I’m falling. Not be so damn perfect. “Lucky guess. You had a one-in-seven chance of getting it right.”
“If you say so.” He breaks into a grin so wide his dimples look like parentheses on each side of his face. If there was something more than perfect, it feels like he just attained it.
We stop beside a big black motorcycle parked in the street. Griffon reaches into his pocket for a set of keys and bends down to unlock two black helmets that are strapped to the side. Turns out the motorcycle jacket isn’t just a prop.
“This is yours?”
Griffon hands me a helmet. “Yep,” he says. “Our house is kind of far from here. Too far to walk. You okay with that?”
I stare at the big silver pipes coming from underneath the solid black body. Mom and Dad don’t want me to get my driver’s license or even ride in a car with any of my friends who have one because it’s too dangerous. They’d kill me if they knew I was even thinking about getting on a motorcycle. “Um…” I hesitate, staring at the helmet. I don’t want to look like a baby, but I’m not sure what to do.
“You worried I’m going to kill us both?” he asks, tucking his helmet under his arm.
I look from him back down to the bike. “A little,” I finally admit. “Or that my parents will.”
Griffon takes a step closer to me. “I’ve been riding motorcycles … a long time,” he says, glancing around to see that nobody on the crowded sidewalk can overhear. He looks me in the eye. “I’m an awesome driver, and I wouldn’t risk hurting you for anything.”
I can feel my cheeks flush as I stare into his face, trying to figure out what his words mean. “It’s not you I’m worried about,” I say, looking out at the cars racing down the busy street.
Griffon pulls his helmet down over his head. “It’ll be fun. Are you in?”
I look at the helmet and then at the bike, willing myself to trust him. “I’m in,” I say, pulling it over my head, wincing a little as it presses against what’s left of the bump from last night.
Griffon pulls his heavy jacket off and hands it to me. “You’re probably going to need this,” he says. “It’s a short ride, but it can get cold.” I start to protest, but he pushes it into my hands. “I’ll be fine. Just take it.”
The fabric inside is still warm from his body, and as I zip the front I’m enveloped in the earthy scent that’s uniquely his. I wonder if I can find an excuse to keep it, just for a little while.
Griffon straddles the bike and holds it steady for me. “Just get on the back and hold on to me,” he says over his shoulder, his voice muffled by the front of the helmet.
I nod, my head feeling heavy in the helmet, and swing my leg over the seat, grateful that I don’t like to wear skirts. Scooting closer to him, I feel his muscles stiffen as our bodies touch. The vibrations are barely noticeable through the leather as I wrap my arms around his waist, but either they’re getting stronger or I’m getting better at finding them.
As we merge into traffic, I can feel Griffon’s muscles relax as his attention focuses on the road and not on me. Stopping at the first traffic light, I realize that any nerves I was feeling have been replaced by complete confidence in his ability to get us there safely. The bike is steady underneath us, only matched by the power I feel as we gain speed on the asphalt. I wish I could stop time and make this moment go on forever, me tucked against his back as he pushes the bike faster and faster. Too soon, Griffon makes a turn off the main road and down a small side street until he comes to a long driveway beside a large brown-shingled bungalow.
I manage to slide off the bike without falling, and wait while he parks and pulls the key out of the ignition.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he teases as I pull off the helmet and pat down any noticeable bumps in my hair.
“No,” I grin, handing the helmet back so that he can lock them up. I could get used to this.
He nods to the small red pickup truck that’s parked beside the house. “Janine’s home.”
I realize that I’ve forgotten to be nervous about meeting his mother until just now. It must show on my face, because Griffon laughs.
“Don’t worry, she’s cool,” he says. “I’ve already told her about you, and she’s excited to meet you. You’ll find she’s … different from most parents.”
“Different how?”
“You’ll see,” he says, and leads the way through the small gate and into a courtyard that’s filled with tall grasses and bushes dotted with flowers of every color. “Janine’s really into naturalized gardening,” he explains as we make our way up the path to the front porch. “Her way of relaxing.”
As we cross the yard, a small gray cat runs up to us and rubs its head against Griffon’s leg.
“Hiya, Spike,” Griffon says, bending down and giving him a scratch on the neck.
“He’s so cute,” I say, listening to him purr. “Is he yours?”
“No. He thinks he is, though. He really belongs to the neighbors.” He gives Spike a last pat on the head. “Okay, buddy, we have to go now.”
Our footsteps echo on the wide wooden porch as Griffon opens the front door. “Hey,” he calls. “We’re here.”
“Be right there,” a voice calls from somewhere in the depths of the house.
I look around at what I can see from the front door. Just ahead is a wide staircase that leads up to a small landing between the floors, where it turns and disappears into the second story. One large wall in the living room is dominated by a moody and incredibly realistic painting of an English street at sunset. Every vertical surface is covered with big African fabric pieces and intricately carved masks. A big woven trunk sits in front of a bright yellow couch covered with mud-cloth pillows.
“Crazy, isn’t it?” Griffon says, grinning as he watches me look around the room. “Looks a little bit like a Pier 1 threw up in here.”