Chapter 1 THE FIRST TIME I saw him, a heavy, gray fog clung to the cornfields, tails of mist slithering between the dying stalks. It was a dreary early morning right after Labor Day, and I was waiting for the school bus, just minding my own business, standing at the end of the dirt lane that connected my familys farmhouse to the main road into town. I was thinking about how many times Id probably waited for that bus over the course of a dozen years, killing time like any mathlete would, by doing calculations in my head, when I noticed him. And suddenly that familiar stretch of blacktop seemed awfully desolate. He was standing under a massive beech tree across the road from me, his arms crossed over his chest. The trees low, gnarled branches twisted down around him, nearly concealing him in limbs and leaves and shadows. But it was obvious that he was tall and wearing a long, dark coat, almost like a cloak. My chest clenched, and I swallowed hard. Who stands under a tree at the crack of dawn, in the middle of nowhere, wearing a black cloak? He must have realized Id spotted him, because he shifted a little, like he was deciding whether to leave. Or maybe cross the road. It had never struck me how vulnerable Id been all those mornings Id waited out there alone, but the realization hit me hard then. I glanced down the road, heart thudding. Where is the stupid bus? And why did my dad have to be so big on mass transit, anyhow? Why couldnt I own a car, like practically every other senior? But no, I had to "share the ride" to save the environment. When Im abducted by the menacing guy under the tree, Dad will probably insist my face only appear on recycled milk cartons. . . . In the precious split second I wasted being angry at my father, the stranger really did move in my direction, stepping out from under the tree, and I could have swornjust as the bus, thank god, crested the rise about fifty yards down the roadI could have sworn I heard him say, "Antanasia." My old name . . . The name Id been given at birth, in Eastern Europe, before Id been adopted and brought to America, rechristened Jessica Packwood. . . . Or maybe I was hearing things, because the word was drowned out by the sound of tires hissing on wet pavement, grinding gears, and the whoosh of the doors as the driver, old Mr. Dilly, swung them open for me. Wonderful, wonderful bus number 23. Id never been so happy to climb on board. With his usual grunted "Mornin, Jess," Mr. Dilly put the bus in gear, and I stumbled down the aisle, searching for an empty seat or a friendly face among the half-groggy riders. It sucked sometimes, living in rural Pennsylvania. The town kids were probably still sleeping, safe and sound in their beds. Locating a spot at the very back of the bus, I plopped down with a rush of relief. Maybe Id overreacted. Maybe my imagination had run wild, or too many episodes of Americas Most Wanted had messed with my head. Or maybe the stranger really had m Excerpted from Jessica's Guide to Dating on the Dark Side by Beth Fantaskey All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
