by Alyson Noel
“Well, I won’t know until I try, right?” she says, her eyes still on mine. “Where do you get it anyway? I don’t remember ever seeing it in stores. And I’ve never seen a label on it either. What’s it even called?”
“I get it from Damen,” I say, enjoying the feel of his name on my lips, even though it does nothing to fill up the void his absence has left.
“Well, ask him to get me some too, will you?”
And the moment she says it, I know this is no longer just about the juice. She’s trying to get me to open up, to explain his absence at our Saturday night dinner, and every day since.
I close the dishwasher and turn away. Pretending to wipe down a counter that’s already clean and avoiding her eyes when I say, “Well, I can’t actually do that. Mostly because . . . we’re um . . . we’re sort of taking a break,” I say, my voice cracking in the most embarrassing way.
She reaches for me, wanting to hug me, comfort me, tell me it will all be okay. And even though my back is turned so that I can’t see her in the physical sense, I can still see it in my head, so I step to the side and move out of her way.
“Oh Ever—I’m so sorry—I didn’t know—” she says, her hands hanging awkwardly at her sides, unsure what to do with them now that I’ve moved.
I nod, feeling guilty for being my usual cold distant self. Wishing I could somehow explain that I can’t risk the physical contact because I can’t risk knowing her secrets. That it will only distract me and provide images I don’t need to see. I mean, I’m barely handling my own secrets, so it’s not like I’m eager to add hers to the mix.
“It—it was kind of sudden,” I say, knowing she’s not willing to let the case rest until she’s gotten a little more out of me. “I mean, it just sort of happened—and—well, I don’t really know what to say . . .”
“I’m here if you need to talk.”
“I’m not ready to talk about it yet. It’s—it’s too new still and I’m trying to sort it all out. Maybe later . . .” I shrug, hoping that by the time later arrives, Damen and I will be back together again, and the whole issue resolved.
twenty
When I get to Miles’s, I’m a little nervous, having no idea what to expect. But when I see him outside, waiting on his front stoop, I heave a small sigh of relief, knowing things aren’t nearly as bad as I thought.
I pull up to his drive, lower my window, and call, “Hey Miles, hop in!”
Then I watch as he glances up from his phone, shaking his head as he says, “Sorry, I thought I told you, I’m getting a ride from Craig.”
I gape, my smile frozen in place as I replay his words in my head.
Craig? As in Honor’s boyfriend Craig? The sexually confused Cro-Magnon jock whose true preferences I learned by eavesdropping on his thoughts? The one who practically lives to make fun of Miles because it makes him feel “safe”—like he’s not one of “them.”
That Craig?
“Since when are you friends with Craig?” I ask, shaking my head and squinting at him.
Miles reluctantly rises and comes around to my side. Pausing from his texting pursuits long enough to say, “Since I decided to get a life, branch out, and expand my horizons. Maybe you should try it too. He’s pretty cool once you get to know him.”
I watch as his thumbs get back to work, as I struggle to get a grip on his words. Feeling like I’ve landed in some crazy, implausible, alternate universe where cheerleaders gossip with goths, and jocks hang with drama freaks. A place so unnatural it could never truly exist.
Except that it does exist. In a place called Bay View High.
“This is the same Craig that called you a fag and gave you a swirly on your first day of school?”
Miles shrugs. “People change.”
I’ll say.
Except that they don’t.
Or at least not that much in one day unless they have a very good reason for doing so—unless someone else, someone behind the scenes, is prompting them, engineering it so to speak. Manipulating them against their will and causing them to say and do things that are totally against their true nature—all without their permission, without their even realizing it.
“Sorry, I thought I told you, but I guess I got busy. But you don’t need to come by anymore, I’ve got it all covered,” he says, dismissing our friendship with a shrug, as though it bore no more importance than a ride to school.
I swallow hard, resisting the urge to grab him by the shoulders and demand to know what happened—why he’s acting like this—why everyone is acting like this—and why they’ve all unanimously decided against me.
But I don’t. Somehow, I manage to restrain myself. Mostly because I have a terrible suspicion I might already know. And if it turns out that I’m right, then it’s not like Miles is responsible anyway.
“Okay, well, good to know.” I nod, forcing a smile I definitely don’t feel. “I guess I’ll just see you around then,” I say, my fingers drumming against the gearshift, waiting for a response that’s not coming anytime soon, and backing out of his drive only when Craig pulls up behind me, honks his horn twice, and motions for me to move.
In English, it’s even worse than I anticipated. And I’m not even halfway down the aisle before I notice that Damen is now sitting by Stacia.
And I’m talking hand-holding, note-passing, whispering distance from Stacia.
While I remain alone in the back like a complete and total reject.
I press my lips together as I make my way toward my desk, listening to all of my classmates hiss:
“Spaz! Watch out, Spaz! Don’t fall, Spaz!”
The same words I’ve been hearing since the moment I got out of my car.
And even though I’ve no idea what it means, I can’t say I’m all that bothered by it—until Damen joins in. Because the moment he starts laughing and sneering along with the rest, all I want to do is go back. Back to my car, back home where it’s safe—
But I don’t. I can’t. I need to stay put. Assuring myself that it’s temporary—that I’ll soon get to the bottom of it—that there’s no possible way I’ve lost Damen for good.
And somehow, this helps me get through it. Well, that, and Mr. Robins telling everyone to shush. So when the bell finally rings, and everyone’s filed out, I’m almost out the door when I hear:
“Ever? Can I speak to you for a moment?”
I grip the door handle, my fingers closed and ready to twist.
“I won’t keep you long.”
And I take a deep breath and surrender, my fingers cranking the sound on my iPod the second I see his face.
Mr. Robins never keeps me after class. He’s just not the stop and chat type. And all of this time I was sure that completing my homework and acing my tests insured me against this exact kind of thing.
“I’m not sure how to say this, and I don’t want to overstep my bounds here—but I really feel I must say something. It’s about—”
Damen.
It’s about my one true soul mate. My eternal love. My biggest fan for the last four hundred years, who is now completely repulsed by me.
And how just this morning he asked to change seats.
Because he thinks I’m a stalker.
And now, Mr. Robins, my recently separated, well-meaning English teacher who hasn’t a clue, about me, about Damen, about much of anything outside of musty old novels written by long-dead authors, wants to explain how relationships work.
How young love is intense. How it all feels so urgent, like it’s the most important thing in the world while it’s happening—only it’s not. There will be plenty of other loves, if I just allow myself to move on. And I have to move on. It’s imperative. Mostly because:
“Because stalking is not the answer,” he says. “It’s a crime. A very serious crime, with serious consequences.” He frowns, hoping to relay the seriousness of all this.
“I’m not stalking him,” I say, realizing too late that defending myself against the S word before
going through all the usual steps of: He said what? Why would he do that? What could he mean? like a normal, more clueless person would, makes me appear suspiciously guilty. So I swallow hard when I add, “Listen, Mr. Robins, with all due respect, I know you mean well, and I don’t know what Damen told you, but—”
I look in his eyes, seeing exactly what Damen told him: that I’m obsessed with him, that I’m crazy, that I drive by his house day and night, that I call him over and over again, leaving creepy, obsessive, pathetic messages— which may be partially true, but still.
But Mr. Robins isn’t about to let me finish, he just shakes his head and says, “Ever, the last thing I want to do is choose sides or get between you and Damen, because frankly, it’s just none of my business and it’s something you’re ultimately going to have to work out on your own. And despite your recent expulsion, despite the fact that you rarely pay attention in class, and leave your iPod on long after I’ve asked you to turn it off—you’re still one of my best and brightest students. And I’d hate to see you jeopardize what could turn out to be a very bright future—over a boy.”
I close my eyes and swallow hard. Feeling so humiliated I wish I could just vanish into thin air—disappear.
No, actually it’s much worse than that—I feel mortified, disgraced, horrified, dishonored, and everything else that defines wanting to slink off in shame.
“It’s not what you think,” I say, meeting his gaze and silently urging him to believe it. “Despite whatever stories Damen might’ve told you, it’s not at all what it appears to be,” I add, hearing Mr. Robins sigh along with the thoughts in his head. How he wishes he could share how lost he felt when his wife and daughter walked out, how he never thought he’d make it through another day—but fearing it’s inappropriate, which it is.
“If you just give yourself some time, focus your attention on something else,” he says, sincerely wanting to help me, and yet afraid of overstepping his bounds. “You’ll soon find that—”
The bell rings.
I shift my backpack onto my shoulder, press my lips together, and look at him.
Watching as he shakes his head and says, “Fine. I’ll write you a tardy pass. You’re free to go.”
twenty-one
I’m a YouTube star. Apparently the footage of me untangling myself from a seemingly never-ending string of Victoria’s Secret bras, thongs, and garter belts has not only earned me the oh so clever nickname of Spaz but has also been viewed 2323 times. Which just happens to be the number of students enrolled here at Bay View. Well, with a few of the faculty members tossed in.
It’s Haven who tells me. Finding her at her locker after barely making it through a gauntlet of people shouting, “Hey, Spaz! Don’t fall, Spaz!” she’s kind enough not only to fill me in on the origin of my newfound celebrity but to lead me to the video so I can watch the spectacle of myself spazzing out right there on my iPhone.
“Oh, that’s just great,” I say, shaking my head, knowing it’s the least of my problems, but still.
“It’s pretty fuggin’ bad,” she agrees, closing her locker and looking at me with an expression that could only be read as pity—well, pity on a time crunch with only a few seconds to spare for a spaz like me. “So—anything else? ’Cause I need to get going, I promised Honor I’d—”
I look at her, I mean, really look at her. Seeing how the flamered stripe in her hair is now pink, and how her usual pale-skinned, darkly clad, Emo look has been swapped for the spray-tanned, sparkle-dress, fluffy-haired ensemble of those same cliquey clones she always made fun of. But despite her new dress code, despite her new A-list membership, despite all the evidence presented before me, I still don’t believe she’s responsible for anything she wears, says, or does at this point. Because even though Haven has a tendency to latch on to others and mimic their ways—she still has her standards. And I know for a fact that the Stacia and Honor brigade is one group she never aspired to join.
But still, knowing all that doesn’t make it any easier to accept. And even though I know it’s useless, even though it clearly won’t change a thing, I still look at her and say, “I can’t believe you’re friends with them. I mean, after everything they’ve done to me.” I shake my head, wanting her to know just how much that hurts.
And even though I hear her response a few seconds earlier, it does little to soften the blow when she says, “Did they push you? Did they shove you or trip you or make you fall on top of that rack? Or did you do that all on your own?” She looks at me, brows raised, lips pursed, narrowed eyes focused on mine. As I stand there stunned, mute, my throat searing so hot I couldn’t speak if I tried.
“It’s like—lighten up already, would you?” She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “They meant for it to be funny. And you’d be a helluva lot happier if you could just unclench, stop taking yourself and everything around you so damn seriously, and fuggin’ learn to live a little! I mean, seriously, Ever. Think about it, okay?”
She turns, merging seamlessly into the crowd of students, all of them heading for the extra long table in their new lunchtime exodus, while I make a run for the gate.
I mean, why torture myself? Why hang around just so I can watch Damen flirt with Stacia, and get called spaz by my friends? Why have all of these advanced psychic abilities if I’m not going to exploit them and put them to good use—like ditching school?
“Leaving so soon?”
I ignore the voice behind me and keep going. Roman’s pretty much the last person I’m willing to talk to at this point.
“Ever, hey, hold up! Seriously.” He laughs, picking up his pace until he’s right alongside me. “Where’s the fire?”
I unlock my car and slide in, yanking the door and almost getting it closed, until he stops it with the palm of his hand. And even though I know I’m stronger, that if I really wanted I could just slam the door closed and be on my way, the fact that I’m still not used to my new immortal strength is the one thing that stops me. Because as much as I dislike him, I’m a little reluctant to slam it so hard I sever his hand.
I’d much rather save that kind of thing for when I might need it.
“If you don’t mind, I really need to get going.” I pull the door again, but he just grips it tighter. And when I combine the amused look on his face with the surprising strength in his fingers, I feel the strangest ping in my gut when I realize those two seemingly random things support my deepest suspicions.
But when I look at him again, watching as he lifts his hand to sip from his soda, exposing a wrist that’s free of all markings, bearing no tattoos of a snake eating its own tail—the mythical Ouroboros symbol which happens to be the sign of an immortal turned rogue—it just doesn’t add up.
Because the fact is, not only does he eat and drink, not only are his aura and thoughts accessible (well, to me anyway), but as much as I hate to admit it, from what I can see, he bears no outward signs of evil. And when you put that together, it’s obvious my suspicions are not only paranoid but unfounded as well.
Which means he’s not the malevolent immortal rogue I supposed him to be.
Which also means he’s not responsible for Damen dumping me, or Miles’s and Haven’s defection. Nope, that would point right back to me.
And even though all the evidence supports that—I refuse to accept it.
Because when I look at him again, my pulse quickens, my stomach pings, and I’m overcome by a feeling of unease and dread. Making it impossible for me to believe he’s just some jolly young chap from England who wound up at our school and found himself all smitten with me.
Because the one thing I know for sure is: Everything was fine until he arrived.
And nothing’s been the same since.
“Skipping out on lunch, are you?”
I roll my eyes. I mean, it’s pretty obvious what I’m up to, so I won’t waste my time with an answer.
“And I see you have room for one more. Mind if I join you?”
“As a matte
r of fact, I do. So if you’d kindly remove your—” I motion toward his hand, flicking my fingers in the international sign for scram.
He holds up his hands in surrender, shaking his head when he says, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Ever, but the more you evade me, the faster I chase. It’ll be a lot easier for both of us if you just stop running.”
I narrow my gaze, trying to see past the sunshiny aura and well-ordered thoughts, but I’m blocked by a barrier so impenetrable it’s either the end of the road, or he’s way worse than I thought.
“If you insist on the chase,” I say, my voice much surer than I feel. “Then you better start training. ’Cause, dude, you’re in for a marathon.”
He winces, body flinching, eyes widening as though he’s been stung. And if I didn’t know better, I’d think it was real. But the fact is, I do know better. He’s just hamming it up, practicing a few facial expressions for dramatic effect. And I don’t have time to be the butt of his joke.
I shift into reverse and back out of my space, hoping to leave it at that.
But he just smiles, slapping the hood of my car when he says, “As you wish, Ever. Game on.”
twenty-two
I don’t go home.
I started to. In fact, I had every intention of driving home, hauling upstairs, and flinging myself on my bed, burying my face in a fat pile of pillows and crying my eyes out like a big pathetic baby.
But then, just as I was turning onto my street, I thought better. I mean, I can’t allow myself that kind of luxury. I can’t waste the time. So instead, I make a U-turn and head toward downtown Laguna. Making my way through those steep narrow streets, driving past well-tended cottages with beautiful gardens and the double-lot McMansions that sit right beside them. Heading for the address of the only person I know who can help me.
“Ever.” She smiles, pushing her wavy auburn hair off her face as her large brown eyes settle on mine. And even though I arrived unannounced, she doesn’t seem the least bit surprised. But then her being psychic makes her pretty hard to startle.
