He snorted, unimpressed. “I’m not finished,” he sneered. He shook the can again.
Camille lashed out, sending the can flying. “I said, get out,” she snapped, louder.
His eyes sparked at the challenge. “What are you going to do about it, Goldilocks?” He stepped closer, using his height to intimidate. “You foreign kids come into our town, acting all big and bad, but in the end you run away crying for mommy and - ”
Camille shoved him and he stumbled back, but he was grinning.
“Camille!” Gabriel said. “That’s enough.”
Her pulse was racing. She could feel her veins in her left arm restricted by the iron bracer. No one talked about her parents like that and got away with it.
She looked back. The adults had come around the front of the building. Gabriel took in the scene quickly. Rin regarded Camille with disapproval. Charlotte was aghast.
“Warren Hyde!” Charlotte exclaimed. “How could you?”
He shrugged. “The place has been abandoned for years. I thought it still was.”
Liar! “There are cars out front and construction everywhere,” Camille told Gabriel heatedly in Japanese. He merely put his hand on her shoulder, his universal signal for her to calm down.
“Even if that were true,” Charlotte told the boy, “we still don’t go around putting graffiti on things!”
“We do not,” Rin agreed. “Nor do we fight other students in public.” Her eyes shifted to Camille. “You have not even crossed our threshold, Ms. Teague, and you are already engaging in violence. Yes, I would say probationary status is well warranted. Come, Mr. Hyde, I am removing you from the premises. Mr. Katsura, I expect we will continue this conversation later.”
“I expect so,” Gabriel said evenly.
With a parting smirk to Camille, the boy followed Rin to her car.
Charlotte sighed after they’d left. “I’m so sorry. He’s impossible sometimes.”
“When did Rin Umino take over?” Gabriel asked her, his gaze following her car pulling out of the lot.
“Over the summer,” she said. “I know she seems harsh, but so far this has been the smoothest school year we’ve ever had.”
“And she’s brought with her some projects you’re very excited about.”
Charlotte colored slightly. “Huh?”
“You’ve got chalk on your sleeves and your shirt’s inside out. You’ve turned into an absent-minded professor.”
“I’m a high school chemistry teacher, not a professor,” she chided. “She expanded my budget, if that’s what you mean by projects. I’ve been able to put together much better experiments for the kids this year.” She smiled at Camille. “You’re lucky, I’ve got some really cool things planned. If we don’t set something on fire before Christmas, I’ll be shocked.”
Gabriel sighed, looking at the new graffiti. “Why do I get the feeling you’re the only one who’s happy we’re here?”
“Rin’s just a very careful person,” she said generously. “And Hyde...that’s nothing personal. He seems to think he has to test every new student.”
“And Tailor?”
Her smile stiffened. “What about him?”
“Ahh,” Gabriel said, apparently seeing some sort of answer in her reaction. “Still that bad?”
“Don’t give up on him, okay?” Charlotte said. “One of these days he’ll come around.”
“You say that...”
“It would help if you’d stop provoking him,” she admonished.
He smiled. “I like to think of it as teaching him to lighten up.”
“Pigs will fly before John Tailor learns to lighten up,” Charlotte said dryly.
“Maybe I should be the one telling you not to give up,” he said.
She laughed. “That’s just being realistic,” she said. “Well, I should get back. Looks like I’ll be seeing you in class tomorrow, Camille.”
Camille shrugged.
“She’s excited,” Gabriel lied.
Charlotte laughed. “I bet I can teach her to be. See you.”
Camille and Gabriel went back into the stuffy half-finished cafe. He pored over lists and schematics on the unpainted counter. She leaned against a pillar, wishing for a chair.
“I don’t want to go to school with these people,” Camille said, glad to be back to speaking Japanese like a normal person.
“Oh, they’re not all that bad,” said Gabriel. “Charlotte’s lovely. Didn’t you hear? She’ll let you set things on fire in chemistry.”
“I don’t like that Umino woman,” she grumbled.
“And she doesn’t like you,” he agreed cheerfully. “Though to be fair, most of that is my fault. There’s always going to be someone out there who’s bent on ruining you - best to get used to that now. Speaking of...tell me the rules again.”
Camille sighed. If she had a nickel for every time he’d made her repeat the stupid rules. “Stay out of bars. Stay out of fancy restaurants. Stay out of forests. And never - ”
“Ever, ever.”
“ - smoke anything.”
“Ever. If you see a man in an expensive suit?” he prompted.
“Don’t look him in the eyes and find you immediately.”
“If you see a man with green hair?”
“Pretend I don’t see him and find you immediately.”
“If you see a woman dressed all in leather?”
“Run like hell.”
“That’s my girl.”
“These are really weird rules, Gabriel.”
“These are weird times we live in, kiddo. I tell you these things for your own safety. Now you can either go unpack, or listen to me serenade you with inventory lists.”
Camille made a face.
Upstairs, Camille looked around her new living space and took stock of what Gabriel had signed them up for. Her room was small and cramped, but that was actually comforting. There was one window, cracked open a few inches to circulate the breeze, facing the forest. She didn’t have a bed, just a futon mattress on the floor, but she preferred that too. The rest of the space was taken up by a large whitewashed dresser/vanity leftover from the previous owners, complete with a chair and a large gilded mirror in desperate need of polishing, facing the door. Camille leaned closer to inspect the frame. Who knew what kind of metal the frame was actually made of, underneath all that patina? Her hand reached out to touch the metal.
In the mirror, she saw a shadow slide behind her. She jerked, and spun around, but nothing was there. Her right arm cradled her left with its iron bracer as she tried to slow her breathing. It had to be nothing, she told herself. It’s just some old cloudy glass. Downstairs, Gabriel turned on some music.
Camille moved back to the mirror. Oval shaped, it rested on the long side to stretch across either side of the dresser. Still, it was huge – the entire piece of furniture was taller than her own five foot one. She ran a hand over the mirror’s frame, thumb tracing the time-dulled pattern. There was a chance that there was something floral shaped under all that patina. She peered closer at the discolored glass. Two things ran through Camille’s head at once – Alice Through the Looking Glass, and Phantom of the Opera. The juxtaposition did not calm her.
“Down, girl,” she barely heard behind her. The shadow in the mirror flitted.
Camille spun again, eyes wide, clutching the bracer. She was alone in the room.
She must have made a noise, because Gabriel poked his head around the doorframe. “Alright in here? Everything to your liking?” His voice was pleasant, but his expression was guarded. He stepped inside, glancing casually around the room.
“I think my room is haunted,” Camille said lowly, feeling foolish even as she said it.
He looked at her briefly as he moved to the window, but she gathered nothing from his expression. “I doubt that...” he said lightly, closing the window all the way. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. And if there were ghosts, they wouldn’t be out in the daylight.”
The
n why had he closed the window? “You said this was the safest place, but I have to ask,” said Camille. “Did something follow us, or was it already here?”
“Ask me later,” was all he said.
Chapter 3
Mac
Once upon a time, there was a boy who knew no fear.
Hi. My name is Mac Dupree. Mac is short for MacAlister, and I’m short for just about everything. My specialties include online fighting games, obscure comic trivia, and a certain personal magnetism. Only problem is, the only thing I seem to attract is trouble.
There are days where everything goes your way. And then there are days that start with you getting tripped in the parking lot. Exactly how I wanted to start the week.
My shins sting. Little bits of asphalt dig into my palms as I push myself up. I’d chosen the wrong day to wear shorts, apparently. My best friend Destin fared better in jeans. It looked like his jacket had torn, though.
Raucous laughter surrounds us. Hyde’s laugh is the loudest. He had taken one of the wooden swords from kendo class and swiped our feet with it when we crossed in front of his truck. He leans against the truck’s hood now, resting the sword across his shoulders.
“Forget to tie your shoes, midget?” he cackles.
“Yeah it’s really hard to find laces for flip-flops,” I return, getting to my feet. I’m a solid foot shorter than he is, three years younger, and I get better grades, which makes me his favorite target.
Hyde isn’t a huge guy - honestly, Destin’s taller than he is. But Destin looks like he’s built out of sticks and a mop, where Hyde has been massacreing people in karate and kendo class for the last two years. Hyde is usually dressed in various combinations of slashed, torn, and singed leather and jean, and has piercings in his lip, one eyebrow, and all over his ears – but his most striking feature is the scar that runs from the bridge of his nose halfway across one cheek. Rumors abound as to how he got it, but no one seems to know for real.
“Maybe you should watch where you’re going,” Hyde grins. His scar crinkles.
“Maybe you should hide behind cars and trip people in the parking lot like a coward,” I shoot back. “Oh wait, that already happened. Get a life.”
He hops off the hood of his car, brandishing the wooden sword. I stand in defiance. Still on the ground, Destin cringes.
“Unless there’s a meeting I’m unaware of,” comes a familiar disdainful voice, “break it up and get inside, people.”
The small crowd parts, startled at the appearance of our English teacher, Mr. Tailor. Tailor looks kind of professor-y with his collared shirts and wire-rimmed glasses, but he has this way of staring you down that makes you just want to disappear. Soda would stop fizzing if he told it to settle down.
The spectators quickly break away and go on to the school, not wanting to arouse his wrath. Hyde’s look sours as Tailor regards us. There are only three people I’ve seen who can exert some kind of control over Hyde, and Tailor is one of them.
“You want to fight, save it for fourth period,” Tailor snaps, looking at us both. “It’s Ikeda’s job to deal with this macho crap, not mine.” He snatches the wooden sword from Hyde. “I catch you with one of these out of the gym again, and it’s detention.”
“Yes sir,” Hyde growls, leaving the scene with a parting glare.
Tailor frowns at Destin. “How long are you going to sit on the ground, Heron?”
Destin scrambles to his feet, a sheepish look obscured by his thick curtain of dark hair. Tailor looks at the ground where he’d fallen. Several downy feathers are being blown away by a breeze.
“My jacket tore...” Destin mumbles.
“Ignoring that you’re wearing a down jacket in eighty degree heat...both of you get inside. Dupree, go get bandages from Ms. Miller before you come to homeroom,” he orders, strolling past us. “If you bleed onto my floor you’re cleaning it up.”
We both hold our breath ’til he’s through the front doors.
“That actually didn’t go so bad,” I say, after he’s out of earshot.
“He must have had his coffee,” Destin agrees. “Lucky.”
I brush off my shorts and wince, feeling my shins stinging for real now. They’re pretty raw, but there’s no blood. I’d probably be okay. I pick my bag back up and gingerly start walking.
I’ve never won a fight with Hyde. I’m not going to lie. It’s honestly pretty stupid of me to keep standing up to him, and I can see it even a few minutes later, as we’re getting our books out of our lockers. But when Hyde’s standing in front of me, being an unmitigated ass, all I can think of is how much I want to punch him in the face. Maybe with a cactus. I grin at the mental image.
Our school is a little different than most. It’s technically a private school, and they like to boast that we have students from all over the world, though a good chunk of the people who go here are local. The people who run the place definitely aren’t from around here, though. I’d heard my mom say somewhere that most of Havenwood’s funding comes from some Japanese company. It’s weird, but I’m not going to complain. The place is honestly really nice, and the cafeteria is choice. The teachers are pretty decent too, even with Tailor being as grouchy as he is sometimes. My only real complaint is the other students.
“Not again,” I groan, rifling around my locker in vain. “The comics I left in here on Friday are gone.”
Destin sighs, his wordless ‘I told you so.’
“And the candy bars? Oh come on!” I’m starving. I really shouldn’t have skipped breakfast.
Our lockers have been pilfered several times each since the school year started. No apparent signs of break-ins, but if it’s not a textbook, it gets stolen, and it’s getting old fast. We’re also having trouble coming up with a culprit. The list is too long.
Besides Hyde, there are a few other juniors and seniors who tend to pick on younger, smaller students. I qualify on both counts, having skipped a grade to be a sophomore. Despite his height, Destin’s whole demeanor practically screams ‘easy target.’ So we’re pretty much doomed on that front.
Then there’s the problem of the local royalty - otherwise known as my sister Hayley’s little clique. She wanders around with her copycat best friend and two rich guys, pretending they’re superior beings. Hayley makes it a point to distance herself from her nerd brother as much as possible. She likes to describe the space around Destin and I as a ‘girl free zone.’
Which reminds me.
“Oh crap!”
“You just remembered what day it was, didn’t you,” Destin says.
“Is she here? Have you seen her?”
“How would I know?” he sighs. “I don’t know what this imaginary person looks like.”
“She’s not imaginary, and she’s going to be the one person around here you’ve never seen before. Duh.”
“If you say so,” he says.
See, I have this problem. I’m all super cool and everything, but I’ve never exactly...ah...had a girlfriend. I mean I’ve had some crushes here and there. Once in sixth grade I kissed a girl on a dare. I’ve just never felt anything close to the adjectives and nouns and verbs people throw around when they talk about what ‘love’ feels like. But...
Well. You know.
Old Ms. Graham lives the stereotype of old lady in a creepy old house who alternates between loading you down with pies and sweets, and telling you stop talking so loud in the library and to floss and brush your teeth three times a day. I’ve been mowing her lawn since I was old enough to handle a push mower. But where most grandparents go on about their grandkids endlessly from the day they’re born, I’d never heard her mention Juliet once until a couple days ago.
That’s not to say I didn’t know she existed. My family has lived in Havenwood my whole life, and the city’s not so large that you don’t still have some small-town gossip. I remember when we were (both) small, Hayley and I snuck downstairs to eavesdrop on a dinner party our parents had thrown, and during a hushed bit
of conversation, I first heard that Ms. Bea’s son Simon had a daughter our age.
Maybe it was the fact that they talked about her like she was some secret – that from then on I only ever heard mention of her in passing, in undertones, and never around Ms. Bea. Sometimes they called her “Simon’s girl,” sometimes they called her “Kyra’s girl,” but it wasn’t until last week that I heard her actual name, when Ms. Bea answered the phone while I was helping her move some furniture. She had gradually gone the color of the bleached upstairs walls as she listened to whoever was on the other line. I was really worried she might pass out or something, and she kept alternating between saying, “yes,” “no,” and “are you sure?” Finally she’d hung up and went to an ancient chair that released a puff of ‘in storage forever’ dust as she sat.
“Juliet is coming,” she’d said. She said it like someone had died. I think she’d forgotten I was there, because when she finally did look at me, she seemed shocked and asked me to leave.
And I hadn’t been able to think about anything else since. Well, except when I was getting attacked in the parking lot. But you have to admit that’s distracting.
“She can’t be that tall. Right? I mean look at her grandmother. Woman is tiny. She won’t be tall. Right?”
“Sure,” Destin says. I can tell he’d stopped caring awhile ago, but I can’t stop talking. It’s a disease.
“But your mom is tiny,” I frown, arguing with myself in the absence of his input. “And you’re like a skyscraper.”
He shrugs.
“But she can’t be that tall. Right?”
“Forty-seven,” he says, securely shutting his locker.
“Feet? Tall?”
“Times you’ve said that in the last twenty-four hours,” he says. “It won’t help obsessing over how tall or short she is. It doesn’t really matter anyway.”
I frown, looking into my devoid-of-chocolate locker. Someone is going to pay for this.
The Thief Page 3
