by Sherry Soule
Actually, none of us are really hardcore Goths or emos, but we each have our own unique style. I just consider myself an interesting chick with individual flair that will never be reduced to a stereotype—thank you very much.
“Let’s discuss slasher films of the 80s after we watch the movie,” Puckett says, fiddling with the TV remote.
From behind me, Tanisha is retelling a piercing horror story from last weekend, sticking out her tongue to display her war wound to Raymond, but it’s all just background noise. I can’t stop thinking about Hayden. He’s so damn complicated, difficult, and guarded. And I’m still puzzled by my own feelings for him, along with what I may have misinterpreted as mutual attraction.
In front of me, Devin twists in his seat, and I catch him ogling my rack-o-plenty again.
Now that I think about it, I haven’t caught Hayden staring at my mongo-chest even once. Devin could take some much needed lessons in manners from him.
Puckett gestures at Devin. “Can you kill the lights?”
“On it!” Devin jumps up to flip off the switch.
The room dims and the credits roll down the screen. Devin pulls out a pad of paper from his backpack on the floor. An aerosol can rolls out of the opening, and he hastily grabs it and shoves the canister back inside.
Like that’s not weird or anything. Especially since Hayden’s locker was recently vandalized. Is he the one who’s been spray-painting the lockers?
Instead of watching the movie, Viola takes out her battered paperback copy of Flowers in the Attic and yawns. If I am a scary movie geek, then my best friend’s a horror bibliophile.
Devin leans into the aisle. “Psst, Sloane.”
“What?” I whisper.
“You wanna go out this weekend?”
My shoulders slump. When is the creep going to give up?
“Sorry, I’ve got plans.”
Devin leans into the aisle. “That’s okay. I’m just glad you could make it today.” His lusty grin widens.
Just as I’m about to channel my inner-bitch and tell Devin to stop freakin’ gawking at my lady lumps, Viola asks me for a piece of gum. I lift my purse and search inside.
“Oh, no.”
“What’s wrong?” Viola asks.
“I’m not sure.” I hand her a stick of spearmint.
Where the hell is it?
I dump the contents of my bag onto the desk and rifle through it: red lipstick, a Hot Topic gift card from Christmas, a battered OneRepublic CD case, a packet of gum, black nail polish, two flashdrives, a Hello Kitty notebook, and my car keys, but no—
My phone has vanished.
FIVE
The next day, I bypass my usual table at lunch, ignoring my friends and their curious stares as I storm across the cafeteria, swinging my Monster High lunchbox like a weapon. I have an animalistic urge to destroy Hayden Flippin’ Lancaster. Being without my phone all night felt like I was missing an actual limb. I even tried calling my cell last night, but no one answered.
This is the first chance I’ve had all day to confront him. If I’d known where Hayden lived, I would’ve been kicking down his door last night.
I just don’t know exactly how he managed to steal my iPhone undetected. But he must’ve snatched it out of my purse when my back was turned while I was talking to Devin in the hallway. I should’ve expected this when I stupidly blabbed about filming his epic dog rescue.
Viola watches me march past, mouthing: Where are you going? I stab a finger in Hayden’s direction.
Super Boy thinks he’s so smart. Well, he’s just met his Kryptonite!
Sunlight trickles through the windows, dancing over the tables and the tacky orange chairs. The nauseating odor of greasy pizza wafts from the kitchen area, and the hiss of a soda can opening resonates throughout the crowded space.
Hayden’s sitting alone with his sack lunch and a plastic bowl of pasta. Two grungy drumsticks rest against the bag. Guess where I’d like to stick those. I try not to think about how hot he looks in urban decayed pants and a black V-neck shirt. He might be the silent, stoic type of man candy, but I’m about to crack his tough guy shell.
I drop my lunchbox on the table with a bang and slide onto an empty seat. The clatter draws even more attention. But I’m way beyond worried about making a scene.
“Where’s my phone?”
Hayden nonchalantly leans back and crosses his legs in that dude-esque, one ankle-over-the-opposite-thigh. “What’s up, Emo Chick?”
“Emo? Really?”
He checks me out from head-to-toe in my aquamarine dress with a white skull and flower pattern, black knee-high socks, and riding boots. My cute Rock Rebel studded chain purse rests on one shoulder, and my hair is styled in a high ponytail. I am so looking glam-rock today!
“Okay, then Goth Girl.”
Even worse.
My stomach clenches. It might be hypocritical of me because of all the secret nicknames I’ve been calling him in my head, but I’m not just trying to get attention with funky hair color and trendy clothes, I want to be accepted for who I am. Respected despite my style choices. So I favor the dark-side in apparel, what’s the big deal?
“I’m not Goth or emo,” I snap, my face flushing hot. “I like to go against the norm. Makes life more interesting.”
A slow smile overtakes those full lips. “Girl Reporter?” he says, calling me by Lois Lane’s nickname.
I roll my eyes. “Hardly.”
“Oh? Then what are you supposed to be?”
“I’m me,” I say in my best duh voice. “No labels.”
“Un-huh.” He flips his hair, but the long strands just flop over his one blue eye. “How about Peaches, then? Since you always seem to be blushing around me.”
“I do not!” I argue, but my cheeks burn. Damn him.
“What’s your deal, anyway?” He sounds mildly amused. “You have purple hair, wear a lot of black, and write reviews of scary movies…”
My eyes widen. “You’ve read my column?”
So, he’s been checking up on me, too. Why?
He picks up those wooden sticks and drums out a rhythm on the table. “So you’re really into horror stuff?”
I don’t have the upper hand, not anymore. He’s freakin’ turned the tables on me again. But I’m going to make them spin so fast he’ll never know what happened. And I’ll finally start getting some answers.
“Yes. But stop distracting me.” My fingers curl around the plastic handle of my lunchbox. I swear, steam is pouring out of my ears. “Just tell me where my phone is.”
He sighs. “What are you talking about, Sloane?”
“You know damn well what I’m talking about,” I practically shout, my hands shaking. “How did you do it? I mean, how did you snag it from my purse?”
“Actually, I found an iPhone in the hallway yesterday. Maybe it’s yours.”
I narrow my eyes. “Does this phone that you supposedly found have a Kawaii cat zombie case?”
He leans down to retrieve a cell from his messenger bag. “This must belong to you.”
“I knew it!” Truthfully, I’d only hoped he had it.
Relief floods my system. I am so happy for a moment that I could kiss my iPhone. Instead, I snatch it from his grasp.
“I thought I lost you,” I say to the phone and turn it on. Everything is there, my contacts, Internet bookmarks, music, calendar, photos...except the video. The footage has been deleted.
I. Am. Going. To. Kill. Him.
“How could you?” I shriek. “How the hell did you crack the password?” A vein is going to pop in my forehead. “Oh, that’s right—you’re a thief and a hacker!”
Groaning, I mentally slap my forehead. I had a bad feeling he would delete the footage. Apparently, the guy can both teleport and mysteriously sabotage evidence.
Several kids glance at us, but I ignore them. I even catch Viola scrunching her eyebrows as if she’s trying to read our lips.
Hayden leans back in his chai
r. “Is something wrong?”
“Um, yeahhh.” I wave the phone in front of his face. “You deleted my stuff!”
He raises an eyebrow. “Now, why would I do that?”
“You’re doing that annoying thing again. Just answer me.”
“Sloane, whatever was on your phone, which you are accusing me of tampering with, can’t be that important. Maybe it just needs to be serviced.”
“What?” I shake my head. “Tell me the truth!”
He glances around uncomfortably. “Can you lower your voice, please?”
“No. And why do you talk so formal, like a grownup?”
He fiddles with his drumsticks. “Where I come from, you have to grow up fast.”
My temper simmers. I relax in my chair and say in a normal tone, “Oh? Where is that?”
“Are you starting the interview now?” He sounds likes he’s teasing, but it’s difficult to tell from his pokerface. “My brother isn’t at school today, so you’ll have to interrogate him another time.”
“Interview?”
Just a twitch of his lips. “The one you said you had to write for the school paper?”
Fudge. With extra cherries. I’d totally forgotten. The missing phone had been foremost on my mind.
“Oh! Yeah, of course,” I say.
He sighs, but his expression remains impassive. “If I do it, will you stop annoying me?”
Mr. Stoic is back. Would he have an emotional reaction if he were set on fire? Probably not.
“Well…” I clear my throat and the last bit of tension eases from my shoulders. It’s not going to do any good to yell at Hayden or stay pissed over the phone theft and tampering. It is what it is. And I still need the inside scoop for my article. Best to play nice. “Yes.”
“Then let’s proceed,” he says.
“Let me just get my notebook and pen.” I fumble to open my purse, dropping my pen twice on the floor. I straighten, attempting to appear confident and professional. “Where were you born?”
“In a secret government lab,” he says, deadpan.
“Ah, well, that explains the superpowers.”
We share a slight smile.
“Seriously,” I say, “Do you have a girlfriend?”
Do you want one?
I blink. Whoa. Where did that come from?
He drums out a fast beat on the tabletop and winks at me. “Not at the moment. But that’s subject to change.”
“Where’s your family originally from?”
“A galaxy far, far away.”
“He’s funny, too.” I roll my eyes. “I didn’t peg you as a Star Wars fan.”
He stops drumming. “Who isn’t?”
“Okay, so who’s your favorite character?”
“Hmmm, I think Chewbacca’s cool.”
I blow out a breath. “Finally.”
“What?”
“You responded like a normal person, actually having a regular conversation.”
“Normal is overrated—boring.”
Touché.
“What’s the scariest thing you’ve ever done?” I ask.
“This interview.”
“Ha. Ha.”
Opening my lunchbox, I remove my turkey and cheddar cheese sandwich and a bag of Doritos. I unwrap the foil on my sandwich and a big glop of mustard hits the table. Oops.
“How did you miraculously rescue that dog?” I ask.
His whole body tenses. “Is that really a question for the paper?”
“Can you ever give a straight answer, Hayden Lancaster?”
“Only when I feel like it, Sloane Masterson.”
I’m getting nowhere. I try a different line of questioning, hoping he’ll loosen up.
“What do you like to do for fun?” I ask.
He cocks his head to one side. “Oh...lots of different things. Physical things.”
“You mean, like sports and stuff?”
“I’m not really into outdoor activities.”
For a second, I’m confounded by his heated stare, his eyes ablaze with some wicked thought.
Oh. Oh. My cheeks flush hot. He means naked indoor games. Duh. He’s trying to throw me off. Visions of nude horizontal aerobics flash through my mind for a second, and the blush spreads to my collarbone.
Hayden leans around me to peer at something over my shoulder, and then gets comfortable again. “Your friends are watching us. Probably wondering why you’re sitting with me today.”
“I’m sure they are.” Without turning around, I can sense their stares blazing into my back. I sneak a look at Viola, who gives me two very enthusiastic thumbs up. I roll my eyes and turn back to my lunch.
“Sloane…” Moving closer, he caresses my hand with his fingertips for just a second, but it’s long enough for every hair on my body to stand on end. A rush of glitter-winged butterflies flap in my stomach. I’m giddy and tingly all over. And all too quickly, his touch is gone.
Get it together. Act cool, Sloane.
“Yes?”
Mr. Stoic jerks his hand back and appears surprised, anxious even. “Let me ask you something.” He hasn’t taken one bite of his pasta, but he stabs a spoon into the bowl.
“Sure,” I say, trying to ignore the quivering in my stomach and keep my voice steady.
He rubs his chin in quiet deliberation. “Any plans after you graduate in June?”
“I want to move to L.A. and become a screenwriter. I plan to write horror scripts, but nothing over-the-top or too cliché.”
“You don’t want to go to college?” he asks.
“Not really. I’m hoping I can talk my parents into letting me skip school and move to Hollywood. Maybe take some screenwriting classes. They’re fairly laidback, and they like that I’m somewhat artistic. Sort of following in their footsteps.”
Why does he want to know about me suddenly? Or is this another way to cleverly dodge my questions? Two can play at this game.
“What about you?”
“Everyone in my family has to attend college,” he says flatly.
“What if you don’t want to?” I ask, placing a layer of Doritos over the turkey and then taking a crunchy bite of my sandwich. I grin, savoring the taste. Yum.
Hayden’s watching me intently. That hard edge around his stare has softened. For a moment, he appears fascinated, and just as quickly that expression vanishes.
I nudge him with my elbow. “Well?”
“No choice,” he says with a hint of sadness. “So, I guess it’s a good thing I want to be scientist.”
“Really? What type of science are you interested in?”
“Mostly aerospace engineering or maybe astrophysics.”
Wow. Sexy and brainy and charming. Cha-Ching.
He watches me chow down on my food, one hand cupping his chin and trailing his index finger across his lips as if he’s trying to suppress a smile. My heart does another one of those unexpected flips.
Shaking his head, he says, “You like to eat. Most girls hardly touch food. That’s a bit unusual.”
“I’m not the one who’s unusual.”
Hayden’s brows instantly go up.
I shrug and wipe my mouth with a napkin. “So? I’ve got a healthy appetite.”
“I can see that.” He smiles, but it’s only there for a second.
“Shut up.” I take another big, delicious bite.
He scoops out a spoonful of pasta and swallows.
I squint at him over the edge of my sandwich and eye the spoon. “Can you do that utensil bending thing again?”
The spoon falls from his fingers and clatters on the table. “What the hell are you talking about now?” He runs a hand over his hair, and I can tell he’s exasperated with me again.
“I didn’t get to record it, but I witnessed the whole fork-bending-incident the other day while you and Zach were fighting about something.”
He closes his eyes, frustration etched into his handsome features. When he opens them again, he stares at me with genuin
e interest. “You’re incredibly observant, aren’t you?”
“I like to people watch.” I shrug. “Are you going to do it or not?”
“Not.” Hayden’s mouth presses into a hard line. “And in the civilized world, there are laws against stalking. Are you sure you’re not a budding paparazzi?”
Ouch. That one stung.
We’re at a standoff again. But...he didn’t deny bending the fork in half. Interesting.
“How long do you think you can keep your secrets before they blow up in your face?”
His brows wrinkle, and his lips flatten together. “Don’t push this, Sloane.”
“What if I do?”
“Then a lot of people will get hurt.”
“Threaten much?”
The bell chimes. Hayden scoots back his chair, grabs his stuff, and gives me a curt nod. He takes about ten steps and pauses, tension coiling in his broad shoulders. His head turns, and he casts a pained glance at me. Then his shoulders lower and he stomps off.
Hayden can’t even be bothered to walk me to our next class. Unless he’s ditching calculus again, which he does often.
Whatevs. Tomorrow is another day, and another chance to get answers.
Once my heart resumes the thump-thump pattern that’s the norm, I steel my resolve. But my stalking days are officially over. I’ll just stick with the less creepy staring-from-a-distance-and-planning-to-uncover-all-his-secrets strategy.
And try to figure out what’s actually happening between the mysterious Hayden Lancaster and me.
FRIGHT NIGHT BABBLE
Welcome, Snarklings!
Today’s editorial is about slasher movie “the pleading victim” clichés that make me see red. And if you’re a certified horrorphila like me, then you’ll agree with the lameness.
Why whenever the victim is trapped or tied to a chair and the killer is about torture them, the pathetic character always says the same dumb thing?
