The Watchers (Book 1: The Watchers Series)

by Lynnie Purcell

My night was miserable. When I finally got tired enough to fall asleep, I dreamed of getting to school late and kept going into the wrong classrooms. No one would tell me where I was supposed to be and all the other students stared at me, judging me with their cold, uncaring eyes. It was enough to make anyone wake up in a cold sweat.

  As I lingered over breakfast, chewing over the depressed thoughts as much as my cereal, Ellen came barreling into the kitchen, searching frantically through all the drawers. I whistled in appreciation when I saw her and grinned at her pink dress suit. Her messy brown hair was pulled back in an elegant bun and I even detected a bit of makeup on her perfect face.

  “You look hot, Mom!” I told her.

  She laughed, preoccupied with whatever she was looking for. “I feel ridiculous!” She turned to me her wide, round eyes perplexed. “You haven’t seen my keys have you?”

  “They’re in your jacket.” I paused, listening to her thoughts. “Your jacket is in the living room.”

  “Thanks!” She hesitated on her way out of the kitchen. “Are you sure you don’t mind walking to school? It’s just that I have to be at the office pretty early…”

  “I don’t mind,” I assured her for the millionth time.

  She twisted her hands in anxiety. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes!” I laughed. “Go! You’re going to be late.”

  “But…are you sure you remember how to get there?”

  I gave her my best stern look. “Mom. I didn’t get lost in New York or L.A. I won’t get lost here…I’ll be fine.”

  Outwardly, at least.

  She smiled, not deceived in the slightest, and gave me wishes for a good first day before rushing out of the house. After she left, I washed my bowl in the sink, with extra care, trying to decide what to do with the time I had before school. I didn’t want to sit around the house waiting for it to be my time to go. I definitely didn’t want to be late and have my nightmare become a reality, but I didn’t want to get to school too early either. Trying to decide what to do, not liking any of my options, I walked out into the hallway and spotted the picture Ellen had been so affected by. Curious, welcoming the distraction, I stepped closer to examine it.

  It was a colored photograph of a large group of people standing around the long table I had seen in the dining room. It looked like one of those Thanksgiving dinners I had seen on television. Ellen and I always ate out for Thanksgiving. Looking at the picture, I could tell why she was so against formal Thanksgivings. They had reminded her of home.

  My eyes roamed across the people in the photograph in excited wonder. I could see my features in the faces. One woman had my heart shaped face – another had my high cheekbones. And one man, who was lurking in the corner trying not to be seen, looked like he had my button nose. I searched for my eyes, grey and stormy, but I didn’t see them in the mass of faces. All the people in the picture had the same eyes as Ellen – a dark, chocolate brown. I touched the picture, almost as affected as Ellen had been, but for a different reason. I knew the truth now. I knew that my eyes were my father’s eyes.

  I had never met him – he had left before I had been born, and he had never tried to contact us – so I had no way of comparing our eyes. Ellen had never described him to me, and I felt awkward asking her questions about something that was obviously still painful for her. Besides, I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to know. Not only had he abandoned us, he had left knowing what my life would be like, what my curse was. He had left knowing how much danger Ellen and I would be in simply because I was alive. I resented him for that.

  I moved down the hall to a large gilded mirror and looked at my reflection, wondering what else was his, hating the connection to him. I categorized my pale skin, my nose, and my dark hair, which I had styled in spikes at the front, trying to see similarities to a person I had never met.

  No… I looked too much like the people in the photograph, except for the eyes. I squinted at the objects in question, wishing suddenly, despite my anger at him, that I knew the person who had given me the oval shape, the grey color. At least if I knew him, I would have answers; I would know more than I knew now.

  I turned away from the mirror and the picture – which I now understood was my mother’s family, my family – and went upstairs to get my school things, coming to the conclusion that whatever the day of school threw at me, it couldn’t be worse than hating my own father for abandoning me, and in turn, hating that part of me that was his.

  The light was dull over the purplish-blue horizon, casting everything into long shadows as I walked into the wind. I wrapped my jacket tighter as I stepped off the porch, wishing for the warmth of Savannah, our latest stopover. Even in the dim light from the rising sun, I could tell that there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It was strange, so different from the boiling storm of yesterday.

  I turned off our street, shivering slightly from the wind as I dwelt on my father. I couldn’t stop thinking about what else was his. Did I act like him? I knew I didn’t act like Ellen; she was too carefree, too emotional, and almost more organic in her actions than I was. I thought too much. I internalized too much.

  I rounded the corner onto the main street through town, which coincidentally enough was called ‘Main Street,’ and the stately houses faded abruptly into the brick buildings that made up downtown. The shops were dark and silent; the streets empty save for the occasional car. My thoughts as dark as the morning, I trudged up a hearty hill in search of the school.

  Couldn’t he at least have shown up once to explain the things Ellen couldn’t? Couldn’t he have written me a note to tell me why I was a freak, or explain why he had left? Couldn’t he have explained why he let me be born? Couldn’t he have told me one thing? I gnawed on my lip, my temper starting to rise a little. Why was that too much to ask?

  Spotting a large obvious sign on the crest of another hill that read “King’s Cross High School: Go Saints!” I bumped back down to earth. I pushed the anger aside for the moment as the irony of that sign hit me. Saints? Of what?

  Chuckling sarcastically, I looked across the short, sloping lawn to the large trees, which flanked either side of the brick buildings, then to the school itself. The main building, the largest of the three buildings, was huge, its façade stately and positively reeking with southern charm. Large white columns, which were spaced at regular intervals, beckoned unwitting students inside.

  Resigned to my fate, the feeling of martyrdom settling into my gut, I walked up the grassy slope and crossed the lawn. I shoved the large door open with an unhappy grunt and looked around the oppressive, uniform, and deserted corridor. I was instantly unsure of where to go, my dream haunting my footsteps. Luckily, I saw the sign. As I followed bold arrows with the words ‘Main Office’ above them, I wondered idly why a school this size would have signs while my last school, which was three times bigger, hadn’t.

  I stopped when the arrows ran out at a small, cluttered office with a glass door and glass windows. A large young woman, with curly black hair, was at the large counter, which cut the room in half. Before I could open the door, I heard a muffled sound through the glass. Hearing people’s thoughts was new to me, but I had learned the hard way that when I heard a person’s thoughts outside of a room it meant that person was loud and obnoxious. I took a deep breath before opening the door, steeling myself for the onslaught.

  She looked up from the papers she was going through as I stepped inside and I saw her expression transform from boredom to curiosity. What in the world is she wearing on her head? Oh, goodness, that’s her hair! I heard. “Can I help you, dear?” Her voice was light and nasal, echoing the sound of her thoughts.

  “Um, yeah…” I need a comb, so I can make sure you’re happy with my hair. “My name is Clare Michaels…”

  Oh, God, that’s Ellen’s daughter! They don’t look a bit alike. Well, maybe a little in the shape of the face. I wonder who the father is? It serves her right for getting knocked up. Tramp. I can’t believe I was ever jealo
us of her!

  None of this showed on her face.

  “Of course!” she said. Her smile became fixed as she smoothed her blue jean jumper. “How’s your mother? I went to school with her, you know.” If you could call hating someone with a fiery passion, going to school with them, she tacked on spitefully. She looked down and started searching through a pile of papers on the counter.

  “She’s really great,” I answered. “Amazing, even.”

  “Good…good” She grabbed a set of papers from the bottom of the pile and handed them to me. “Here’s your schedule. The rooms are listed next to the corresponding class, but if you have any trouble finding anything, just ask one of the teachers.”

  I nodded, knowing even if I didn’t have a clue where I was going, I wouldn’t ask.

  She pointed to another paper in the stack she’d just handed me. “Make sure you get all of your teachers to sign this for attendance purposes, and bring it back to me at the end of the day.” She rattled the three other papers in my hands. “And these are for your mom to sign.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  I turned to leave, wanting to get away from her nasty thoughts about my mom, and her eyes, which were watching my every movement, but she stopped me.

  “Tell your mom Heather Thomas, I mean,” a false little giggle, “Heather Smith says ‘hi,’” she said in a sweet tone that didn’t quite match the look on her face. Oh, I cannot wait to tell everyone what this one looks like! No one will believe it! I hope she tells Ellen about my name change! She will be so jealous that I got married, to an ex-boyfriend of hers no less!

  “I will,” I replied.

  “Have a good day!” she called as I slipped out the door and out of her line of sight.

  Ha!

  I found a small bench hidden by a recessed wall and sat so I could go over my schedule without being bothered by anyone, especially an overly-jealous Heather Smith, or Thomas, or whatever. Trying to clear her nasty thoughts from my head, I noticed my first class was gym. Irritation swirled up around the gloomy feelings. I wasn’t sure what imbecile thought of forcing people into gym class first thing in the morning, but whoever it was, they were sadistic – or perhaps they had a profound hatred of teenagers. Or, perhaps, they were both. Not that I minded exercise, it was just the idea of having to exercise at eight in the morning in those stupid clothes they called a uniform. It was torture.

  Disgusted, I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, trying not to think about the coming hours, but feeling that having gym first thing was a bad omen. Finally, when I felt more composed – which is to say, not like my brain was going to explode – I got up and made my way to the back of the building where, logically, I figured the gym would be.

  The halls had filled up with gossiping students during my sojourn on the bench. Kids crowded the halls as they talked to their friends. Several people did funny double takes when they saw me. The rest just stared. Slivers of excited thought ghosted after me as I searched for the gym, pounding into my brain like tiny, annoying hammers.

  I turned around when the hall ended, thinking I might have passed the gym at some point. Unhelpfully, none of the thoughts I was overhearing were directions to the gym. Where were the magical signs when you needed them most?

  “Hey!” a voice called in a pleasant song-like voice.

  I turned at the sound and spotted a girl, who was leaning against the too-white wall as if she’d been there forever, smiling knowingly. I looked her over curiously. She was shorter than I was, but still tall, maybe 5’6” to my six feet, skinny, yet very curvy. She reminded me of pictures I’d seen of Marilyn Monroe, complete with the short, curly blonde hair, which framed her round face.

  “You’re lost aren’t you?” she asked, laughter in her voice.

  “Yep,” I admitted.

  I listened for a moment, but her thoughts were really quiet and hard to hear over the excited buzz I was being subjected to. She laughed softly and held out her hand to me. “I’m Alex Lawson.”

  I shook her hand, feeling strangely at ease. Maybe, it was because her face was so open and friendly, or maybe it was because she wasn’t staring at me like I’d invented humanity.

  “And you must be Clare,” she said confidently.

  “Must I?” I asked.

  “If you want to be,” she said.

  “I suppose…”

  “I’m Sam Lawson’s daughter… you know… the lawyer your mom is working for?” She seems cool. Dad did say that Ellen was really nice. I bet they’re a lot alike.

  Ah. There she was.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. “I didn’t realize he had a daughter,” I tacked on, wondering why Ellen hadn’t mentioned her. She had definitely mentioned Sam. A lot.

  “Yeah, he keeps me in the basement most days,” she joked. I laughed, liking her humor. Smiling back she asked, “What class are you looking for?”

  “Gym.”

  She grabbed my arm, hooking her hand through my elbow with a natural, friendly gesture. “I’ll show you where it is.”

  She steered me down the hallway, maneuvering us between gaggles of gossiping people who turned to stare again as we passed. As we walked, her body steering mine gently, she said, “Dad tells me that you’re from Savannah. I’m from Atlanta originally. We moved back a couple of years ago. My dad missed the country life too much.” She made a funny face. “At least that was his excuse. I think he just hated the Atlanta traffic.”

  No wonder she was being so nice. She understood what it felt like to be the newcomer to this tiny town and quite possibly how it felt to be dragged here against her will.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yep. Have you ever been?”

  I laughed dryly. “I don’t think there’s a major city in the United States I haven’t been to, or, at the very least, driven through.”

  She smiled and started talking about the school and classes giving me pointers, knowing that I would appreciate them, not prying into my history. I was grateful. I didn’t feel up to explaining my gypsy nature quite yet. It was too early. Her bubbling voice talked us all the way through one set of doors, out the back of the building, through a covered walkway, to another set of large doors. At the second set of doors, she stopped and released my arm. “Well, here it is.”

  “Thanks.”

  She paused thoughtfully. “Don’t take today too seriously. It’ll be better tomorrow.” Surprised by her advice, I smiled. She smiled again, her dimples flashing into life. “Good luck!”

  With a wave, she turned back the way we had come, a natural bounce in her step. I watched her walk away, impressed at her generosity, a part of me skeptical of her motives; too many false friends and liars in my past had me thinking her motives were not entirely genuine. Before she disappeared from sight, I heard a final thought: I hope she knows what’s in store for her today…

  I did, too…

  Pushing the massive metal door open, I saw the gym, which looked like every high school gym I had ever seen – bright, open, and strangely ominous. The teacher, a middle-aged man, who had the look of someone muscular gone to seed, stood in the middle of the floor tying up what appeared to be mesh for tennis courts. His moon face let me know that he had spent years indulging in both food and alcohol. Round, bloodshot eyes the color of mud looked at me dully. My first impression was of a very massive pig wearing a wig. I went to him, trying to get visions of Ms. Piggy out of my head, and gave him my name and the form for him to sign.

  He gaped at me and I heard: No one said she was one of those Punk chicks… Damn, I need a drink. I think I’ll sneak one in at lunch. Donna would never have to know. Unless she catches me again…

  He took the paper I was offering him and signed it with a sigh, longing for the bottle he had tucked away in his desk. He gave the form back to me and, in a tired, hopeless voice, pointed out where everything was. Mumbling to himself, he shuffled away to find me a uniform to change into. I watched him go, pity flooding my stomach as the thought that h
e had given up on life, on himself, a long time ago, permeated my brain.

  When he came back, I took the uniform he offered me, and went to the girl’s locker room without comment. I changed slowly, not wanting to go back out where the other kids had already gathered on the bleachers talking and chattering with frightful teenage normalcy. Finally, feeling that I had stalled long enough, I stuffed my clothes and bag in a spare locker and walked out, dragging my feet every inch of the way.

  As I crossed the floor, scanning the bleachers for a place to sit, I noticed particulars about the group for the first time. Most of the class of fourteen or so was gathered around four figures. It was obvious from the seating arrangement that the four teenagers in the middle were members of the ‘popular crowd.’ The four consisted of two boys and two girls. The girls were pretty in the typical, cookie-cutter way. One girl was blonde and lanky with high cheekbones and a pixy nose; the other girl was brunette and very petite, almost diminutive, and had similar bone structures in her face. The boys differed wildly.

  While one fit the idea of typical, the other looked far from garden variety. The cookie-cutter boy was bulky and athletic. He had brown hair and a square jaw, which was balanced on his square face. I knew that if he weren’t in his gym uniform, he would definitely have a letterman’s jacket on, flaunting the school’s colors. But it was the other boy, the non-cookie-cutter, whom I couldn’t stop looking at. He was talking to everyone in a clear voice, which echoed around the large space, and I felt a magic, a certain sense of presence the others could never have. After hearing him tell a rather simple, funny story to the crowd, I was convinced he could talk a bear into giving up its honey stash.

  I stared, trying to understand how anyone could be so graceful in simply shifting their weight on metal bleachers, and he looked up. He met my stare with an intensity that was as breathtaking as it was startling. Could looks burn a person? I felt scorched.

  I sat, hoping he wasn’t one of the popular kids prone to teasing for something as accidental as a stare. It was more than embarrassment for getting caught staring that had me on edge, though. His eyes, green and full of some secret fire, had me actually feeling self-conscious about the way I looked, and I never worried about the way I looked. I shook my head to get rid of the vision of him, but I couldn’t. He was there, a shimmering mirage unwillingly lodged into my brain by the girls who were staring at him in brainless entrancement. Not able to help it, I looked at him through a girl’s eyes, more willing to look than I would ever admit aloud.

  His face was angular, with a strong jaw line. He had black, messy hair, which made his snowy skin appear even paler. I wondered if the hair was a deliberate choice or if that was just the way it fell. He wasn’t my normal type, too preppy, too boy band-ish, but I had to agree with the others; he was beautiful.

  There was something else about him, too. I ran a hand through my hair as I tried to place the curious knot of recognition in my stomach. It was as if I knew the curve of his face, the way he tapped impatiently on the bleachers. It was as if we had spent hours in conversation that no one but us could enjoy. I chuckled at the thought. That was as unlikely as me deciding to paint my fingernails pink.

  A voice cut through my internal ogling, and I shut out the visions of him. “Hey! You’re Clare Michaels, right?”

  I turned and saw the girl with long blonde hair lean forward out of the chattering crowd. Everyone stopped talking and turned to stare at me at the question. Over the sudden silence, I heard a rush of thoughts I couldn’t keep out, my temples pulsing in time to the assault.

  The loudest thought was: I bet she’s killed people! Just look at her! Mom says that she’s lived all over the world. I bet she’s seen a lot. I bet she’s done a lot. I bet everyone would be jealous if she were my friend. It would give me an edge over the rest. And, I could totally pay back Michelle for thinking she’s better because her family owns half the town, take her down a notch.

  “Last time I checked, I am,” I said knowing those thoughts had been the blonde girl’s. They matched her voice.

  “I’m Jennifer.”

  I looked away to keep from laughing. Just once, I’d like to meet someone who looked like her named Virginia or Evelyn. “Hi, Jennifer,” I said.

  “Why don’t you sit up here with us?” she invited, patting the bleacher next to her in a way that turned the question into a command.

  The boys, who were sitting to her left, shifted over to give me room, already figuring I wouldn’t say no. I looked at them for a second, wondering if I was being set up. It would be true to form. I shrugged and moved to sit next to the bulky, brown-haired boy, not caring if it was a set up. I’d lived through worse, and if I got this out of the way now they’d leave me alone later. It was better this way.

  There was another surge of thought as I sat down:

  She’s hot, despite her hair. I bet she’s been around. I wonder if she’s into football players.

  My aunt knew her mom. I bet I could use that to get her to talk to me.

  She’s so cool! I want a nose ring!

  Everyone was excited about her?

  I wonder if she really lived in China.

  I guess it really is true that the children pay for the sin of the parents.

  Startled, I tried to follow that last thought to its owner. I couldn’t be sure under the deluge, but it felt as if it was coming from a girl sitting outside the group. Everyone else’s eyes, while judgmental, were excited and curious. Hers were cold and distant – an impenetrable barrier of hardened emotions. I shivered and turned away, wondering if she really knew how true that thought was.

  “This is Mark Sheldon.” Jennifer pointed to the bulky boy next to me as soon as I was seated. He winked slyly. “This is Michelle King.” She pointed to the girl on her other side, who nodded at me. “And that’s Daniel Adams.”

  Mark leaned back so that I could follow Jennifer’s finger, which was pointing directly at Mr. Popularity. His eyes, which had been on the same girl I had been looking at, came back to mine, and I saw that they were cold as well, but it was a different kind of cold. It was a cold that was kept there to hide a raging, burning fire within.

  He nodded once and flicked his eyes away towards the locker rooms, apparently already bored with the introductions.

  No one else from the group seemed to merit an introduction as, in a voice laced with excitement, Jennifer started plying me with questions: where I was from, how I liked King’s Cross so far, where I went to school before, what kinds of things I was interested in…

  The rest of my new classmates listened with fascinated wonder; even the kids who were sitting a little farther from the group, obviously not part of the ‘popular crowd,’ were quiet as they listened to this strange exchange.

  The questions did little to settle my nerves. I felt as if I was being interviewed or cross-examined on the witness stand for a murder I didn’t commit. It was hard not to.

  They all thought I was some sort of wild, crazy fiend, living on the outskirts of life; a rebel and a troublemaker, poised to set fire to the school on a whim. That was why they were all so interested in me and were hanging onto my answers like they were scripture.

  How could I explain that not everyone in cities led adventurous, party going lives? How could I explain that not everyone who looks Punk is Punk? How could I explain that my life had been lived with the understanding that not being noticed was the best way not to get dead? How could I take away years of prejudice in one morning? It didn’t matter; I would let them think what they wanted. It didn’t mean they knew what, or who, I was.

  Mr. Henley ambled out of his office and cut short the twenty questions with a blow from his oversized orange whistle. He called the roll and told us we would be playing tennis again – apparently, they had been playing it for a while – and that we should find partners to play against. I wasn’t shocked when my new acquaintances all had partners in seconds, leaving me to myself on the bleachers. Typical. Their interest in
me only stretched as far as the entertainment I could provide them. At least it was something familiar in a day that already felt unfamiliar and foreign.

  Mr. Henley noticed me as I watched the bustle of humanity below and ambled over. “No partner, eh?” he asked scratching his greasy brown hair. He looked over and his moon face turned sly. “Well, you can play against Daniel, then. You don’t mind do ya, Daniel?” Sorry, kid.

  I looked over, wondering why Mr. Popularity hadn’t partnered with Mark, who was obviously his friend. I hadn’t noticed in the bustle of activity that Mark had partnered with another athletic type, who shared his mental capacity of none.

  Daniel sighed audibly at the request, but when he answered, his tone was polite. “Of course not, Coach. I’d be happy to.”

  I rolled my eyes at his hypocrisy and watched him descend to the floor, wishing I could sit the class out. He moved past me noiselessly, as if he was walking on air rather than hard metal, his face impassive. After a startled pause, I followed him, stomping down the bleachers like a whole herd of baby elephants, rejecting his silent grace.

  I slowly followed as he walked to the net on the very end of the gym, farthest from the entrance, smiling at people as he passed. To me, he looked like a diplomat on the floor of Congress politicking for all he was worth.

  When we reached our net, he bent down and grabbed a racket from the pile to hand to me. I stared at him with a frown, trying to understand…everything.

  “What?” he asked as I took the racket.

  I shrugged. “I just figured that you’d play with Mark. Isn’t that the law of the jungle?”

  Was that too honest? Too blunt? Who cared? He was one of them.

  He smirked, his smile not leaving his lips. “No one will play with me, not even Mark. One too many lost games.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, twirling the racket in my hands absently.

  “Not all jungles are the same.”

  It was my turn to smirk. Yeah. Right.

  He walked around to the other side of the small court, winking at Jennifer and Michelle as he went. I set my stance, my temper flaring at the wink. I couldn’t tell for sure, but something about his tone and his actions had me thinking that he was being insincere. If there was one thing in this world that made me angry, it was posturing. And his insincerity went beyond the normal teenage posturing I was used to. Which just irritated me worse. I suddenly wanted to teach him a lesson.

  Daniel bounced the ball on the floor once, and even over the sounds of people yelling and playing their own games, I could hear it hit. It was like an avalanche, or the beginning of something else.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “Are you?” I retorted.

  He planted his feet and smirked again, the cold in his eyes unwavering. For once, I was glad Ellen had thrown me into too many clubs to count over the years, in the hope I would find a niche; that I would fit in somewhere, anywhere. A desperate attempt at normalcy I knew would never work. But it served its own purpose. How was he to know that I had helped my school to state finals in tennis last year?

  I smiled ruefully. That was before I had been asked to quit the team; to not return for next season. Most of them had started treating me like a second-class citizen when I – the freak loner – started winning all our practice matches. I had retaliated in admittedly juvenile ways, like the spiders in the captain’s locker. My attempts to expose her to the insects of Savannah had not been appreciated by the coach, to say the least.

  Daniel nodded once in acknowledgement of my ready state and hit the ball in my direction. His serve was fast, surprising me, but I managed to hit it back to him with a swift backhand. His eyes widened in shock as he hit the ball back to me in reflex. The shock quickly melted into confusion as I slammed the ball back with a clean, well-aimed, hit.

  I smirked at him, satisfied I had managed to knock him off his carefully balanced platform. My competitive nature helping me feel as if I had just won something, our eyes met across the court in a challenge. The expression on my face gave away my emotions. His eyes narrowed dangerously at my smirk and his own competitive glint sprung up in the coolness of his green eyes. He delivered another blistering hit, which actually hurt my wrist to return, but it wasn’t enough to stop me.

  Hit. Return. Hit. Return.

  The rest of the room dropped away as I focused on our game, needing every ounce of concentration I possessed. I’d never played against someone this good, not even the girls at state. He had skill. His eyes stayed narrowed in concentration, his swings getting progressively harder and faster, as he tested my limits and searched for a weakness. I was in a similar state of concentration, though I was certain I was more determined to win.

  Hit. Return. Hit. Return.

  Despite my wrist hurting from his serves, and knowing that I might just be outclassed, I wasn’t about to lose to him. I would break my wrist before I lost. I felt that if I won, I would prove something to him, to me, to this whole stinking town. It would be proof I could control something in my life, that this place would be a new beginning.

  Hit. Return. Hit. Return.

  Twenty minutes later, drenched in sweat from our intense game, I managed to surprise him. He sent the ball my way again, the glint in his cool eyes different now, almost like his shock had been replaced by enjoyment. I hit the ball back with all the force I could muster, a small, embarrassing yell escaping me. The ball slammed into the floor, just out of his long reach, then rolled beyond him, only stopping when it hit the white gym wall. It was the only point of the game.

  There was a second of silence while I stood with my hands on my hips, panting like a dog, then whistles and cries of shock from the others echoed around the large space. Everyone had stopped their own games to watch us play; even Mr. Henley’s pig eyes were fixed on us in astonishment. I turned to Daniel to see what his reaction would be to our audience witnessing his defeat.

  What had been the big deal? Why would no one play against him? He was fast with his returns, but not untowardly. I caught everything he’d sent me at least. The bell rang, signaling the end of the period, as I stared at him. Everyone moved in the direction of the locker rooms, talking excitedly about our game, but I didn’t.

  Daniel’s eyes were locked on mine with that same burning intensity, only now his eyes were filled with curiosity and amazement rather than a cool distance. The fire was no longer checked. Those eyes trapped me, locking my muscles; and my curiosity raged out of control again. As I watched, his bright eyes – suddenly the only thing that existed for me in the entire world – flashed an eerie black color. In the next instant, they flashed back to green.

  My first, rational instinct was to think I’d imagined it, but all the hair on my neck was inexplicably standing on end. My eyes searched his in wonder, fascination and fear. How had he done that? I opened my mouth to ask the questions burning on my tongue, my curiosity showing on my face. His expression hardened as I did and he turned away. Ignoring me completely, he started talking to Michelle and Jennifer as they passed him on their way to the locker rooms. I watched him go, noticing that his long legs covered the distance quickly. Next to the two girls, he looked even more graceful than before.

  What had just happened?

  Chapter 3