by Alyson Noel
I shake my head, and spin my combination lock, feeling the weight of Haven's glare when she says, "When did this happen?" She puts her hand on her hip and stares at me. "Because you know I called dibs, right? And why didn't I get an update? Why didn't anyone tell me about this? Last I heard you hadn't even seen him yet."
"Oh, she saw him alright. I almost had to dial nine-one-one she freaked out so bad." Miles laughs.
I shake my head, shut my locker, and head down the hall.,"Well, it's true." He shrugs, walking alongside me.
"So let me get this straight; you're more of a liability than a threat?" Haven peers at me through narrowed, heavily lined eyes, her jealousy transforming her aura into a dull puke green.
I take a deep breath and look at them, thinking how if they weren't my friends, I'd tell them how ridiculous this all is. I mean, since when can you call dibs on another person? Besides, it's not like I'm all that datable in my current voice-hearing, aura-seeing, baggy-sweatshirt-wearing condition. But I don't say any of that. Instead I just say, "Yes, I'm a liability. I'm a huge uninsurable disaster waiting to happen. But I'm definitely not a threat. Mainly because I'm not interested. And I know that's probably hard to believe, with him being so gorgeous and sexy and hot and smoldering and combustible or whatever it is that you call him, but the truth is, I don't like Damen Auguste, and I don't know how else to say it!"
"Um, I don't think you need to say anything else," Haven mumbles, her face frozen as she stares straight ahead.
I follow her gaze, all the way to where Damen is standing, all shiny dark hair, smoldering eyes, amazing body, and knowing smile, feeling my heart skip two beats as he holds the door open and says, "Hey Ever, after you."
I storm toward my desk, narrowly avoiding the backpack Stacia has placed in my path, as my face burns with shame, knowing Damen's right there behind me, and that he heard every horrifying word I just said.
I toss my bag to the floor, slide onto my seat, lift my hood, and crank my iPod, hoping to drown out the noise and deflect what just happened, assuring myself that a guy like that-a guy so confident, so gorgeous, so completely amazing-is too cool to bother with the careless words of a girl like me.
But just as I start to relax, just as I've convinced myself not to care, I'm jolted by an overwhelming shock-an electric charge infusing my skin, slamming my veins, and making my whole body tingle.
And it's all because Damen placed his hand upon mine.
It's hard to surprise me. Ever since I became psychic, Riley's the only one who can do so, and believe me, she never tires of finding new ways. But when I glance from my hand to Damen's face, he just smiles and says, "I wanted to return this." Then he gives me my copy of Wuthering Heights.
And even though I know this sounds weird and more than a little crazy, the moment he spoke, the whole room went silent. Seriously, like one moment it was filled with the sound of random thoughts and voices, and the next:»
Yet knowing how ridiculous that is, I shake my head and say, "Are you sure you don't want to keep it? Because I really don't need it, I already know how it ends." And even though he removes his hand from mine, it's a moment before all the tingling dies down.
"I know how it ends too," he says, gazing at me in a way so intense, so insistent, so intimate, I quickly look away.
And just as I'm about to reinsert my earbuds, so I can block out the sound of Stacia and Honor's continuous loop of cruel commentary, Damen places his hand back on mine and says, "What're you listening to?"
And the whole room goes quiet again. Seriously, for those few brief seconds, there were no swirling thoughts, no hushed whispers, nothing but the sound of his soft, lyrical voice. I mean, when it happened before, I figured it was just me. But this time I know that it's real. Because even though people are still talking and thinking and engaging in all of the usual things, it's completely blocked by the sound of his words.
I squint, noticing how my body has' gone all warm and electric; wondering what could possibly be causing it. I mean, it's not like I haven't had my hand touched before, though I've yet to experience anything remotely like this.
"I asked what you're listening to." He smiles. A smile so private and intimate, I feel my face flush.
"Oh, um, it's just some goth mix my friend Haven made. It's mostly old, eighties stuff, you know like the Cure, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Bauhaus." I shrug, unable to avert my gaze as I stare into his eyes, trying to determine their exact color.
"You're into goth?" he asks, brows raised, eyes skeptical, taking inventory of my long blond ponytail, dark blue sweatshirt, and makeup-free, clean scrubbed skin.
"No, not really. Haven's all into it." I laugh-a nervous, cackling, cringe-worthy sound-that bounces off all four walls and right back at me.
"And you? What are you into?" His eyes still on mine, his face clearly amused.
And just as I'm about to answer, Mr. Robins walks in, his cheeks red and flushed, but not from a brisk walk like everyone thinks. And then Damen leans back in his seat, and I take a deep breath and lower my hood, sinking back into the familiar sounds of adolescent angst, test stress, body image issues, Mr. Robin's failed dreams, and Stacia, Honor, and Craig all wondering what the hot guy could possibly see in me.
Five
By the time I make it to our lunch table Haven and Miles are already there. But when I see Damen sitting beside them, I'm tempted to run the other way.
"You're free to join us, but only if you promise not to stare at the new kid." Miles laughs.
"Staring is very rude. Didn't anyone ever tell you that?"
I roll my eyes and slide onto the bench beside him, determined to show just how blase I am about Damen's presence. "I was raised by wolves, what can I say?" I shrug, busying myself with the zipper on my lunch pack.
"I was raised by a drag queen and a romance novelist," Miles says, reaching over to steal a candy corn off the top of Haven's pre-Halloween cupcake.
"Sorry; that wasn't you, sweetie, that was Chandler on Friends."
Haven laughs. "I, on the other hand, was raised in a coven. I was a beautiful vampire princess, loved, worshiped, and admired by all. I lived in a luxurious, gothic castle, and I have no idea how I ended up at this hideous fiberglass table with you losers." She nods at Damen. "And you?"
He takes a sip of his drink, some iridescent red liquid in a glass bottle, then he gazes at all three of us and says, "Italy, France, England, Spain, Belgium, New York, New Orleans, Oregon, India, New Mexico, Egypt, and a few other places in between." He smiles.
"Can you say 'military brat'?" Haven laughs, picking off a candy corn and tossing it to Miles.
"Ever lived in Oregon," Miles says, placing the candy on the center of his tongue before chasing it down with a swig of Vitamin Water.
"Portland." Damen nods.
Miles laughs. "Not a question, but okay. What I meant was, our friend Ever here, well, she lived in Oregon," he says, eliciting a sharp look from Haven, who, even after my earlier blunder, still views me as the biggest obstacle in her path to true love, and doesn't appreciate any attention being directed my way.
Damen smiles, his eyes on mine. "Where?"
"Eugene," I mumble, focusing on my sandwich instead of him, because just like in the classroom, every time he speaks it's the only sound I hear.
And every time our eyes meet I grow warm.
And when his foot just bumped against mine, my whole body tingled.
And it's really starting to freak me out.
"How'd you end up here?" He leans toward me, prompting Haven to scoot even closer to him.
I stare at the table, pressing my lips together in my usual nervous habit. I don't want to talk about my old life. I don't see the point in relaying all the gory details. Of having to explain how even though it's completely my fault that my entire family died, I somehow managed to live. So in the end I just tear the crust from my sandwich, and say, "It's a long story."
I can feel Damen's gaze-heavy, warm, and inviti
ng-and it makes me so nervous my palms start to sweat and my water bottle slips from my grip. Falling so fast, I can't even stop it, all I can do is wait for the splash.
But before it can even hit the table, Damen's already caught it and returned it to me. And I sit there, staring at the bottle and avoiding his gaze, wondering if I'm the only one who noticed how he moved so fast he actually blurred.
Then Miles asks about New York, and Haven scoots so close she's practically sitting on Damen's lap, and I take a deep breath, finish my lunch, and convince myself I imagined it.
When the bell finally rings, we all grab our stuff and head toward class, and the second Damen's out of earshot I turn to my friends and say, "How did he end up at our table?" Then I cringe at how my voice sounded so shrill and accusing.
"He wanted to sit in the shade, so we offered him a spot."
Miles shrugs, depositing his bottle in the recycling bin and leading us toward the building.
"Nothing sinister, no evil plot to embarrass you."
"Well, I could've done without the staring comment," I say, knowing I sound ridiculous and overly sensitive. I'm unwilling to express what I'm really thinking, not wanting to upset my friends with the very valid, yet unkind question: Why is a guy like Damen hanging with us?
Seriously. Out of all the kids in this school, out of all the cool cliques he could join, why on earth would he chose to sit with us-the three biggest misfits?
"Relax, he thought it was funny." Miles shrugs. "Besides, he's coming by your house tonight. I told him to stop by around eight."
"You what?" I gape at him, suddenly remembering how all through lunch Haven was thinking about what she was going to wear, while Miles wondered if he had time for a spray tan, and now it all makes sense.
"Well, apparently Damen hates football as much as we do, which we happened to learn during Haven's little Q and A that took place just moments before you "arrived." Haven smiles and curtseys, her fishnet-covered knees bowing out to either side. "And since he's new; and doesn't really know anyone else, we figured we'd hog him all to ourselves and not give him the chance to make other friends."
«But-» I stop, unsure how to continue. All I know is that I don't want Damen coming over, not tonight, not ever.
"I'll swing by sometime after eight," Haven says. "My meeting's over by seven, which gives me just enough time to go home and change. And, by the way, I call dibs on sitting next to Damen in the Jacuzzi!"
"You can't do that!" Miles says, shaking his head in outrage.
"I won't allow it!"
But she just waves over her shoulder as she skips toward class, and I turn to Miles and ask, 'Which meeting is it today?"
He opens the classroom door and smiles. "Friday is for overeaters."
Haven is what you'd call an anonymous-group addict. In the short time I've known her, she's attended twelve-step meetings for alcoholics, narcotics, codependents, debtors, gamblers, cyber addicts, nicotine junkies, social phobics, pack rats, and vulgarity lovers. Though as far as I know, today is her first one for overeaters. But then again, at five foot one with the slim, lithe body of a music box ballerina, Haven is definitely not an overeater. She's also not an alcoholic, a debtor, a gambler, or any of those other things. She's just terminally ignored by her self-involved parents, which makes her seek love and approval from just about anywhere she can get it.
Like with the whole goth thing. It's not that she's really all that into it, which is pretty obvious by the way she always skips instead of skulks, and how her Joy Division posters hang on the pastel pink walls of her not-so-long-ago ballerina phase (that came shortly after her J.Crew catalog preppy phase).
Haven's just learned that the quickest way to stand out in a town full of Juicy-clad blondes is to dress like the Princess of Darkness.
Only it's not really working as well as she hoped. The first time her mom saw her dressed like that, she just sighed, grabbed her keys, and headed off to Pilates. And her dad hasn't been home long enough to really get a good look. Her little brother, Austin, was freaked, but he adjusted pretty quickly. And since most of the kids at school have grown so used to the outrageous displays of behavior brought on by the presence of last year's MTV cameras, they usually ignore her.
But I happen to know that beneath all the skulls, and spikes, and death-rocker makeup is a girl who just wants to be seen, heard, loved, and paid attention to-something her earlier incarnations have failed to produce. So if standing before a room full of people, creating some sob story about her tormented struggle with that day's fill-in-the-blank addiction makes her feel important, well, who am I to judge?
In my old life I didn't hang with people like Miles and Haven.
I wasn't connected with the troubled kids, or the weird kids, or the kids everyone picked on. I was part of the popular crowd, where most of us were cute, atletic, talented, smart, wealthy, well liked, or all of the above. I went to school dances, had a best friend named Rachel (who was also a cheerleader like me), and I even had a boyfriend, Brandon, who happened to be the sixth boy I'd ever kissed (the first was Lucas, but that was only because of a dare back in sixth grade, and trust me, the ones in between are hardly worth mentioning). And even though I was never mean to anyone who wasn't part of our group, it's not like I really noticed them either. Those kids just didn't have anything to do with me. And so I acted like they were invisible.
But now, I'm one of the unseen too. I knew it the day Rachel and Brandon visited me in the hospital. They acted so nice and supportive on the outside, while inside, their thoughts told a whole other story. They were freaked by the little plastic bags dripping liquids into my veins, my cuts and bruises, my cast covered limbs. They felt bad for what happened, for all that I'd lost, but as they tried not to gape at the jagged red scar on my forehead, what they really wanted to do was run away.
And I watched as their auras swirled together, blending into the same dull brown, knowing they were withdrawing from me, and moving closer to each other.
So on my first day at Bay View; instead of wasting my time with the usual hazing rituals of the Stacia and Honor crowd, I headed straight for Miles and Haven, the two outcasts who accepted my friendship with no questions asked. And even though we probably look pretty strange on the outside, the truth is, I don't know what I'd do without them. Having their friendship is one of the few good things in my life. Having their friendship makes me feel almost normal again.
And that's exactly why I need to stay away from Damen because his ability to charge my skin with his touch, and silence the world with his voice is a dangerous temptation I cannot indulge.
I won't risk hurting my friendship with Haven.
And I can't risk getting too close.
Six
Even though Damen and I share two classes, the only one where we sit next to each other is English. So it's not until I've already put away my materials and am heading out of sixth-period art that he approaches.
He runs up beside me, holding the door as I slink past, eyes glued to the ground, wondering how I can possibly uninvite him.
"Your friends asked me to stop by tonight," he says, his stride matching mine. "But I won't be able to make it."
"Oh!" I say, caught completely off guard, regretting the way my voice just betrayed me by sounding so happy. "I mean, are you sure?" I try to sound softer, more accommodating, like I really do want him to visit, even though it's too late.
He gazes at me, eyes shiny and amused. "Yah, I'm sure. See you Monday," he says, picking up his pace and heading for his car, the one that's parked in the red zone, its engine inexplicably humming.
When I reach my Miata, Miles is waiting, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, his annoyance clearly displayed in his signature smirk. "You better tell me what just happened back there, because that did not look good," he says, sliding in as I open my side.
"He cancelled. Said he couldn't make it." I shrug, glancing over my shoulder as I shift in reverse.
"But what did you say t
hat made him cancel?" He glares at me.
"Nothing."
The smirk deepens.
"Seriously, I'm not responsible for wrecking your night." I pull out of the parking lot and onto the street, but when I feel Miles still staring I go, "What?"
"Nothing." He lifts his brows and stares out the window, and even though I know what he's thinking, I focus on driving instead. So then of course he turns to me and says, "Okay, promise you won't get mad."
I close my eyes and sigh. Here we go.
"It's just that-I so don't get you. It's like, nothing about you makes any sense."
I take a deep breath and refuse to react. Mostly because it's about to get worse.
"For one thing, you're completely knock-down, drag-out gorgeous-at least I think you might be, because it's really hard to tell when you're always hiding under those ugly stretched-out hoodies. I mean, sorry to be the one to say it, Ever, but the whole ensemble is completely tragic, like camouflage for the homeless, and I don't think we should have to pretend otherwise. Also; I hate to be the one to break it to you, but making a Point to avoid the completely hot new guy, who is so obviously into you, is just weird."
He stops long enough to give me an encouraging look, as I brace for what's next.
"Unless-of course-you're gay."
I make a right turn and exhale, grateful for my psychic abilities for probably the first time ever, since it definitely helped lessen the blow.
"Because it's totally cool if you are," he continues. "I mean, obviously, since I'm gay, and it's not like I'm gonna discriminate against you, right?" He laughs, a sort of nervous, we're-in-virginterritorynow kind of laugh.
But I just shake my head and hit the brake. Just because I m not interested in Damen doesn't mean I'm gay," I say, realizing I sounded far more defensive than I intended. "There's a lot more to attraction than just looks, you know."
Like warm tingling touch, deep smoldering eyes, and the seductive sound of a voice that can silence the world "Is it because of Haven?" he asks, not buying my story.
