Wicked Cool (The Spellspinners)

by Diane Farr

  I suppose it’s ridiculous, because it’s obvious that Lance, being a spellspinner, is probably the only person I’ve ever met who I could talk to. But I couldn’t. The only person I’ve ever confided in is Meg. And old habits die hard.

  When I didn’t answer, he spoke again. “How have you dealt with it, Zara? I'm curious.”

  “You go first,” I said at last. “You said you’d come here to teach me. So how about if I ask the questions?”

  “Okay,” he said—which surprised me a little, frankly. “Shoot.”

  “What’s a spellspinner?”

  The wind ruffled his hair and hissed in the grasses. “It’s what I am,” he said. “And it’s what you are.”

  As if I didn’t know.

  “And if you’ve never even heard the term before, I’ve got my work cut out for me. Man.” He rubbed his temples like he had a headache, but you know what? I could tell he was actually enjoying the idea. In fact, I heard pure pleasure in his voice as he said: “It’s going to be a long summer.”

  This tipped me off to the notion that I was going to see him again. And that I might, in fact, be seeing a lot of him. The prospect struck me as a pleasant one.

  Sssh. Don’t tell anybody I said so.

  “So now that you’ve found me, you’re sticking around?”

  “For a while, anyway. After that ... we’ll see.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “Very mysterious.”

  “I’m a mysterious guy,” he agreed.

  “I still don’t know what a spellspinner is.”

  He raised one hand halfway to my face—then stopped, and dropped it back to his side. “You will, Zara,” he said softly. “I promise.”

  He had been reaching to brush my cheek with the back of his hand. I know it. I felt it. I sensed his intent almost as if it had been my own. Why he stopped himself, I don’t know.

  But I do know this. I’m glad he didn’t touch me.

  It would have been too much. WAY too much.

  I had to break the mood. So I said, “Let’s start with the easy stuff. Can spellspinners grant wishes?”

  “Wishes like: I wish I had a million dollars? No. Sorry. But the good news is, we don’t have to live in bottles or lamps.”

  “Well, that’s something, I guess.”

  “We do have certain advantages. Gifts.”

  I nodded. Waited. Said nothing. I still had a hard time talking about it.

  So he went on. “Some wishes, we can grant. If you want to put it that way.”

  I snorted. “Yeah, right. I can grant wishes like: I wish the TV were a little louder. Anybody can grant a wish like that.”

  “Right. But most people have to use the remote.”

  I clammed up again. Because he was right, of course. I can turn the volume up or down just by thinking about it a certain way. But I was filled with anxiety over the fact that I had almost admitted it. Out loud. Like I said, old habits die hard.

  It was way too dark to read his expression. I felt, rather than saw, how carefully he was watching me. His voice was quiet when he spoke. “Why are you afraid?”

  I flung my arms out, palms up. “I just am.” Then I hugged myself, shivering a little. “This is pretty huge for me, Lance. I’ve had a very big day.”

  “Ah.” Silence fell again. But silence between Lance and me isn’t like normal silence. It crackles. It shimmers. It beats like a heart. I don’t know how else to describe it. The air between us pulsed with some kind of low-level energy, full of signals and signs that I couldn’t quite read ... but I bet Lance could. Because he seemed content to stand and watch me, listening to the waves that I sensed, but could not interpret.

  “Well,” he said at last. “There’s always tomorrow.”

  Relief washed over me. Not only because I was off the hook for now—face it, these high-adrenaline encounters can wear you out—but because I was going to see him again.

  I had to see him again. I felt that with every fiber of my being.

  “Same time, same place?”

  “If you like.” He gave me a crooked smile. A sexy smile. Very hot. “Your wish is my command.”

  I shook my head slowly, feigning amazement. “I can’t believe it. I finally have a fairy godmother.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. I was kind of surprised, because he didn’t look like the laughing type. But it eased my mind, to tell you the truth.

  It was the first thing I’d seen him do that seemed completely human.

  6

  Shock!!! I don’t know what to think. Today wasn’t anything like I expected.

  What is with this guy?!

  Last night I didn’t sleep at all. I was beyond wired. Part of it was my mind trying to let go of Jenny, which normally would have been plenty. So I'm almost ashamed to say that the biggest part of it was thinking about Lance. Meeting Lance sent me into a whole ’nother plane of existence. I could practically feel the neurons firing in my brain.

  He never touched me, so why did I feel ... I can’t describe it ... touched. He never said or did anything threatening, so why did I feel afraid? Part of me was thrilled and excited. That part of me, after I left him last night, couldn’t wait to see him again. But another part of me wanted to crawl under the bed and never come out. That part of me, the part of me that is afraid, is even stronger tonight than it was last night—and even last night, it wanted to turn the clock back and forget I ever saw him.

  I am so mixed-up.

  If every cell in my body hadn’t been sent into hyperdrive, I might have thought I dreamed the whole thing. But I didn’t. Oh no, I definitely Did Not Dream This. Lance Donovan is real.

  But that whole scene, you know, wandering out in the summer twilight and meeting him at the edge of the woods and all that—and I did not imagine that thing with the thought-transference, or whatever it was—I mean, it was totally dreamlike. And excuse me, but he is wholly a creature of the night. And his existence is—or should be—a secret. A deep, dark secret. I feel this IN MY BONES.

  So imagine my utter shock when he intruded into my daylight hours.

  Into my life. My actual life.

  I don’t know why, exactly, this knocked me for a loop. Let’s face it, whatever he is—a spellspinner—is obviously what I am. And I am a regular person, with a daylight life. Friends (okay, one friend) and family (okay, Nonny) and school and whatever. So why shouldn’t Lance be a regular person, too? At some level. Like I am.

  I can’t help it. This scares me to pieces.

  So the truth is, I don’t want him in my life. I want him ... but not in my life.

  Gee, that’s real clear, Zara. Good job.

  Arrrrrgh!!!

  Well, if you can’t be brutally honest in your midnight scribblings, when can you be brutally honest??

  And that is, itself, a rather sad thought. Because I just noticed something. I started this venting-on-paper thing right after the Water Park Incident.

  Because that was the moment when I realized I couldn’t tell my best friend everything. Not anymore.

  Oh, man. This totally bites.

  I had to stop there and punch my pillow for a couple of minutes. Okay. I’m calmer now.

  Here’s what happened today.

  When I got out of the shower this morning and wrapped a towel around my head, I heard voices floating up from the porch below my window. I couldn’t make out whose voices they were, but then I heard Meg’s laugh. So I threw on a cami and some shorts and ran down, damp hair and all. Dying to unload on my BFF, you know, since I was rather full of news.

  And there was Meg, sitting on the swing and pushing it back and forth with one bare foot, smiling like an angel half full of pie. And leaning against the porch rail across from her was Lance Donovan.

  I almost jumped out of my skin. Flummoxed, that what Nonny calls it. I was completely flummoxed. Everything I had been dying to say to Meg just … evaporated.

  Then the screen door banged shut behind me, and Lance looked up. His
eyes met mine and my heart fell right out of my chest and burned a hole in the floor.

  Okay, not really. But that’s what it felt like.

  He looks even better in the light.

  His hair is dark, like I thought, but not as black as it looked last night; it’s more of a chestnut color. One lock falls across his forehead in a way that makes your fingers itch to touch it. His brows are straight and dark, slash marks above his lime-green eyes. The effect—at least the effect it all has on me—is nothing short of devastating.

  But what was he doing on my porch in broad daylight?!

  He was wearing a light blue tee shirt and a battered pair of jeans. He looked lithe and athletic. Not football-player athletic; more like ... I dunno ... maybe a fencer.

  Oh, yeah. I can picture him with a sword in his hand. And maybe one of those lace shirts, torn open to the waist. Pirate boots. Ha! He’d look great. Strong and quick and lethal.

  Was I swooning? I’m afraid I was swooning. Just a little.

  My first coherent thought was, aha, you’re wearing sky blue. I’m on to you, Jack. This is because I wear a lot of pastels, myself. In fact, this morning I was wearing a baby-soft yellow. It’s like camouflage. My weirdly pale skin doesn’t look so weirdly pale when I wear Easter egg colors. Lance’s skin isn’t quite as light as mine, and his hair isn’t quite as dark. But he’s, let’s face it, naturally spooky-looking. Or surely would be, if he wore, oh, I don’t know—an opera cape or something.

  Spotting his attempt at camouflage was another instance where the kinship vibe hit me. This is a pleasant sensation to a girl who has never felt it before. It’s like a tiny, secret thrill; a wee bit of comfort to cling to ... as I fight the waves of anxiety he makes me feel.

  It probably doesn’t make sense that I like feeling kinship with a guy who scares me. Nor that I’m attracted to a guy who scares me. But it’s tough to go through life feeling like a space alien. Now the mother ship has apparently landed, and I’m not the only freak on the block. So excuse me if something as trivial as a sky blue shirt makes me go all soft and squishy. I know it’s stupid, okay? Cut me some slack. I’m new at this.

  And then Meg piped up, shattering the moment. “Zara, this is Lance,” she chirped. “His family just moved here.”

  Whaaaaa—?

  I almost said a rude word. I swallowed it, though, because it would have sounded wacko to Meg. But I do not believe Lance’s family just moved here. In fact, I would bet real money that Lance doesn’t even have a family. If he does, I bet they would never in a million years move to Cherry Glen. Not voluntarily. Paris, yes. Manhattan, probably. Transylvania, definitely. But out here, among the cherry orchards? I think not. Lance is so not the blossoms-and-dusty-roads type.

  Of course, I could be wrong. After all, I’m in Cherry Glen. And what do I know about spellspinners, anyway? Maybe we gravitate to prime farmland.

  Like I said, I am mixed-up.

  Anyway, Meg ‘introduced’ us. Neither of us said anything like, “Oh, thanks, we’ve already met,” which gave me kind of an icky feeling. As if Lance and I were in cahoots, deceiving Meg.

  This is not my favorite way to feel.

  If he had reached out to shake my hand, I might have put my hands behind my back to avoid his touch. Which would have looked totally childish, not to mention daft. So I’m glad he didn’t try to shake my hand. He just jerked his chin at me and said, “Zara. Hey.”

  “Hey yourself,” I snapped.

  When I’m flummoxed, I get cranky.

  Meg looked startled, but Lance’s expression did not change. At all. Talk about cool.

  I felt like an idiot, so I tried to recover. “What brings you—and your family— to Cherry Glen, Lance?” I asked. All bright and friendly, this time.

  I already knew the answer, and he knew I knew. But we both knew Meg didn’t know. And I was betting that neither of us was going to tell her.

  I was right. Lance didn’t bat an eye. “The moving truck,” he said.

  Oh, ha, ha. Moving truck, my foot. Meg giggled, though, as if he had said something clever.

  It wasn’t clever, it was evasive.

  At this point, I went to sit by her in the swing. It was sort of a protective gesture, if you want to know the truth. Besides, I wanted to face Lance straight on, the better to keep an eye on him. He’s dangerous.

  “What school will you go to?” Meg asked him. She sounded all hopeful. I could tell she wanted the glory of introducing him to her friends at St. Francis.

  One of his eyebrows went up. Barely. “Is there more than one?”

  “Cherry Glen isn’t that small,” I said. I was feeling crankier by the minute.

  Meg tried to cover for my rudeness. “It’s small, but they bus kids in from all over,” she said. “And there’s a Catholic school, not just a public school. Zara goes to Cherry Glen High. I go to St. Francis.”

  Something—laughter?—flickered in the back of Lance’s green, green eyes. “I don’t think I’m the Catholic school type.”

  “You got that right,” I muttered.

  “Zara’s not the Catholic school type, either,” said Meg. She shot me a look that would have, in normal circumstances, been like sharing a private joke. Too bad Lance already knew exactly what that sly look meant. He didn’t let on, though.

  He shifted his shoulders against the post, angling himself to get a better view of my face. That was definitely laughter in the back of his eyes. “Is that so?” he said. He sounded all polite, but I wasn’t fooled. “Then I guess I’ll see Zara at Cherry Glen High.”

  I’m afraid my jaw dropped. Oh, no. I couldn’t imagine Lance Donovan at Cherry Glen High. You have got to be kidding me. “You’re going to Cherry Glen High?!”

  “Sure.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. Totally casual. “I’ll be a junior this year, same as you and Meg.”

  Great, just great. My heart was starting to skip beats. Panic time. How could I fly under the social radar with Lance Donovan around?! Help.

  I glared at him, eyes narrowed. “You don’t look like a junior. You don’t look like a high school boy at all. How old are you?”

  I think I was expecting him to admit that he was a thousand years old or something. But he said, “Seventeen.”

  Meg stared at me. “Zara, what is your problem?”

  My problem was—one of my problems was—I was going to hyperventilate in about ten seconds. “Nothing,” I lied. “Sorry. I guess I got up on the wrong side of the bed.” Then I tried to smile, but it came off kind of sick.

  What is my problem? Don’t get me started. I couldn’t tell Megan. But I can write it here.

  Problem No. 1: I do not like keeping secrets from Meg. When Meg wants to know what my problem is, I want to be able to tell her.

  Problem No. 2: I do not like feeling this way about a member of the opposite sex. I’m not used to it. It throws me.

  Problem No. 3: If I must feel this way about a member of the opposite sex, I had rather it not be Lance. I am out of my league, here. Waaaay out of my league. And besides, who wants to have a crush on their fairy godmother?! Even when your fairy godmother is a hottie instead of a little old lady, I’m sorry, that is just so wrong.

  Problem No. 4: I don’t want to share Lance with anybody. Least of all Meg.

  Problem No. 5: I don’t want to share Meg with anybody. Least of all Lance.

  In other words, I am in so much trouble I can’t believe it.

  My morning did not improve. Megan flirted with him. Not in a big, obvious way, but I know Meg. Lance is gorgeous, of course, but I wish she hadn’t noticed it. I so do not need this!

  Eventually I sent her into the kitchen for popsicles. (Meg has total access to our kitchen, so don’t think I was being a lousy hostess or whatever.) Anyway, as soon as the door shut behind her I was off that swing and jabbing my finger at Lance’s chest. Not into Lance’s chest, mind you. Just “at” it.

  “If you hit on my friend,” I hissed, stabbing the air, “I
will hurt you.”

  He didn’t give an inch. “What are you afraid of, Zara?” His voice was low and teasing.

  “Not you, that’s for sure.” I sounded like I was four years old. Ouch. I folded my arms across my chest and glared at him. “I thought you came to this town to teach me spellspinning or whatever.”

  “You want to get started? I’m ready when you are.”

  “It’s daytime. I have a life.”

  He glanced around appreciatively. “You’re right. It’s a nice life. I think I’ll join it.”

  My first instinct was to shout NO! I guess that would have been rude. (Genius.) So I stood there. Flummoxed. A slow grin started across Lance’s face—just as if he knew what I was thinking.

  Oh. Right. He probably did.

  He shifted his weight against the porch support, sort of making himself comfortable. And he already looked pretty comfortable. “You interest me, Zara. I’ve never met a spellspinner who grew up not knowing what she is. So while I’m showing you the ropes, I thought I’d get to know you a little better. See what life is like for you.”

  “And then wreck it?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  I stabbed my finger toward his chest again. “You’d better be kidding, Donovan. And whatever you’re cooking up, leave Meg out of it. I don’t want her joining me in spellspinner class.”

  “No offense, but Meg is out of it. Spellspinners are born, not made.”

  “In that case, no offense, but what do I need you for?”

  Something hot and dark flashed in those peridot eyes. “You need me,” he said. And the way he said it gave me goosebumps.

  See, here’s the thing. I’m so freaked about who I am and what I’m supposed to do with my power, or gift, or curse, or whatever it is, that when somebody comes along who seems really, really sure, I’m kind of a sucker for that. And excuse me, but I'm feeling even more freaked than usual, after that little heart-to-heart with Nonny. Even more anchorless. Even more alien. Lance’s certainty was incredibly compelling.