“Yeah, Cathy,” Stephen cut in, his expression no longer guilty. Instead, he was smirking at me. “You can sit on my lap and play with my gear stick.”
I threw the douchebag a dirty glare, so, so, soooooo close to throwing my skateboard instead. “I’d rather walk with blistered feet in stilettos than get in a car with you, so piss off!” I yelled.
“Sheesh,” Stephen said. “Are you on your period or something?”
“You’re that something. You’re worse than a million periods, so leave me the hell alone or I’m going to make you bleed.” I spun around and stalked off, heading down the road on foot, my skateboard under my arm, which was still stinging from the graze.
The sound of Stephen’s car fired up, followed by the slamming of doors. A second later, Stephen gunned the engine, leaving behind a cough-inducing burst of exhaust fumes as his car took off like a pinball, careening down the street. I mentally prayed for a cop car to come out of one of the side roads and nab them, but unfortunately none appeared.
I continued towards school, already wanting the day to be over.
***
I entered my form room, stopping in my tracks at who was sitting behind my desk. Christopher looked up, his eyes locking with mine. Stephen was sitting next to him, which was unusual, considering he usually sat at the back of the class due to being allergic to teachers.
Our form teacher entered the class, giving my legs a disapproving look. There was no concern on his face for my scraped flesh, only annoyance. Though, after I’d washed off the blood, my injuries didn’t look as bad as they felt.
“Remove those tights in the break,” Mr. Stanton muttered, the holes in them bigger from my fall. “And if I see you in them again, you will get detention.”
Refraining from giving him the middle finger, I muttered a “Yes, sir” and walked to my seat, still annoyed that I’d gotten him as a form teacher this year. Yet, I wouldn’t have minded so much if Nicky had been put in the same form room instead of the neighbouring one. I didn’t have any friends in this class ... actually, I didn’t have any friends other than Nicky. It was because people thought I was rude. I just found it hard to talk to people who would much rather I’d died instead of Vesna. She’d been the popular, chatty, more sociable of the two of us. Me, I was mostly quiet, sometimes a smartass, preferring drawing and skateboarding over interacting with people, Vesna and Nicky exceptions to that rule. They were the only people I could be myself with. They didn’t equate my shyness with snobbishness or mistake my lack of concentration for a lack of interest. They knew it was due to my ADHD, something that often got me into trouble with teachers and students alike.
Now only Nicky understood that.
Doing my best to ignore Christopher’s stare, I slipped into my seat and dumped my bag on the floor, giving it a swift kick under my desk, wishing it was Stephen’s head instead. I tensed as a tap landed on my shoulder. Stephen sniggered. I ignored the imbecile, knowing it was probably Christopher touching me, because Stephen knew if he laid one finger on me inappropriately, I’d bend it back like the last time. Snap, crackle, and popped his joint right out of its socket. I hadn’t meant to dislocate his finger, but it had still amused me hearing him scream higher than a soprano on helium.
Christopher tapped my shoulder again, whispering, “Cara.”
I brushed his hand off me. “My name’s not Cara, and don’t touch me if you know what’s good for you.”
“Cara is dear in Italian.”
I looked back at him, ignoring the fact I liked everything about his face. Why were all the gorgeous guys dickwads? “I’m not your dear or dare, so leave me the hell alone. Comprende?”
“Are you Spanish?”
“Nope.”
“You must really like Spaniards, then,” he said.
“Or maybe I just don’t like you.”
Instead of getting offended, he smiled at me. It lit up his whole face, making me feel like a born again Christian seeing the light for the first time. I really didn’t know how a person could look as good as he did, his features just too perfect.
That same telling eyebrow rose, alerting me to the fact I was staring at him. I pressed my nails into the scrapes on my hands to bring me back to reality, a reality where he was the cousin of my douchebag ex, not to mention a douche himself, instead of a beautiful guy I couldn’t take my eyes off.
Hissing from the pain, I turned back around to face the front of the class.
Another tap landed on my shoulder. “Cara—”
Mr. Stanton hollered at the class to be quiet, cutting off whatever Christopher was going to say. My form teacher was a short, pudgy man in his early thirties, with a voice twice his size, a bad comb-over, and a dress sense that had no place in 1989. The lapels on his shirt were bigger than Dumbo’s ears, while the bell bottoms on his pants were unbelievable. He really needed a new wardrobe, one that didn’t scream Saturday Night Fever, because he was definitely no John Travolta.
Mr. Stanton continued, “We have a new student joining our class today.” His gaze moved past me. “Christopher Laboure, please come to the front. Tell the class a bit about yourself, and where you’ve come from.”
Christopher pushed up from his desk, brushing a finger across my arm as he passed by. I whipped my arm back, feeling as though he’d run a burning match across my scrapes. I hissed and looked down at my arm, half-expecting to see an even brighter mark, but instead it looked no different. I ran a finger over it the same way he’d done, the scrape not hurting like it had with his touch. Confused, I looked back up as Christopher came to a stop in front of the teacher’s desk.
Mr. Stanton frowned at him, giving Christopher an even more disapproving look than he’d given me. He was puffing out his pudgy cheeks, reminding me of Boss Hogg from The Dukes of Hazzard. His disapproving gaze wandered over the flame tattoos on Christopher’s arms, which he’d probably never seen on a student before, especially in a boring middle-class suburb like Agnaru. Though, Christopher didn’t look like any student I’d ever met before.
Mr. Stanton’s gaze dropped to Christopher’s hoodie. “Cut-off shirts aren’t permitted, along with hoodies. Since you’re new, I’ll let it pass for today.” He indicated to Christopher’s mouth. “But remove that lip ring immediately.”
Losing his smile, Christopher pulled out the ring and pocketed it. He flicked his tongue over his lip like he’d done the night before, capturing my full attention, the guy certainly an eyeful.
A group of girls a few rows away from him giggled, capturing his attention. Kylie Adams wriggled her fingers at him, the brunette eating him up like a cream-filled lamington with extra coconut sprinkled on top. I grimaced, thinking they’d be a perfect match. The both of them were as conceited as each other. Christopher smiled at Kylie, giving his female equivalent the same wicked grin he’d given me only a short while ago. He was obviously a player, using his one-hundred watt smile to get whoever he wanted—minus me.
Bored with the self-appreciation club, I turned my attention to the window, watching a paper bag dancing across the concrete and onto the grass. It continued towards the rugby fields, the breeze taking it on a rollercoaster ride.
Christopher started talking, “As Mr. Stanton said, my name’s Christopher Laboure, but you can all call me Chris, or even Topher, though, I’ll punch you for the last one.”
The class laughed at his lame remark, dragging my bored gaze back to him. Mr. Stanton opened his mouth as if he was going to tell Christopher off for the ‘punch’ comment, but instead clamped it shut, thankfully giving our ears a rest.
Looking oblivious to Mr. Stanton’s annoyance, or probably not caring, Christopher resumed talking, “My famiglia are like gypsies, rarely staying in one place for long. However, my grandfather is tired of travelling. He wants to settle in New Zealand since it’s his birthplace.”
He continued, displaying no fear or embarrassment, the total opposite of me. I wasn’t one for public speaking, my nerves usually causing me to
shake.
Christopher’s gaze returned to Kylie’s group. They were whispering amongst themselves, all of them looking at him like he was a god. His lips pulled up into that devilish smile of his, clashing with his angelic features, or maybe he was a mismatch between heaven and hell, a visual paradox.
He turned his smile to me with a look that said: See, they know I’m hot.
I pulled a face at him, getting a snigger in response. The girls’ heads spun around like the demon child from The Exorcist to see who he was laughing at. Their attention landed on me with a crash, bang. Kylie mouthed, ‘Bitch’. She’d hated me ever since Form Four, all because I’d gone out with a boy she’d liked. The boy was long gone from my life, while her hatred had stayed well past its use-by-date.
Christopher pulled Kylie’s attention back to him. “By the way, Stephen’s my cousin,” he said. “Of course, my famiglia got all the looks, while his got brain damage.”
The class erupted with laughter, except for Stephen, who yelled out, “It’s the other way around!” which only set the class off more, since everyone knew the dumbass was thicker than the soles on Kylie’s platform boots. I’d only gone out with him since I hadn’t known what he was like back then, Stephen having moved schools last term. He’d been expelled from his previous school for punching the rugby coach. It was over the coach’s daughter, who Stephen had slept with, the coach not taking it well. He’d dropped Stephen from the rugby team because of it, which had resulted in Stephen punching him.
“Quieten down!” Mr. Stanton boomed.
The class went silent, except for a muttered grumble from Stephen, repeating that he wasn’t dumb.
Christopher did an exaggerated bow, which got loud applause from Kylie and her minions. Smiling wide, he sauntered back to his seat, this time keeping his hands to himself.
The remainder of the form class went by quick, with Christopher not bothering me again. After the bell rang, I headed straight for the restroom to take my tights off, relieved to be leaving him behind.
For now.
***
Despite my cuts and scrapes, I smiled as I entered the art room, Art my favourite subject. I had one class in painting and drawing, one in sculpture, and another in Art History, three out of my five subjects having something to do with art. The painting and drawing class was the one I liked the best, especially since the teacher gave me free rein to do whatever style I wanted, which was usually photorealistic images or intricate graphic designs, often with a crafty element.
I said hello to the art teacher, adding a thanks to his compliment of my hair. Unlike Mr. Stanton, Mr. Glenmore was one of the hip, young teachers. Actually, he looked more like a rock star with his long brown hair tied back, his casual T-shirt, and blue jeans. A lot of girls had a crush on him, one of them Kylie, who was trying to catch his attention as she sat down at the desk in front of him.
“Hi, Mr. Glenmore,” Kylie said in a breathy voice that she’d probably copied from a Marilyn Monroe movie. It sounded stupid as hell, so much so that even I felt embarrassed for her.
She flipped her long brown mane of puffed-out hair, reminding me of the animals courting each other in a science video from my sixth form biology class. I could just imagine her as female jaguar, getting ready to pounce on some unsuspecting prey.
Mr. Glenmore nodded at her, then turned to another student, declawing the jaguar. Kylie let out a frustrated huff, her hair, unlike mine, going unnoticed.
I smirked with a touch of childish glee, and headed for the cabinet that held most of the artworks. I slid open my drawer, removing the canvas I’d prepped just before the end of term one. I carried it over to my table and sat down on the backless stool, placing the thin piece of canvas on top of the paint-stained surface. I’d cut the canvas into an oval shape, adding a hole to the middle, the idea coming from a poncho. I was going to weave green wool around the hole’s edge, as well as adding tassels to the outer rim, giving the painting an Arts & Crafts feel.
I removed my backpack and grabbed my pencil case out of it, wincing a little at the scrape on my hand. But it wasn’t going to stop me from finishing the design. I wanted to complete it as quickly as possible so I could start painting it.
I took out an HB pencil and picked up where I’d left off, continuing to draw the floral pattern inside the large cross. I ignored the other students as they filed into the classroom, more concerned with the curves and lines of my work than them. My hand moved without thought, art second nature to me. My twin had been the same. Well, in my opinion she had, something that Vesna would’ve disagreed with. She’d said that my work was ‘way better’—her words, not mine, but that was probably because I spent more time on it. Maybe if she’d done the same, instead of going off here, there, and everywhere, she could’ve been just as good, if not better.
Maybe she wouldn’t have been murdered either.
I bowed my head, the weight of her death still heavy upon my shoulders. Even though we’d laid her body to rest, there was no closure. I was still in the dark over why she’d gone to Buckland’s Reserve. She’d become secretive in the month prior to her death, something that had led to arguments between us. She’d never left me in the dark before. We’d spoken about everything, even when she’d cheated on one of her boyfriends. Although she knew I would’ve bitten her head off for it—which I had, she still told me. So I didn’t get why she’d pulled away from me. It had hurt.
Still hurt.
A hand brushed across my back, startling me out of my morbid thoughts. I snapped my head around, spotting Christopher heading for a desk by the window with Stephen. He winked at me over his shoulder, his lip ring back in place.
Furious he was in my favourite class, I refocused on my work, not wanting to give the jerk one more second of my time. A few minutes later, footsteps approached my table. I kept my eyes trained on the canvas, praying it wasn’t Christopher—although I knew it was.
He placed his chin on my shoulder.
I jerked to the side and glared up at him. “If you touch me one more time, I swear I’ll go loco on you.”
His eyes remained on my work, my threat having no effect on him. It was like I hadn’t even spoken. “Interesting piece,” he said.
My face dropped. “Is that a polite way of saying it sucks?” I replied, offended, my art my pride and joy. “Because whenever I say something’s interesting it usually means it’s crap. I just don’t want to upset the artist.”
He shook his head. “No, interesting to me means fascinating, that I like it—like you.” His chocolate-brown eyes shifted to me, no humour involved, not even a hint, his honest response rattling me.
I wiggled about uncomfortably on my chair. “Well, I don’t like you, so le—” The last word caught in my throat as his eyes darkened, the brown turning pitch black. I stared at them, transfixed, not sure whether it was a trick of the light or my imagination. Red flashed across them, causing me to jerk my head back. Then it was gone, his eyes brown once more.
His upper lip twitched in amusement. “You do like to stare at me, don’t you?”
I didn’t reply, too stunned to speak.
“Still staring,” he said.
I quickly turned away, blinking rapidly, sure it was a figment of my imagination. Or maybe the red was a reflection of the paint on my table. Yeah, that had to be it, because what I’d just seen wasn’t possible.
“Why are you drawing a cross with flowers?” he asked.
Ignoring him, I dropped the HB pencil on the table and pulled out a sharper one from my pencil case. Willing my hand not to shake, I resumed drawing, the guy freaking me out.
“Well?” he asked.
“What do you care?” I muttered, my hand still shaking as I drew a petal. I tightened my grip, repeating in my head that what I’d seen hadn’t been real.
Light.
Reflection.
Nothing more.
The memory of Reprebus’ red eyes returned. But that was a dream.
And this was reality.
Light.
Reflection.
NOTHING MORE!
“Your artwork really does look interesting,” Christopher said, not getting the massive hint to bug off.
“Doubt it’s my artwork you’re interested in.” I retraced a line, too distracted to do anything else, but needing to keep busy.
“Now who’s the arrogant one?”
My gaze flicked back to him. “You’re clearly hitting on me,” I retorted, praying his eyes stayed the same colour, “so don’t try to make out I’m full of myself, because I’m not.” Yeah, I knew I was good-looking, but that didn’t mean I thought I was God’s gift like he did.
“And I never called you arrogant,” I added.
He cocked a brow at me. “Though, you think I am.”
“That’s because you are.”
“Maybe I have good reason to be.” His tongue flicked out, running over that damn sexy lip ring of his. A second later, the corner of his mouth quirked up, a smirk quickly forming.
Realising I was staring at his lips, I let out an annoyed huff, pissed off that I was so attracted to him. His eyes sparkled at me, amusement dancing across his irises, which thankfully didn’t change colour.
“Regardless of what you think of me,” he said, “I’m not lying about your artwork. I still like what you’re doing. So, tell me why you’re drawing flowers inside a cross?”
I hesitated for a moment, hoping he truly meant that. He seemed sincere, not even a hint of a lie hitting my radar. “I have a thing for crosses, while flowers are pretty.”
“Like you.” He lifted his hand, brushing my hair aside, his fingers momentarily grazing my skin. His touch felt too hot, as if he’d been holding burning coals between his fingers. But instead of burning my skin, a warmth washed over me, the feeling nice. I raised my hand to touch his, not knowing why, other than feeling a strange compulsion to do so.
“Chris!” Stephen barked, jolting me. “I told you Cathy’s my girl, so get your greasy hands offa her before I break ’em.”
I quickly dropped my hand, flustered that I’d almost touched Christopher. I shot Stephen a glare, relieved he’d broken the spell, but also annoyed at his persistence. One would’ve thought that dislocating his finger would’ve put him off me, but nope, he was like an irritating fly, continuing to buzz around me no matter how many times I swatted him away.
Stella Maris (The Legendary Rosaries) Page 3
