by Alyson Noel
These things can wait. Haven cannot.
I’ve barely had a chance to cool down and pull myself together again, when Miles steps out of the crowd, away from her table, and heads in our direction. Stopping just a few feet away, taking a moment for a quick spin around, allowing for the full, three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of himself, before nailing the stop in a modelesque pose, complete with steely gaze, pouty mouth, and a hand perched on each hip.
“Notice anything different?” His eyes dart between us. “Because excuse me for saying so, but Haven’s not the only one who had a transformational summer, you know?” He drops the pose and moves closer. “So in case you didn’t hear me before, allow me to repeat myself. ‘Notice. Anything. Different?’ He pronounces the words slowly, deliberately, taking time to enunciate each and every one.
And when I look at him—when we look at him—it’s as though everything comes to a screeching, slamming halt. All breathing, blinking, and heartbeating is instantly replaced by sheer, awkward, open-mouthed gaping. Reducing us to nothing more than two frozen immortals, sitting side by side, wondering if we’re gazing upon a third.
“So, come on, tell me…whaddya think?” Miles sings, doing another quick spin before landing yet another pose he’s determined to hold ’til one of us speaks. “Holt didn’t even recognize me.”
What do I think? I think the word different doesn’t even begin to describe it. My eyes dart toward Damen, before settling back on Miles again. Heck, even radically altered or completely transformed barely cuts it! I shake my head.
The brown hair he’s worn cropped for as long as I’ve known him is now longer, wavier, almost like Damen’s. And the baby fat that once padded his cheeks, making him look a good two years younger, has now vanished completely, paving the way for things like cheekbones, a square jawline, and a more defined nose. Even his clothes, which pretty much consist of the usual jeans, shoes, and shirt he always wore, somehow look entirely altered—different—nothing like before.
Like a caterpillar that decided to ditch his ratty old cocoon so he could show off his new and improved butterfly wings.
And just as I’m thinking the worst—sure that Haven got to him long before I could—I see it. We see it. His brilliant orange aura glowing all around him—the only thing that allows us to relax and get our breathing back on track.
Still taking a moment to process it all, unsure of even where to begin, I’m relieved when Damen says, “Looks like Firenze was good to you. Very good to you, in fact.” He directs a smile toward Miles, while giving me a reassuring squeeze of his hand.
Miles laughs, his face lifting in a way that softens all those new edges. But then, just as quickly, it’s gone, his aura wavering and flaring as he focuses on Damen, and that’s all it takes for me to remember.
I guess I’ve been so caught up in my drama with Haven and Sabine I’d forgotten all about Damen and the portraits Miles uncovered of Drina and him.
Portraits that were painted centuries ago.
Portraits that bear no easy answers—no logical explanations of any kind.
And even though I vowed never to do it unless absolutely necessary, I think this is definitely one of those moments that constitutes an emergency. So while Damen’s engaging him in small talk about Firenze, I quietly take a moment to peer into Miles’s mind. Needing to see what he thinks, what he suspects, and surprised to see he’s not at all focused on any of the things that I feared. Instead, he’s focused on me.
“I’m disappointed,” he says, interrupting Damen in favor of addressing me.
I cock my head to the side, having slipped out of his mind seconds before I had a chance to grasp just what he’s truly trying to get at.
“I came home new and improved, as you can see.” He runs his hand down the length of his body like a game-show model displaying the grand prize. “And I was pretty much planning for this to be my best year yet. But now I learn that my friends are still fighting, still not speaking to each other, and still forcing me to choose between them, even though I specifically warned them to get it settled before I returned, because no way will I play this game. No way will I be forced to play Meryl Streep in Sophie’s Choice. I just won’t. In fact—”
“Is that what she said?” I cut in, sensing that this particular monologue could go on ’til the final bell rings if I let it. “She said you had to choose?” Lowering my voice as a group of students file past.
“No, but then again, she didn’t have to. I mean, I think it’s pretty clear that if you’re not talking to her and she’s not talking to you, then I’m going to have to choose. Either that, or lunch just got even more awkward than it was last year.” He shakes his head, his shiny brown locks waving softly from side to side. “And I will not tolerate that. I just won’t. So, basically, you have between now and tomorrow to get it all figured out. Or I will be forced to brown bag it elsewhere. Oh, and just in case you’re not taking me seriously, you should know that now that I have the keys to my mom’s old car, you no longer have the carpool advantage. You and Haven are on equal footing as far as my affections are concerned. Which means you’ve no choice but to work it out, if you ever want to see me again, or—”
“Or what?” I try to keep my voice light, jokey, since I have no idea how to break it to him that if anything, knowing Haven, our problem will only have escalated by then.
“Or I’m going to find a whole new table and a whole new group of friends.” He nods, glancing between Damen and me, wanting us to know he has every intention of making good on the threat.
“We’ll see what we can do,” Damen says, wanting just to move past it, past all of this.
“No promises,” I add, eager to tone it down, keep it realistic, and not play into any sense of false hope he might have.
Assuming we’re in the clear the moment the bell rings, Damen grabs my hand and starts to lead me toward class. Stopping when Miles taps his shoulder and says, “And you—” He pauses, long enough to carefully look him over from his head to his feet. “You and I will talk later. You’ve got some serious explaining to do.”
five
I guess I’d been so focused on Haven I hadn’t even thought about my other nemeses—namely Stacia Miller and her faithful sidekick Honor.
But by the time I slip into sixth-period physics, the door closing behind me the second the final bell rings, the sound of their muffled laughs and snickers is pretty much all the reminder I need.
I head straight for the middle, smiling to myself as I catch a glimpse of Stacia’s shocked face as I claim the empty seat nearest them. I mean, why force them to strain their necks to get a good look when I can just as easily pick a desk that provides for a much better, far more clear, totally unobstructed view of their favorite object of torment—me.
But Stacia’s the only one who seems shocked by my choice. Honor just takes it in stride. Sitting up a little straighter as she lifts her brow and looks me over, her gaze so guarded, so conflicted it’s nearly impossible to decipher.
Nearly.
Though I’m far less focused on her expression than the thoughts that stream through her head. Thoughts she purposely directs right at me, correctly assuming I’m listening when she thinks:
I know you can hear me. I know all about you. And I know that you know what I plan to do to Stacia. How I plan to make her pay for every crappy thing she’s ever done to me or anyone else unfortunate enough to get in her way. What I don’t know is if you’re planning to help me or stop me. But just in case you’re planning to stop me, you really need to rethink it. For one thing, she’s been a total bitch to you from the start, and for another, well, even if you do try to stop me, you can’t. No one can. Not you, not Jude, and especially not Stacia, so it’s best to not even go there—
And even though she’s looking right at me, eager for some kind of reaction, some kind of acknowledgment that I’ve received her message loud and clear, I’ve no intention of giving her the satisfaction. No intention of listeni
ng to any more than I already have.
Between her pathetic, revenge-driven manifesto, Stacia’s usual mean-spirited inner commentary, Mr. Borden’s silent lament how yet again, another year of his life will be wasted on a fresh supply of ungrateful, incurious students—an embarrassing collection of bad haircuts and worse clothing, completely indistinguishable from those who came and went before—between all of that and everyone else’s private dramas and angst—the din is too great.
Too depressing.
And totally depleting.
So I tune it all out in favor of a little cross-campus telepathy with Damen.
Sixth-period physics and so far so good, you? I think, preparing to raise my hand when my name is called for roll, used to being one of the first on the alphabetical list with a last name like Bloom.
Art. Great way to end the day—gives me something to look forward to. Wish the whole day could be one long art class. Oh, and Ms. Machado is thrilled to have me back. Told me so herself. Never before has she seen such talent, such a natural gift in someone so young. She even wants to set aside a time to speak to me about my future and which art schools I’m applying to.
What about me? Did she pass on a greeting to the most untalented, ungifted student she’s ever seen? Or has she purposely blocked me from memory?
Don’t be so hard on yourself—your replica of van Gogh was incredibly unique.
If by unique you mean gawd awful, then yep, so true! Just make sure you tell her that I won’t be back for round two. I need to keep my confidence up, to stay strong both mentally and physically, which means I can’t take the risk of what another semester of horribly gloppy stick figures will do to my psyche. So, what’s your first project? Another Picasso—your own rendition of van Gogh?
He scoffs. Impressionism is so last year. I thought I’d go really ambitious and maybe do a mural of some sort. Re-create the Sistine Chapel. You know, cover the walls and the ceiling and really spruce up the classroom a bit—what do you think?
I think that’s a great way to keep that low profile you’re always going on about! I laugh, unaware that I actually laughed out loud until Stacia Miller peers at me, rolls her eyes, and sings, “Looo—ser!” under her breath.
And I immediately sign off. Knowing that if Mr. Borden’s frowning face is any indication, I’ve just unwittingly put myself on his watch list. Having been pegged within the first five minutes on the first day of class as one of the more particularly ungrateful troublemakers.
“Something funny, Miss—” He bows his head to peer at the seating chart he’s in the process of making. “—Bloom? Something you’d like to share with the rest of the class?”
I steal a quick intake of breath and shake my head. Avoiding Stacia’s baleful glare, the amused quirk of Honor’s brow, and the bored sighs from the rest of my classmates who’ve grown all too used to the always embarrassing display that is me.
Opening my new textbook, and reaching into my bag for some paper and a pen only to find it chock full of tulips instead. Like a love letter from Damen, those red, waxy petals serving as a reminder to hang in there, promising that no matter what happens, our undying love is the real deal—the only thing that matters in the midst of everything else.
I trace my finger along the stem, taking a moment to send him a silent thanks, before manifesting the supplies that I need. Closing my bag, confident that nobody saw, until I catch Honor studying me closely, intently, just like she did that day on the beach.
A deeply knowing kind of stare that leaves me wondering just how much she knows about me.
And I’m just about to delve further, to peer into her mind and get to the bottom of it, when she turns away, Mr. Borden calls on me to read, and I slip into the role of ambitious student trying to get my bearings on my very first day.
“Hey, Ever, wait up!”
The sound comes from behind me, but I just keep going, following my first instinct to ignore it.
But when she calls out again, I decide to stop and turn. Not the least bit surprised to find Honor running to catch up, though it’s always odd to see her on her own without Stacia. Like she’s suddenly missing an arm or a leg or some other essential part of herself.
“She’s in the bathroom,” she says, her brown eyes searching my face, answering the question she finds in my gaze. “Either reapplying her makeup, purging the fruit smoothie she slurped down at lunch, or thinking up new ways to blackmail the cheerleading squad—or heck, who knows, maybe all three.” She shrugs, cradling a stack of books in her arms, calmly looking me over from my long blond hair to my pink polished toes.
“Which makes me wonder why you even bother?” I ask, doing the same. Taking in her long dark hair with the recent addition of red streaks, her black denim leggings, knee-high flat black boots, and the sheer knit cardigan that clings to the tank top beneath. “I mean, if you hate her so much, why go to all the planning and bother? Why not just let it go and move on with your life?”
“So you can read my mind.” She smiles, keeping her voice so soft and low, it’s almost as though she’s speaking to herself instead of me. “Maybe someday you’ll teach me how to do that.”
“Doubtful.” I sigh, veering this close to peering into her mind to see what this is really about, then reminding myself that it’s wrong, that I need to be patient and let it unfold on its own.
“Then maybe Jude will.” She lifts a brow, gazing at me as though it’s a test—or maybe even some kind of thinly veiled threat.
But I just press my lips together and peer toward my locker, eager to dump all of the books I’ve already “read” and make my way toward Damen, who’s waiting for me in his car. “Don’t count on it,” I say, preferring not to think about Jude in any way, shape, or form. Other than the odd text message here and there, just to check in and make sure he’s still okay, still alive, and that Haven still hasn’t gotten to him, we haven’t really spoken since the night he killed Roman.
Since the night I was put in the awkward position of having no choice but to protect the one person I’m so angry with, I’m tempted to kill him myself.
“Last I checked, that wasn’t really one of his gifts,” I add, shifting my bag to my other shoulder and shooting her a look that says: I’m not sure what your point is here, but if in fact you have one, then you really need to get to it!
Prompting her to shrug and look away, focusing on nothing in particular, just grazing the hall as she says, “Don’t you ever want to see her pay for all the crap that she’s done?” She turns, regarding me seriously. “I mean, considering all the hell she’s put you through, what with the suspension, the YouTube video—Damen—” She pauses dramatically, hoping for some kind of reaction, but she can pause all she wants, I won’t be reacting anytime soon. “Anyway,” she continues, the words hurried, having read my expression and knowing I’m this close to leaving. “I guess I’m just surprised you’re not jumping on board. If anything, I thought you’d be first in line—well, maybe the second, you know, right behind me.”
I take a deep breath, wanting more than anything to get out of here and on with the better part of my day, but still taking a moment to say, “Yeah, well, here’s the thing, Honor, if you’re gonna choose to look at it that way, then you also gotta admit that you’ve been pretty awful to me too.” She shifts awkwardly, the movement slight but enough to convince me to continue. “In fact, you played a major part in my getting suspended, as you well know, and let’s not forget that it was also you who stood right alongside her in Victoria’s Secret the day she shot the video of me that ended up all over the Internet. And even if it wasn’t your idea, even if all you did was stand by and observe, well, in the scheme of things, it’s pretty much all the same thing. It doesn’t make you any less guilty. Instead, it makes you complicit. Because not trying to stop a bully, and choosing to hang with a bully, pretty much makes you an accessory to everything that bully does in your presence. And yet, you don’t see me harassing you or obsessing on getting reveng
e, do you? And you know why?” I pause, sensing her interest is way closer to waning than peaking, but forging ahead anyway. “Because it’s not worth it. It’s not worth my time or effort. That’s what karma’s for—to balance it all out in the end. Seriously, you really need to rethink this whole plan of yours. It’s totally misguided and a total waste of your time. Because the fact is, it’s not like you’re all that innocent yourself, and these things have a way of boomeranging right back in ways you’ll never see coming.” I nod, unwilling to add that I happen to know this through my own, very recent, personal experience.
She looks at me, her eyes partially obscured by her bangs as she slowly shakes her head. “Karma?” She laughs and rolls her eyes. “Well, I hate to break it to you, Ever, but now you’re starting to sound a lot like Jude, what with all of his good mojo and bad mojo talk. But, seriously, maybe you should ask yourself this—when was the last time karma took notice of Stacia?” She lifts a brow. “Because in case you haven’t noticed, she just goes through life doing whatever she wants to whomever she wants. And while you may be fine with all that, and while you may be comfortable playing the victim to her never-ending crap, I’m over it. I’m sick of her games. Did you know that she totally tried to hook up with Craig for no other reason than to hurt me? To show me who’s queen and who’s a permanent number two.”
I gaze at her, not saying a word, the hall emptying out all around us as everyone scrambles to leave. Everyone but us, that is.
But Honor just continues, taking no notice of the time or the fact that we should be getting out of here too. Her voice low and deep when she adds, “Too bad for her, it didn’t work. But still, what kind of friend does something like that?”
“Is that why you guys broke up?” I ask, not really caring either way. I already know the truth about Craig, about his true preferences, I’m just wondering if she knows it too.
“No, we broke up because he’s gay.” She shrugs. “And there’s really no future in that for me. But don’t tell anyone—” She looks at me, face panicked, eager to protect him and keep his secret, but I just wave it away. I have no interest in gossip like that. “Anyway, the thing is, while I’m truly sorry about being—complicit, or whatever it is that you called it, that’s all over now. I have no plans to get in your way, Ever. As long as you stay out of mine.”
