by H. A. Wills
“I’m not a choir boy,” he denies, the gravel in his voice illustrating that he’s not really a boy, period-- choir or otherwise.
“Tonight you are,” Kaleb insists, the deep rumble of his own voice even less “boy” like.
We funnel our way out of the cafeteria, and I head with Donovan and Connor toward Study Hall. Walking between them today is an interesting experience. The rumor is clearly flowing viciously through the halls, but self-preservation seems to kick in, and students go silent and plaster themselves against the walls when we pass.
“Subtle,” I mutter to myself. “Real subtle.”
I swear the guys take it as a challenge, because Donovan immediately throws one arm around my shoulders and Connor places a hand on my back, which is vacant since he’s also holding my backpack. I might as well have ‘Ours’ stamped on my forehead.
I guess I should be grateful they haven’t started picking me up and carrying me around like a tired puppy, since it nearly takes two of my steps to meet one of theirs.
Feeling slightly guilty for Kaleb and Donovan missing Sunday service, even though they didn’t tell me they were missing it, I say offhandedly, “I didn’t know you were religious, though I guess it makes sense-- you being part angel and all.”
“Me? Religious?” Donovan snorts, glancing down at me. “Nephilim aren’t ‘religious’,” he informs me with a finger quote. “As far as the Bible or whatever goes, those texts were written by humans to try and explain all the crap they couldn’t understand-- still can’t, really.”
He sighs. ”No, I have to do all the church bullshit, because Kaleb’s parents are pastors as their cover in the human world. Listening to Keziah mutter about the ridiculousness of humans as she writes her sermons nearly makes it worth it, though.” Then he shakes his head. “No it doesn’t, but it’s still funny.”
∞∞∞
I look up at the white clock on the wall and release a slow breath. Ten more minutes. Ten minutes, and this stupid day ends.
Today’s assignment for my Food and Nutrition class is a kitchen equipment scavenger hunt that requires us to not only identify and describe different pieces of equipment around the classroom, but we also have to draw a picture of it. I suck at drawing. Stick figures look like great works of art compared to my pathetic attempts to illustrate mixers and can openers.
As if spending the past hour highlighting my inept artistic abilities wasn’t bad enough, Gina and her pack of Barbie clones have spent the entire class period looking over at me, whispering to each other, gasping, then whispering to other students-- who then look at me and whisper to someone else. I will NOT let her get to me. People talking shit about me isn’t new-- just the first time it’s affected more than me.
Even though this is an individual assignment, out of the corner of my eye, I catch Gina and her worshipers coming over to my side of the classroom, where I’m trying to draw something that I hope Ms. Brooks will believe is a measuring cup.
Keeping my eyes focused on my paper, I fight the tremors building in my hands, when I feel Gina come up behind me. Just being in the same room with her puts me on edge, but with her this close, my skin crawls like the rot that lives inside her is spilling into me. I wonder if this is what my aunt meant about me being able to see the core of a person.
“You must be really fucked up if the council had to bind your magic,” she says without preamble, apparently not giving a shit that we’re in a classroom full of humans. “What’d you do? Go insane when mommy and daddy realized what a pathetic freak they made?”
The Barbies giggle, and I roll my eyes. Really? That’s the best she has.
“No, I know,” she whispers, mock sympathy infusing her voice. “Did daddy touch you in your naughty places? Explains the rumors I keep hearing.” She makes a tsking sound, like it isn’t her spreading the rumors in the first place. “You should really see someone about all that-- self-harm isn’t the answer.”
The mechanical pencil in my hand cracks from how hard I’m holding it, and every muscle in my body tenses to stone. My necklace goes from warm to hot, as I do everything in my power not to punch this bitch in her pretty little nose. She wants to make you mad. Don’t let her get to you.
Gina flips back her waist-length black hair, the strands hanging lose around her tall, waif-like figure, when she looks over at the Barbies. “No response. Must be true.”
They gasp theatrically with murmurs of “Oh my God” and “How sad.”
She then leans against the stainless steel table I’m sitting at and crosses her arms, her perfectly manicured nails splayed to advantage against her tiny biceps. “Doesn’t really matter why they did, though, does it? I mean you’re walking around all innocent, but any minute you could blow up the entire town.”
She purses her pouty lips, when she still doesn’t get a reaction out of me-- too dumb to realize she should be fucking grateful. Then a sneer spreads across her face, her hair stirs as if a sudden soft breeze made its way through the classroom, and she hisses, “You should just kill yourself… before someone has to put you down like the rabid dog you are.”
It’s the wind that gives her away. My necklace cools and the building rage inside dissipates, as I realize how insignificant she really is. She’s like an annoying flea. Given the ability, she can bite and irritate, but in the end, she’s easy to squash.
There’s victory in her big doe-like, brown eyes when I look up at her, but her face quickly falls to a scowl when I start laughing.
“Did you just try to cast a spell on me?” I snort, putting my pencil down so I can cross my arms. “Wow that was really-- pathetic.”
For the first time since learning what the fuck I am, I relish the power that’s my birthright. I mock her gestures with a hair flip of my own-- appreciating how obnoxiously shiny it is thanks to all the magic coursing through me.
With feigned concern, I offer, “Some advice from one witch to another-- well, you’re technically a witch anyway. Don’t fuck with someone that’s stronger than you are in every way. I literally walk around shedding more magic than you could possibly possess.” I glance over my shoulder at the Barbies. “More than all of you put together, and one way or another--” An ugly grin twists across my lips. “My magic won’t be bound forever.”
The Barbies go silent, and Gina’s eyes fractionally widen with fear, before an angry flush spreads across her olive skin.
“I don’t care how strong you think you are,” she snarls, her splayed fingers curling to claws. “This is your final warning. Stay away from Nolan, or I’ll make your life a living hell. He’s mine, and he doesn’t need some insane slut hanging all over him.”
I resist making a crack that she pretty much fills Nolan’s insane slut quota, and instead reply, “I’m quaking in my skinny jeans, mudblood.”
“What did you just call me?” she hisses, when a couple of the Barbies cough trying to cover up their laughter.
“Seriously? Read a book,” I retort, then roll my eyes. “First, you can’t even comprehend what a true living hell is, and pray to whoever will listen to your horribly screechy voice that you never do. Second, just stop. Desperation is not a good look, and I hate to break the news to you but--” I stage whisper behind my hand, “He’s just not that into you.”
The closest I could get to a mic drop happens when the bell rings. Under the commotion of students quickly putting their stuff away, Ms. Brooks asks the class to leave our worksheets on her desk on our way out.
Gina grits her teeth so hard, if she’s not careful, she’ll chip one of her fancy veneers. Before walking away, she growls in my ear, “It’s on, bitch.”
I flash her a smile so wide that I’m pretty sure every one of my teeth are visible. “Bring it.”
Chapter 5
Callie
“So, Saturday sucked,” Nolan opens, leaning up against the lockers next to mine with one leg bent, and looking like he’s posing for some emo rock band cover in his ripped jeans, tight V-neck whi
te shirt, hooded jacket, and his blonde hair artful tussled to look like he just rolled out of bed.
Understatement of the millennium, I mentally snort, kneeling down in front of my bottom locker and dropping my backpack to the left side of me.
The rain from yesterday has shifted into a light drizzle this morning, the raindrops almost floating in the air and clinging to the fog. The tile floor is damp and mildly muddy from my locker mates that passed through before I got here.
“Which is why I could see you might be opposed to going to another party, but hear me out,” Nolan continues, his gaze carefully watching my profile.
“You can’t be serious,” I mutter, closing my eyes for a moment and trying to ignore the looks and whispers from the people around me.
It’s gotten worse since yesterday. Walking from the front door of the school to my locker has been like a wave of suspended silence, conversations freezing as I pass, and quickly picking up when I leave. Only when they think I can’t see them, do they start talking about me again. I feel like I have a stage spotlight following me around, and even though I don’t care what they think of me, I’m getting real tired of the staring.
“You’re going to ask her now?” Kaleb admonishes, standing on the other side of me with his arms crossed and dressed more plainly in a polo shirt and jeans.
Connor and Donovan complete the circle around my locker by standing behind me, but they’re too busy glaring at the people that haven’t stopped staring and whispering since I arrived at school to listen to the conversation. Connor’s in one of his never ending collection of flannel shirts, and Donovan is wearing another painted on Henley underneath his leather jacket; this one is a dark blue.
Felix is standing off to the side rubbing at the back of his neck; his attentions split between the gossipers and us. This morning he thought it’d be funny to dress in a Casper the Friendly Ghost T-shirt, but the humor has since drained from his face.
Nolan huffs. “It’s better I ask now than spring it on her later.”
I sigh and stand up, wiping at the mud that’s collected on my knees. “I haven’t even opened my locker yet. Can we not?” I whine, then add, “Look, I don’t know if I can handle another party. Outside of-- you know-- I don’t really think I’m a party person.”
“But this one is different, I promise,” he assures, reaching out a hand to brush some of my hair back from my face. I wore it down today, and beads of water weave through my tresses like tiny crystals. “This one is a Halloween party that my family is hosting at our house. It’s two weeks away, giving us plenty of time to go through all of the decorations to make sure that you’re cool with everything.”
Nolan’s home is huge and recalling him talking with his parents last week about planning a gala, I can only imagine the size and scope of a Campbell family party. A pinched expression scrunches up my features, because I seriously don’t want to go.
“Did I mention it’s also my birthday party?” he adds with a pitiful, puppy dog face.
Of course it is.
I glare at him, but it doesn’t hold any real malice. “You know this is emotional blackmail, right?”
He grins back. “That means you’ll come?”
“Yes, I’ll come,” I grumble, kneeling back down in front of my locker, another dose of muddy water saturating my jeans.
“Great!” Nolan claps his hands together, then begins rubbing them back and forth. “Would a naughty witch costume be too on the nose?”
Kaleb kind of choke coughs, and we’ve now gathered the full attention of the other boys.
“No… just no,” I proclaim pointing a finger at Nolan. “I’m not dressing as a sexy anything, so you can get that idea right out of your head.”
He squints and blinks a few times, then shakes his head. “Nope. I’m pretty sure it’s stuck there.”
Connor, Felix, and Donovan do a kind of chuckle snort, while Kaleb pinches the bridge of his nose, but a smile he seems to be fighting pulls at the corner of his lips. Traitor.
Groaning, I lean forward and thunk my head a couple of times against the lockers. “I hate all of you.”
“No you don’t,” Nolan sings, pulling away from the lockers so he can squat down beside me. “We’re too lovable to hate… at least I am.”
I roll my eyes so hard I can practically see my brain. I don’t know what possesses me to say it, but with a raised brow I counter, “Well, you’re certainly not Best Boy.”
His artic blue eyes widen before he squints. “Is that like your favorite? Because I’m pretty sure I’m everyone’s favorite.”
Connor snorts, though I don’t know if he means that Nolan isn’t everyone’s favorite, or that the problem is Nolan is everyone’s favorite, to his own detriment.
“As I’ve said before, there’s nothing ‘boy’ about me,” Donovan scoffs, and even though I can’t see him, I’m pretty sure he’s once again motioning at his eight pack.
I tilt my head back to look up at him. “You’re not ‘Best’ either.”
Kaleb laughs the hardest over my comment, the sound a deep rumble, and he leans heavily against the lockers.
Donovan glares back, his arms crossed over his expansive chest. “And I bet you think you’re ‘Best’.”
With no hint of humility whatsoever, Kaleb shrugs and grins. “You do like to point out how I’m referred to as ‘Perfect’.”
“Not this time, Cap,” I say with a smirk. “You’re not Best Boy, either.”
Kaleb looks genuinely surprised, and I bust up laughing, enjoying this new game.
“Clearly it's me,” Felix chimes in, his bright smile returning. “We nerds stick together.”
Connor issues him a raised brow, which I interpret as challenge that he is more likely Best Boy.
“Sorry, Casper. You also fail as Best Boy.” Connor offers up a smug grin that quickly falls when I add with a squinty glare, “All of you laughed, so none of you are Best Boy.”
“But one of us has to be the best,” Nolan proclaims, cocking his head to the side and tapping at his lips. “I’m pretty sure that’s how favorites work.”
I shake my head and grin. “Nope. You gotta earn it.”
While they squabble among themselves over which one of them is clearly the best, I open my locker, and as if a strong gust of wind whooshed from the back of the locker, out flies what feels like hundreds of folded pamphlets. All of them have the sheen of high quality commercial prints.
At first I don’t understand what I’m looking at. It’s just a sea of sad looking teenagers, some crying, others staring off in the distance or curled into themselves leaning against an unseen wall. It isn’t until I see some have “KILL YOURSELF” written in angry, red sharpie that I finally understand. They’re all suicide prevention pamphlets, like the ones in the overfilled racks next to the counselor's office.
The whispering around me becomes a roar. Their eyes feel even more liked heated spotlights, and a cold sweat starts to break out on the back of my neck. A familiar numbness takes over my emotions as I try to process what’s happening, and I calmly start collecting the pamphlets-- new ones seeming to slide out of my locker every time I pick one up.
“Fucking bitch!” Nolan hisses, dropping to his knees to help gather what feels like a never ending stream of sad faces and angry words.
With a tone so cold it might as well be shards of ice piercing any that hear him, Connor growls at the surrounding bystanders, “Leave. Now.”
“You heard the man,” Donovan snarls, fire to Connor’s ice, “Get your shit and go. Now!”
The whispers transform into the sounds of hastily slammed lockers and the rush of stampeding feet, self-preservation finally kicking in for our audience.
“I’m sorry, Callie,” Felix murmurs while he kneels down, his warm timbre laced with sorrow.
He reaches out, as if to help pick up the pamphlets that are now festooned around us, but they phase right through his grasp. Hands braced on the floor, his fingers curl into
fists, and he releases a frustrated sigh.
“It’s okay. We can pick them up,” I assure, an overabundance of paper already filling my hands.
Felix nods with a defeated slump of his shoulders and stands back up, wrapping his arms tight around himself. He has the same look from the time Gina walked through him that awful day at lunch.
With a tight smile, I joke, “She really needs to get new material, right? Telling me to kill myself via red sharpie-- do you think she means this to look like blood? --anyway, telling me to kill myself won’t make it any more possible to do.” I frown. “Well, decapitation might do it.”
“That’s not funny,” Kaleb snaps. His deep baritone is drenched with fury so fierce it’s shocking, causing my heart to leap in my chest, and my gaze to snap to him.
He’s on his knees beside me, his body rigid as stone, and crushed in his hand is one of the pamphlets-- something designed to help people covered in words of hate and malice.
I let the papers in my grasp flutter to the floor, so I can put a hand on his arm. The muscles beneath my fingers feel more like heated marble than flesh.
“Kaleb, it’s just a prank,” I murmur softly, for the first time truly worried he’s about to go off. “A stupid prank from a pathetic, desperate girl. Like I said, I can’t die-- remember, our current concern is I might blow up the town and kill everyone else…”
“Stop,” he interrupts through gritted teeth. For a moment his gaze rests on my hand, before slowly rising to meet mine. The mask on his face is shattered, and staring back at me is the true tumultuous feelings that hide beneath its surface. “Stop dismissing this. Stop turning it into a joke. It’s not funny. It’s wrong.”
“Whoa there,” Nolan cautiously wades in. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you need to calm down.”
“Yeah, man,” Felix adds, like he’s talking to a pod person and not the real Kaleb. “It’s not her fault. She’s the victim here, remember.”
