“Hey there, Miss Slacker,” Lindsay calls as I walk up. Her hair has already found its way into a perfect bun on the top of her head. “I found one of your charges roaming the halls aimlessly. So, I saved her. You’re welcome.”
“Hi, I’m Marcella,” Miss Perfect says cordially, her voice as lovely as her face. She has an air of familiarity about her, even though I know we’ve never met. I’d say she has one of those faces, but she really doesn’t.
“Raye,” I reply, opening my locker and grabbing my math textbook. “Oh, shit, you’re one of the new students, right? I’m sorry. I’m running insanely late this morning.”
“It’s alright. I figured.” If it’s possible, her voice is even warmer than before. “My siblings have already run off, but when I met your friend here, I thought I would wait and introduce myself. Lindsay says you’re on the cheer team.”
I shoot Lindsay an irritated look. Of all the things I advertise about myself, that is not one of them. She shrugs her shoulder in return, blows me a kiss, and darts away like a cat.
I shake my head after her. “I am,” I finally reply.
Marcella doesn’t seem to think there is anything odd about Lindsay’s behaviour, which is nice, I guess. “I’ve always wanted to be a cheerleader. My last school didn’t have a team.”
“Aren’t you from Montreal?” I mentally go over what I know about big cities. If our small-ass school has a team, how does a big-city school not?
“Oh, yes, but we weren’t there for long. Just one semester and they only had a dance team, which required a full year commitment.” She smiles, tossing her golden hair over her shoulder. I have a feeling it’s her solution to most problems. “Lindsay says tryouts are later this week. I hope I’ll make it.”
“It won’t be hard.” I look at her long legs, which look annoyingly flexible. This girl could probably do back flips for days and still have enough energy to do a cartwheel. “Anyway, I’m sorry about this morning, but I have to run to class. Do you know where you’re going?” I ask, trying to escape without being rude. No need to inspire another heart-to-heart from Principal Lawrence. Her revenge for being late is going to be unpleasant enough as it is.
“Second floor, right side, room three, next to a hideously coloured picture of some old guy.” Marcella smiles, pleased she has memorized what are obviously Lindsay’s directions. She’s always been slightly obsessive over that picture, for some reason only she can fathom.
“Perfect. Well, I’ll see you around, I guess.” I back away slowly and head to the stairwell on the opposite side of the school so we won’t have to walk together.
Marcella waves politely before turning to follow her memorized directions. It sounds like she is starting her day off with eleventh-year biology, making her a junior like me. Lindsay also has biology first period, and I wonder why she didn’t wait and walk Marcella over herself.
I’m relieved I’ve already met the sibling my age. It’s unlikely I’ll run into the others if they’re younger or older–at least for a while.
I walk into math class two minutes late, thanks to my own tardiness and Marcella’s chattiness. Mr. Okar–short, dark, and constantly annoyed–looks unimpressed as I slide into my seat at the front of the class, but he doesn’t say anything–probably because I have aced every one of his tests over the last year.
As the announcements finish, everyone rises for the national anthem. The recording the school uses cracks in and out in the middle, cutting off a good ten seconds of the song. I fail to understand why they don’t invest in a new tape. It’s as if they want the school to come off as cheap and neglected.
We’re right at the cracking point in the song when the door creaks open and a tall boy with the nicest shoulders I have ever seen walks in. I can’t see his face, but oh, hell, is the back of him ever nice. He’s wearing a royal blue polo shirt, allowing for a great view of his biceps, and fitted khakis that give a great view of everything else. His hair is dark blonde, almost brown, and he wears it long enough that his natural curls hang slightly below his ears. Everything about him screams Abercrombie, right down to his sun-kissed skin. I feel my cheeks grow warm as I try to stop my eyes from appreciating him.
Finally, when the music finishes and we all take our seats, he turns around, facing the class.
My mouth pops open in what must be a perfect O.
My breath catches in my lungs.
My heart misses at least three beats.
Standing in front of me, so close I can smell the sweetness of his cologne, is him.
Unlike in my dreams, today he looks very much alive.
CHAPTER 3
He looks different, but then again, he always does.
I don’t know how I know. But I know. It is him. I am certain. I have never been more certain of anything in my life.
That probably means I’m crazy.
No, it definitely means I’m crazy.
Before I can fully process what I’m seeing, his impossibly green eyes shift down to meet mine, as though he can feel my stare. They widen so slightly, so briefly, I’m sure I’ve imagined it. He focuses on Mr. Okar, who is giving him his trademark death stare.
“Is there a reason you decided to walk into my classroom during the national anthem?” Mr. Okar asks. His voice is colder than the back of a freezer. Students have been known to crumble at the mere sound of Mr. Okar’s voice; I’m mildly impressed The Boy doesn’t so much as flinch.
“I couldn’t find the room.” His voice is strong and deep. It reminds me of a poem; a beautiful poem I want to re-read immediately upon finishing.
I remember I hate poetry.
When I realize I’m still staring, I hastily find something interesting at the bottom of my backpack to focus my attention on. I can feel the heat eating away at my complexion.
“That’s a poor excuse,” Mr. Okar drawls. Was I so inclined to look, I would see his eyes narrow in annoyance and his mouth curve down into a scowl.
“Well, it’s the only one I have. My student guide never showed up.”
I choke back a laugh at both The Boy’s confidence and my role in his tardiness. I can almost feel his eyes shift back to me, although I don’t dare look up from the interesting piece of lint at the bottom of my bag. It is blue, which is weird, considering my bag is made of red leather.
“Don’t let it happen again. I don’t tolerate tardiness. Take a seat.”
I don’t hear The Boy move, but I know it’s safe to look up once Mr. Okar begins his lesson, his chalk scratching something on the board as he drones on.
I let out the breath that I’ve been holding and look up. As slyly as possible, I shift my stare over my shoulder, looking for The Boy. Two seats back and one to the left, his eyes are waiting for me; our eyes lock, neither of us daring to be the first to look away.
“McKenna. Miss McKenna!”
My eyes dart away from The Boy’s, swinging to the front to meet Mr. Okar’s. The room fills with light laughter, which is instantaneously silenced. “Yes?” I reply, pretending like nothing happened.
“Do you, or do you not, know the answer?” His tone suggests I sure as hell better know the answer if I don’t want to be sent to detention for not paying attention.
I glance at the board and the equation written along the top. “X equals seven,” I answer after a few seconds of calculation.
I don’t get a “good job” or a “correct,” but I don’t get detention either, which is basically the same thing within the confines of Mr. Okar’s classroom.
“How did she arrive at that answer?” he asks, continuing with the lesson and moving to another, less lucky, victim.
It is the longest math class of my life. A thousand thoughts drift through my mind, a thousand pictures and images all swirled together in a jumbled mess. Most of them involve the boy behind me; all of them involve death. I follow the lesson as best I can, refusing to turn around for the entire hour.
Deep breath in.
Deep breath out.
By the time the bell signalling the end of class rings, I’m a wreck. My neck is sweaty and gross and my palms are clammy. The urge to throw up has returned, but I’m miraculously able to contain it. I’m out of my seat and to the girls’ washroom before the bell has even finished chiming.
I brace my arms against the sink and tilt my head down. Breathe. Just breathe. I am not crazy. I am not crazy. I grip the porcelain until I feel my nails bend.
“Raye, are you okay?” Shauna asks, adjusting her hijab in the mirror beside mine. She moves as if to touch my arm, but thinks better of it halfway through the movement and strokes the sink instead.
I don’t meet her eyes. “I’m peachy, thanks.”
“Really? Because you look like you’re going to throw up… Do you want me to find Lindsay or Principal Lawrence?”
So I can tell them what, exactly? That I’m losing my mind? That the dead-guy-shapeshifter I spent six nights dreaming about walked in my math class this morning? No, thank you. I have zero interest in visiting a psych ward.
“Nope. I’m good, thanks. Go away now.”
“Whatever,” she replies, leaving me alone in the washroom. I have about two minutes to pull myself together and run to my English class. I shift my head up, looking at my reflection. My emerald eyes look back at me, looking relatively sane considering I’m having a mental breakdown.
I take two breaths in, let two breaths out, and splash my face with water. It’s a good thing my mascara is waterproof, because raccoon eyes wouldn’t help my not-insane mentality.
I’m on edge from this morning. That is all. It has been an emotionally charged week, what with all the messed up dreams. It makes sense I would make the jump between my dream guy and the first new male face to cross my path.
Right?
I’m projecting my feelings about the dreams onto the world around me. That’s a normal thing to do, according to my ex-therapist. Not healthy, but normal. It doesn’t mean I’m crazy.
I. Am. Not. Crazy.
I crack my neck and straighten my posture, pulling my face into the stony picture of indifference I try to maintain.
I’m not crazy. I’m tired. I’m on edge. There is a difference.
Running my fingers through my hair, I pick up my bag and make my way to English. Mitch gives me a tentative smile as I take my seat in front of him. To my left, I notice Marcella sitting with her ankles crossed and her eyebrows pinched together in confusion.
“Hey,” I say, trying to distract myself.
“Are you alright?” she asks, her face still pinched. It doesn’t distort her beauty like it would a normal person.
“I’m fine. Why?” It takes a lot of effort, but I manage to keep some of the coolness out of my voice.
“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head and adopting a smile. “You just look a little tired. Did you have a late night?”
“You could say that,” I respond before giving Mr. Base my full attention.
When class ends, Mr. Base calls me to his desk and hands me a signed letter agreeing to give me extra credit for my tutoring sessions with Mitch.
“Raise his grade to a seventy and you’ve done your job well.” He smiles at me, his bushy moustache twitching. It’s hard not to like Mr. Base, even if his tutoring suggestion is bound to make for some exceptionally unpleasant days.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I say, smiling at him as I turn to walk out of the classroom.
Marcella is waiting for me, her textbooks clutched in her arms. “Do you mind if I eat with you?” She actually seems nervous I’ll say no, which I enjoy. “I don’t know anyone other than my siblings.”
Her voice is so warm and sincere it’s hard to turn her away, even though that’s exactly what I want to do. I know Lindsay will scold me if I turn her down. I nod my head to keep the insincerity from seeping into my voice, then we head to the cafeteria, stopping briefly by our lockers to store our books.
The rest of Marcella’s schedule consists of gym and history, so we won’t be having any more classes together. Hallelujah. After lunch, I’ll be home free.
I sit her down next to Lindsay, who gives me a smile befitting a proud mother hen, and head off to buy my lunch. The line is shorter than usual, so I’m back in my seat–yogurt and vegetables in hand–within five minutes.
Lindsay is filling Marcella in about cheer tryouts, encouraging her to pick an upbeat song to dance to. I don’t know why she bothers; Lindsay is the cheer captain this year, so the decision of who makes the team is up to her.
Focusing intently on my yogurt, I find myself tuning in and out of their conversation.
“I have two brothers and a sister,” Marcella sighs, as though it’s inconvenient. My head pops up, finding sudden interest in the topic. “My sister is thirteen, my younger brother is fifteen, and my older brother is a junior like us.”
“Are you twins?” Lindsay asks, her hand supporting her face as she listens to Marcella’s life story. Her voice takes on an airy quality she usually reserves for flirting and convincing me to do things I would otherwise refuse to do.
“No, he’s nearly a year older. He was born in January, and I was born in December. It’s an annoying coincidence we’re in the same grade.” She seems adamant about the annoying part.
As I think back to her brother, my traitorous cheeks heat up. I try to forget about the way his arms fill out his shirt and the eerie feeling I have dreamt about his death. Neither thought comforts me.
“That’s so cool!” Lindsay lets out a dreamy sigh. Lindsay’s brother is three years older, still a senior (round three is a charm), and basically non-existent, at least when it comes to her. I’ve never seen him willingly speak to her in public, not even when we were younger. “You two must be so close! It’s like having a twin, but better because you have your own birthday.”
Marcella laughs, but it’s not warm and pleasant like most of what comes out of her mouth. “That’s so far from the truth, it’s not even funny.”
I watch her carefully as she twirls a strand of gold around her finger. I used to think Lindsay was the prettiest girl in the world. Now, looking at Marcella–who isn’t even wearing makeup–I have to re-evaluate. I don’t even want to think about what I look like next to both of them. I’m not unfortunate to look at with killer curves and perfect teeth, but I have an annoying bout of freckles scattered over my nose even the best concealer can’t hide, so I’m at a strict disadvantage when it comes to Lindsay and Marcella’s even complexions. I may as well be a Raggedy Ann doll.
“Why?” Lindsay replies. “Is he awful?”
“No, not awful,” Marcella says, still playing with her hair. I think the conversation is uncomfortable for her. “We don’t have anything in common. He’s the silent and brooding type. Me? Not so much.” She smiles, finally looking up from her hair. “I try to include him in things, but I usually receive a snarky response back. He’s the odd duck of the family. Or maybe I am.” I don’t think it has ever actually occurred to her she wouldn’t fit in somewhere. “Either way,” she shrugs, “we aren’t close.”
“Well, at least we get one of you!” Lindsay loves meeting new people, which is unfortunate because Marcella and her siblings are the first set of transfers we’ve had since last year when Grace Dunbar moved here from Vancouver. Unlike Marcella, she hadn’t taken to Lindsay’s friendliness quite so enthusiastically.
“What about you, Raye? Do you have any siblings?” Marcella asks, trying to include me in their conversation. She’ll learn quickly that my lack of involvement is by choice.
I remind myself to be kind to her for Lindsay’s sake. “No, it’s just me.” I tack on a smile. Kind. Friendly.
“I can’t even imagine what it would be like to have a quiet house.” She sounds a little envious. If only she knew how quiet my house really is. It would drive most people crazy. Based on my morning, I’m already there.
The conversation switches back to cheer tryouts and the upcoming dance, so I switch back to
only half paying attention.
When lunch finally finishes, I brace myself for my tutoring session with Mitch. I had been so preoccupied all morning I forgot to dread it as much as I should have.
“Hey, Raye!” Mitch says, far too earnestly for my taste. I don’t think I can handle him pretending to enjoy my company.
I ignore him, sit down, and unload my books as slowly as possible before opening Hamlet. Even though I read it last night, I find myself struggling to remember the simplest of details. I spend most of the hour going through acts one to three while Mitch copies me.
“Do you understand what he’s talking about here?” he asks, still stuck on the first act. It’s like sitting with a child.
“Hamlet’s uncle married his mother,” I say, rolling my eyes. Maybe I’m wasting my time. It would probably be easier to direct Mitch toward one of the modern translations. “You know what?” I say, standing and walking over to one of the ancient computers along the library’s back wall. “I’m changing my method.”
I open up a website providing translations of all Shakespeare’s plays, click on the Hamlet tab, and summon Mitch over. “There you go,” I say, only marginally proud of my brilliance. “It’s in English now.”
Mitch’s eyes widen as he glances from me to the open tab on the computer.
“Oh, calm down; it’s not cheating. Once you grasp the general idea of the play we’ll work on getting you to understand the language. Read,” I instruct, tapping my finger on the screen before leaving him at the computer still looking concerned.
Sitting back down, I open my own copy and continue my re-read. I barely make it through two lines before a muffled laugh catches my attention. My head snaps up, looking for the source. Four tables over, The Boy sits with his feet kicked up on the opposite chair, a copy of Algebra and Trigonometry open in front of him.
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