Blue Moon

  This weekend?

  I swallow hard and look at her, knowing exactly what she's after, hoping to kill two birds with one meal.

  Having found the perfect opportunity to watch me scarf down a full plate of food, while putting Damen on the stand so she can totally grill him. "Well, that sounds great and all except that Miles's play is on Friday." I fight to keep my voice steady and sure. "And then there's supposed to be an after party—and that'll probably run pretty late—so..." She nods, her eyes right on mine, her gaze so uncanny and knowing it's making me sweat. "So it's probably not going to work," I finish, knowing I'll have to go through with it eventually, but hoping for later rather than sooner. I mean, I love Sabine, and I love Damen, I'm just not sure I'm going to love them together, especially once the interrogation begins.

  She looks at me for a moment, then nods and turns away. And just when I'm able to exhale, she glances over her shoulder to say, "Well, Friday's clearly out, but that still leaves Saturday. Why don't you tell Damen to be here at eight?"

  Chapter Three

  Even though I oversleep, I still manage to get out the door and over to Miles's on time. I guess because it doesn't take me nearly as long to get ready now that Riley's no longer around to distract me. And even though it used to bug me the way she'd perch on my dresser wearing one of her crazy Halloween costumes while grilling me about boyfriends and making fun of my clothes, ever since I convinced her to move on, to cross the bridge to where our parents and our dog Buttercup were waiting, I haven't been able to see her.

  Which pretty much means she was right. I can only see the souls who've stayed behind, not the ones who've crossed over.

  And like always when I think about Riley, my throat constricts and my eyes start to sting, and I wonder if I'll ever get used to the fact that she's gone. I mean, permanently and irreversibly gone. But I guess by now I should know enough about loss to realize that you never really stop missing someone—you just learn to live around the huge gaping hole of their absence. I wipe my eyes and pull into Miles's drive, remembering Riley's promise, that she'd send me a sign, something to show she's okay. But even though I've been holding tight to her pledge, staying alert, and searching vigilantly for some indication of her presence—so far I've got nothing.

  Miles opens the door and just as I start to say hi, he holds up his hand and says, "Don't speak. Just look at my face and tell me what you see. What's the very first thing you notice? And don't lie."

  "Your beautiful brown eyes," I say, hearing the thoughts in his head and wishing, not for the first time, that I could show my friends how to shield their thoughts and keep all their private stuff private. But that would mean divulging my mind-reading, aura-seeing, psychic-sensing secrets, and that I can't do. Miles shakes his head and climbs inside, yanking down on the mirrored visor and inspecting his chin.

  "You're such a liar. Look, it's right there! Like a shining red beacon you can't possibly miss, so don't even try to pretend you don't see it." I glance at him as I back out of the drive, seeing the zit that dared sprout on his face, though it's his bright pink nail polish that steals my attention. "Nice nails." I laugh.

  "It's for the play." He smirks, still zit gazing. "I can't even believe this! It's like I'm totally falling apart just when everything was going so perfect. Rehearsals have been great, I know all of my lines as well as everyone else's... I thought I was totally and completely ready, and now this! " He jabs at his face.

  "It's just nerves," I say, glancing at him as the light turns green.

  "Exactly!" He nods. "Which just proves what an amateur I am. Because professionals, real professionals, they don't get nervous. They just go into their creative zone and... create. Maybe I'm not cut out for this?" He looks at me, his face tense with worry. "Maybe it's just a fluke that I got the lead." I glance at him, remembering how Drina claimed to climb inside the director's head and sway him toward Miles. But even if that's true, that doesn't mean hecan't handle it, doesn't mean he wasn't the best.

  "That's ridiculous." I shake my head. "Tons of actors get nervous, suffer from stage fright or whatever. Seriously. You wouldn't believe some of the stories Riley used to—" I stop, eyes wide, mouth open, knowing I can never finish that sentence. Can never divulge the stories gleaned from my dead little sister who used to enjoy spying on the Hollywood elite. "Anyway, don't you wear, like, a ton of heavy pancake makeup?"

  He glances at me. "Yeah. So. What's your point? The play's Friday, which, for your information, happens to be tomorrow. This will never be gone by then."

  "Maybe." I shrug. "But what I meant was, can't you use the makeup to cover it?"

  Miles rolls his eyes and scowls. "Oh, so I can sport a huge flesh-colored beacon instead? Would you look at this thing? There's no disguising it. It's got its own DNA! It's casting shadows!" I pull into the school parking lot, claiming my usual space, the one right next to Damen's shiny black BMW.

  And when I look at Miles again, for some reason I feel compelled to touch his lace. As though my index finger is inexplicably drawn to the zit on hischin.

  "What're you doing?" he asks, cringing and pulling away.

  "Just—just be still," I whisper, having no idea whatI'm doing, or why I'm even doing it. All I know is my finger has a definite destination in mind.

  "Well don't—touch it!" he shouts, the exact moment I make contact. "Great, that's just great. Now it'll probably double in size." He shakes his head and climbs out of the car, and I can't help but feel disappointed to see the pimple still there.

  I guess I was hoping I'd developed some kind ofenhanced healing ability. Ever since Damen told me, right after I'd decided to accept my fate and startdrinking the immortal juice, that I could expect to go through some changes, anything from super-enhanced psychic abilities (which I was not looking forward to), to super-enhanced physical abilities (which couldcertainly have its benefits in P.E.), or something else altogether (like the ability to heal others, which has my vote since it would be totally cool), I've been on the lookout for something extraordinary. But so far, all I got is an extra inch of leg, which really doesn't do much for me besides requiring a new pair of jeans. And that probably would've happened eventually anyway.

  I grab my bag and climb out of my car, my lips meeting Damen's the instant he comes around to my side.

  "Okay, seriously. How much longer can this possibly last?"

  We both pull away and look at Miles.

  "Yeah, I'm talking to you." He wags his finger. "All of the kissing, and hugging, and let us not forget the constant whispering of sweet little nothings." He shakes his head and narrows his eyes. "Seriously. I was hoping you guys would be over it by now. I mean, don't get me wrong, we're all very happy that Damen's back in school, that you've found each other again, and will most likely live happily ever after. But really, don't you think it's time to maybe try and tone it down a little? Because some of us aren't quite as happy as you. Some of us are a little bit love deprived."

  "You're love deprived?" I laugh, not at all offended by anything he just said, knowing it has far more to do with his anxiety about the play than anything to do with Damen and me. "What happened to Holt?"

  "Holt?" He balks. "Don't even talk about Holt! Do not even go there, Ever!" He shakes his head and turns on his heel, heading toward Haven who's waiting by the gate.

  "What's his problem?" Damen asks, reaching for my hand and entwining my fingers with his, gazing at me with eyes that still love me, despite yesterday.

  "Tomorrow's opening night." I shrug. "So he's freaking out, has a zit on his chin, and naturally he's decided to hold us responsible," I say, watching as Miles links arms with Haven as he leads her toward class.

  "We're not talking to them," he says, glancing over his shoulder and frowning at us. "We're on strike until they stop acting so love struck or this zit goes away, whichever comes first." He nods, only half joking. Haven laughs and skips alongside him, as Damen and I head into English. Going right past Stacia Miller who smil
es sweetly at him and then tries to trip me. But just as she drops her small bag in my path, hoping to incite a nice, humiliating face plant, I see it lifting, and I feel it smacking—right into her knee. And even though I feel the pain too, I'm still glad I did it.

  "Owww!" she wails, rubbing her knee and glaring at me, even though she has no tangible proof that I'm in any way responsible.

  But I just ignore her and take my seat. I've gotten better at ignoring her. Ever since she got me suspended for drinking on campus, I've done my best to stay out of her way. But sometimes—sometimes I just can't help myself.

  "You shouldn't have done that," Damen whispers, attempting a stern look as he leans toward me.

  "Please. You're the one who wants me to practice manifesting." I shrug. "Looks like those lessons are finally starting to pay off."

  He looks at me, shaking his head as he says, "You see, it's even worse than I thought, because for your information that was psychokinesis you just did, not manifesting. See how much there is to learn?"

  "Psychowhat?"

  I squint, unfamiliar with the term, though the act itself was sure fun. He takes my hand, a smile playing at the corner of his lips as he says, "I've been thinking..." I glance at the clock, seeing it's already five minutes past nine and knowing Mr. Robins is just now leaving the teachers' lounge. "Friday night. What do you say we go somewhere... special?" He smiles.

  "Like Summerland?" I look at Damen, my eyes growing wide as my pulse quickens. I've been dying to get back to that magical, mystical place. The dimension between the dimensions, where I can manifest oceans and elephants, and move things far greater than projectile Prada bags—only I need Damen to get there.

  But he just laughs and shakes his head. "No, not Summerland. Though we will return there, I promise. But I was thinking more like, I don't know, maybe the Montage, or the Ritz, perhaps?" He raises his brows.

  "But Miles's play is Friday and I promised we'd be there!" I say, realizing just after I've said it that I'd conveniently forgotten all about Miles's Hairspray debut when I thought I was going to Summerland. But now that Damen wants to check into one of the area's most swanky hotels—my memory is somehow restored.

  "Okay, then, how about after the play?" he offers. But when he looks at me, when he sees how I hesitate, how I press my lips together and search for a polite way to decline, he adds, "Or not. It was just athought." I gaze at him, knowing I need to accept, that I want to accept. Hearing the voice in my head shouting: Say yes! Say yes! You promised yourself you'd leap forward, without once looking back, and now's your chance—so just go ahead and do it! JUST! SAY! YES!

  But even though I'm convinced that it's time to move on, even though I love Damen with all of my heart and am determined to get over his past and take the next step, what comes out of my mouth is entirely different.

  "We'll see," I say, averting my gaze and focusing on the door, just as Mr. Robins walks in.

  Chapter Four

  When the fourth-period bell finally rings, I get up from my desk and approach Mr. Munoz.

  "Are you sure you're finished?" he asks, looking up from a pile of papers. "If you need another minute, that's perfectly okay."

  I glance over my test sheet, then shake my head. Wondering what he'd do if he ever found out that I'd finished approximately forty-five seconds after he first handed it to me, then spent the next fifty minutes only pretending to struggle.

  "I'm good," I tell him, knowing it's true. One of the perks of being psychic is that I no longer have to study, instead I just sort of know all the answers. And even though it's sometimes tempting to show off and ace all of my tests in a long steady stream of perfect scores, I usually try to hold back and get a few wrong since it's important to not overdo it.

  Or at least that's what Damen says. Always remindingme how imperative it is to keep a low profile, to at least give the appearance of being normal—even though we're anything but. Though the first time he said it, I couldn't help but remind him of how there seemed to be an awful lot of tulip manifesting going on back when we first met. But he just said that certain allowances had to be made in his efforts to woo me, and that it took longer than necessary since I didn't bother to look up their true meaning of undying love, until it was almost too late. I hand the paper to Mr. Munoz, cringing when the tips of our fingers make contact. And even though our skin just barely brushed, it was still enough to show me far more than I ever needed to know, allowing for a pretty clear visual of his entire morning so far. Everything from his incredibly messy apartment with the kitchen table that's littered with takeout containers and multiple versions of the manuscript he's been working on for the past seven years, to him singing "Born to Run" at the top of his lungs as he tried to find a clean shirt before heading over to Starbucks where he bumped into a petite blonde who spilled her iced venti chai latte all down the front of it—resulting in a cold, wet, annoying stain that one flash of her beautiful smile seemed to erase. A glorious smile he can't seem to forget—a glorious smile that—belongs to my aunt!

  "Want to wait while I grade it?"

  I nod, practically hyperventilating as I focus on his red pen. Replaying the scene I just saw in my head, each time coming to the same horrific conclusion—my history teacher is hot for Sabine!

  I can't let this happen. Can't allow her to ever go back there. I mean, just because they're smart, cute, and single, doesn't mean they need to date.

  I stand there, frozen, unable to breathe, struggling to block out the thoughts in his head by focusing on the tip of his pen. Watching as he leaves a trail of tiny red dots that turn into checkmarks at numbers seventeen and twenty-five—just as I'd planned.

  "Only two wrong. Very good!" He smiles, brushing his fingers against the stain on his shirt, wondering if he'll ever see her again. "Would you like to see the correct answers?" Uh, not really,I think, eager to be out of there as soon as I can, and not just so I can get to the lunchtable and see Damen, but in case his fantasy decides to pick up where I forced it to leave off. But knowing that the normal thing would be to appear at least somewhat interested, I take a deep breath and smile and nod as though I'd like nothing more. And when he hands me the answer key, I just go through the motions, saying, "Oh, look at that, I got the wrong date." And, "Of course! How could I not know that? Duh!"

  But he just nods, mostly because his thoughts are already back on the blonde—aka: The only woman in the entire universe who he is absolutely forbidden to date! Wondering if she'll be there tomorrow—same time and place.

  And even though the idea of teachers in lust pretty much grosses me out in a general sense, this particular teacher's being in lust over someone who's practically like a parent to me—just will not do. But then I remember how just a few months ago I hada vision of Sabine dating some cute guy in her building. And since Munoz works here, and Sabine works there, I figure there's really no threat of my two worlds colliding.

  But just in case I'm wrong, I still manage to say, "Um, it was a fluke." He looks at me, brows merged, trying to make sense of my words. And even though I know I've gone too far, even though I know I'm about to say something as far from normal as you can get, I really don't feel I have much of a choice. I cannot have my history teacher dating my aunt. I can't tolerate it. I just can't.

  So I motion toward the stain on his shirt when I add, "You know, her, Miss Iced Venti Chai Latte?" I nod, seeing the alarmed look on his face. "I doubt she'll be back. She doesn't really go all that often." Then before I can say anything else that will not only dash his dreams but confirm the full extent of my freakdom, I sling my bag over my shoulder and run for the door, shrugging off the last of Mr. Munoz's lingering energy as I make my way toward the lunchtable where Damen is waiting—eager to be with him again after three very long hours apart.

  But when I get there, it's not quite the homecoming I expected. There's a new guy sitting beside him, right in my usual place, and he's soaking up so much attention, Damen barely notices me. I lean against the edg
e of the table, watching as they all break into laughter at something the new guy said. And not wanting to interrupt or come off as rude, I take the seat across from Damen rather than right beside him in my usual place.

  "Omigod, you are so funny!" Haven says, leaning forward and briefly touching the new guy's hand. Smiling in a way that makes it clear her new boyfriend, Josh, her self-proclaimed soul mate, has been temporarily forgotten. "Too bad you missed it, Ever, he's so hysterical Miles even forgot to obsess on his zit!"

  "Thanks for the reminder." Miles scowls, his finger seeking the spot on his chin—only it's no longer there.

  His eyes go wide, looking to each of us for confirmation that his mammoth-sized zit, the bane of this morning's existence, really is gone. And I can't help but wonder if its sudden disappearance is because of me, because of when I touched it this morning, back in the parking lot. Which would mean I really do have magical healing abilities.

  But just after I think it, the new guy says, "Told you it'd work. Stuffs brilliant. Keep the rest in case it returns."

  And I narrow my gaze, wondering how he could'vehad enough time to intervene on Miles's complexion issues when it's the first I've yet to see of him.

  "I gave him some salve," he says, turning toward me.

  "Miles and I are in homeroom together. I'm Roman, by the way." I look at him, taking in the bright yellow aura that swirls all around him, its edges extended, beckoning, like a friendly group hug. But when I take in his deep navy blue eyes, tanned skin, blond tousled hair, and casual clothes with just the right amount of hipster chic—despite his good looks, my first reaction is to run away. Even when he flashes me one of those languid, easy, make-your-heart-swoon kind of smiles, I'm so on edge, I can't seem to return it.

  "And you must be Ever," he says, retracting his hand, the one I hadn't even noticed was extended and waiting to be shaken until he pulled it away.