"Damen, I—" My voice cracks as a car honks behind me and Miles mutters something unintelligible under his breath.
And before I've had a chance to clear my throat and start over, Damen's shaking his head and walking away.
Chapter Seventeen
"Are you all right?" Miles asks, his face displaying all of the heartbreak and pain I'm too numb to feel. I shrug, knowing I'm not. I mean, how can I be all right when I'm not even sure what's all wrong?
"Damen's an asshole," he says, a hard edge to his voice.
But I just sigh. Even though I can't explain it, and even though I don't understand it, I just know in my gut that things are far more complicated than they might seem.
"No he's not," I mumble, climbing out of the car and closing the door much harder than necessary.
"Ever, please... I mean, I'm sorry to be the one to point it out, but you did just see what I saw, right?" I head toward Haven who's waiting by the gate.
"Trust me, I saw everything, " I say. Replaying the scene in my mind, each time pausing on his distant eyes, his tepid energy, his complete lack of interest in me—
"So you agree? That he's an asshole?" Miles watches me carefully, assuring himself I'm not the kind of girl who would ever allow a guy to treat her like that.
"Who's an asshole?" Haven asks, glancing between us.
Miles looks at me, his eyes asking permission, and after seeing me shrug, he looks at Haven and says, "Damen."
Haven squints, her mind swimming with questions. But I've got my own set of questions, questions with no probable answer. Such as: What the hell just happened back there? And: Since when does Damen have an aura?
"Miles can fill you in," I say, glancing between them before walking away. Wishing more than ever that I could be normal, that I could lean on them and cry on their shoulders like a regular girl. But there just happens to be more to this situation than meets their mortal eyes. And even though I can't yet prove it—if I want answers, I'll have to go straight to the source. When I get to class, instead of hesitating at the door, like I thought I would, I surprise myself by bursting right in. And when I see Damen leaning against the edge of Stacia's desk, smiling and joking and flirting with her—I feel like I've stepped into a major case of deja vu.
You can handle this, I think. You've been here before. Remembering the time, not so long ago, when Damen pretended to be interested in Stacia, but only to get to me. But the closer I get, the more I realize that this is nothing at all like the last time. Back then all I had to do was look into his eyes to find the smallest glimmer of compassion, a sliver of regret he just couldn't hide. But now, watching as Stacia outdoes herself with her hair-tossing, cleavage-flaunting, eyelash-batting routine—it's like I'm invisible.
"Um, excuse me," I say, causing them to look up, clearly annoyed by the interruption. "Damen, could I, um, could I talk to you for a sec?" I shove my hands in my pockets so he can't see them shake, forcing myself to breathe like a normal, relaxed person would—in and out, slow and steady, with no gasping or wheezing.
Watching as he and Stacia glance at each other, then burst out laughing at the exact same time. And just as Damen's about to speak, Mr. Robins walks in and says, "Seats, everyone! I want to see you all in your seats!"
So I motion to our desks, and say, "Please, after you." I follow behind, resisting the urge to grab him by the shoulder, spin him around, and force him to look me in the eye as I scream: Why did you leave me? What on earth happened to you? How could you do that—on that night—of all nights? Knowing that sort of direct, confrontational approach will only work against me. That if I want to get anywhere at all, then I'll have to act cool, calm, and easy. I toss my bag to the floor, stacking my book, notebook, and pen on my desk. Smiling as though I'm no more than a casual friend interested in a little Monday morning chat when I say, "So, what'd you do this weekend?"
He shrugs, his eyes grazing over me before resting on mine. And it's a moment before I realize the horrible thoughts that I hear are coming straight from his head. Well, if I'm gonna have a stalker, at least she's hot, he thinks, his brows merging together as I instinctively reach for my iPod, wanting to tune him out, yet knowing I can't risk missing something important, no matter how much it might hurt. Besides, I've never had access to Damen's mind before, never been able to hear what he's thinking. But now that I can, I'm not sure that I want to.
And when he twists his lips to the side and narrows his eyes, thinking: Too bad she's totally psycho—definitely not worth risking a tap. The bite of his words is like a stake in my chest. And I'm so taken aback by his casual cruelty, I forget they weren't spoken out loud when I shriek, "Excuse me? What did you just say?"
Causing all of my classmates to turn and stare, their sympathies lying with Damen for having to sit next tome.
"Is something wrong?" Mr. Robins asks, glancing between us.
I sit there, totally speechless.
My heart caving when Damen looks at Mr. Robins and says, "I'm fine. She's the freak."
Chapter Eighteen
I followed him. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I had to. He left me no choice. I mean, if Damen's going to insist on avoiding me, then surveillance is my only option. So I followed him out of English, waited for him after second period—third and fourth too. Staying in the background and observing from afar, wishing I'd agreed to let him transfer to all of my classes like he originally wanted, but thinking it was too creepy, too codependent, I wouldn't let him. So now I'm forced to linger outside his door, eavesdropping on his conversations along with the thoughts in his head—thoughts that, I'm horrified to report, are depressingly vain, narcissistic, and shallow. But that's not the real Damen. Of this I'm convinced. Not that I think he's a manifest Damen because those never last more than a few minutes. What I mean is, something's happened to him. Something serious that's making him act and think like—well, like most of the guys in this school. Because even though I never had access to his mind until now, I know he didn't think like that before. He didn't act like that either. No, this new Damen is like an entirely new creature, where only the outside is familiar—while the inside is something else altogether. I head toward the lunch table, steeling myself for what I might find, though it's not until I've unzipped my lunch pack and shined my apple on my sleeve, that I realize that the real reason I'm alone isn't because I'm early.
It's because everyone else has abandoned me too. I look up, hearing Damen's familiar laugh, only to find him surrounded by Stacia, Honor, and Craig, along with the rest of the A-list crew. Which wouldn't be all that surprising with the way things are going, except for the fact that Miles and Haven are there too. And as my eyes sweep the length of the table, I drop my apple and my mouth runs dry when I see that all of the tables are now pushed together. The lions are now lunching with lambs. Which means Roman's prediction came true. Bay View High School's lunch time caste system has come to an end.
"So, what do you think?" Roman says, sliding onto the bench opposite me, hooking his thumb over his shoulder as a smile widens his cheeks. "Sorry for just dropping in on you like this, but I saw you admiring my work, so I thought I'd stop by for a chat. Are you all right?" He leans toward me, his face appearing genuinely concerned, though luckily I'm not stupid enough to fall for it. I meet his gaze, determined to hold it for as long as I can. Sensing he's responsible for Damen's behavior, Miles's and Haven's defection, and the entire school living in harmony and peace—but lacking the evidence needed to prove it. I mean, to everyone else he's a hero, a true Che Guevara, a lunch time revolutionary. But to me he's a threat.
"So I assume you made it home safely?" he asks, chugging his soda though his eyes are on me. I glance at Miles, watching as he says something to Craig that makes them both laugh, then I move on to Haven, seeing her lean toward Honor, whispering into her ear. But I don't look at Damen.
I refuse to watch him gaze into Stacia's eyes, place his hand on her knee, and tease her with his very best smile as his fingers cree
p along her thigh... I saw plenty of that already in English. Besides, I'm pretty sure that whatever they're up to is just foreplay—the first tentative step toward the kind of horrible things I saw in Stacia's head. The vision that freaked me so bad I took down a whole rack of bras in my panic. And yet, by the time I got myself upright and settled again, I was sure she'd done it on purpose, never considered it to be some kind of prophecy. And even though I still think she created it just out of spite, and that their being together now is merely a coincidence, I have to admit it's pretty disturbing to see it played out.
But even though I refuse to watch it, I still try to listen—hoping to hear something pertinent, some vital information exchange. But just as I focus my attention and try to tune in, I'm met by a big wall of sound—all of those voices and thoughts merging together, making it impossible to distinguish any particular one.
"You know, Friday night?" Roman continues, his long fingers tapping the sides of his soda can, refusing to budge from this line of questioning, even though I refuse to participate. "When I found you alone? I have to tell you, Ever, I felt awful leaving you like that, but then again, you insisted."
I glance at him, uninterested in playing this game but thinking that if I just answer his question, then maybe he'll leave. "I made it home just fine. Thanks for your concern."
He smiles, the grin that probably makes a million hearts swoon—but only chills mine. Then he leans in and says, "Aw, now look at that, you're being sarcastic, aren't you?"
I shrug and gaze down at my apple, rolling it back and forth across the table.
"I just wish you'd tell me what I've done to make you hate me so much. I'm sure there's got to be some kind of peaceful solution, some way to remedy this."
I press my lips together and stare at my apple, rolling it along on its side as I push it hard against the table, feeling its flesh soften and give as the skin starts to break.
"Let me take you to dinner," he says, his blue eyes focused on mine. "What do you say? A right and proper date. Just the two of us. I'll get the car detailed, buy some new clothes, make a reservation somewhere swank—a good time guaranteed!"
I shake my head and roll my eyes, the only response I plan to give.
But Roman's undaunted, refusing to fold. "Aw, come on, Ever. Give a bloke a chance to change your mind. You can opt out at anytime, scout's honor. Hell, we'll even make up a safe word. You know, if at any time you decide things have strayed too far from your comfort level, you just shout out the safe word, all activity will cease, and neither of us will ever speak of it again." He pushes his soda aside and slides his hands toward mine, the tips of his fingers creeping so close, I yank mine away. "Come on, give a little, will ya? How can you say no to an offer like that?"
His voice is deep and persuasive, his gaze right on mine, but I just continue rolling my apple, watching the flesh burst free of the skin.
"I promise it'll be nothing like those rubbish dates that wanker Damen probably takes you on. For one thing, I'd never leave a girl as gorgeous as you to fend for herself in a parking lot." He looks at me, a smile playing at his lips when he says, "Well, I suppose I did leave a gorgeous girl like you to fend for herself, but only because I was honoring your request. See? I've already proven I'm at your service, willing to jump at your every command."
"What's with you?" I finally say, peering into those blue eyes without flinching or looking away. Wishing he'd just give it a rest and rejoin the only other lunchtable in this school, the one where everybody's welcome but me. "I mean, does everyone have to like you? Is that it? And if so, don't you think that's just a tad insecure?"
He laughs. And I mean, a genuine, thigh-slapping laugh. And when he finally calms down, he shakes his head and says, "Well no, not everyone. Though I do have to admit, it is usually the case." He leans toward me, his face mere inches from mine. "What can I say? I'm a likable guy. Most people find me quite charming."
I shake my head and look away, tired of being toyed with and eager to put an end to this game. "Well, I'm sorry to break it to you, but I'm afraid you're going to have to count me among the rare few who aren't the least bit charmed by you. But please, do us both a favor and try not to view it as a challenge and set out to change my mind. Why don't you just go rejoin your table and leave me alone. I mean, why bring everyone together if you don't plan to enjoy all the fun?"
He looks at me, smiling and shaking his head as he slides off the bench, his eyes right on mine when he says, "Ever, you are mad hot. Seriously. And if I didn't know better, I'd think you were purposely trying to drive me insane."
I roll my eyes and look away.
"But, not wanting to wear out my welcome and recognizing the signs of a bloke being told to sod off, I think I'll just—" He jabs his thumb toward the table where the whole school is sitting. "Though, of course, if you change your mind and want to come join me, I'm sure I can convince them to make room."
I shake my head and motion for him to go, my throat hot and tight, unable to speak, knowing that despite all appearances, I haven't won this one—in fact, I'm not even close.
"Oh, and I thought you might want these," he says, placing my shoes on the table, as though my strappy, faux snake skin wedges are some kind of peace offering. "But don't worry, no need to thank me." He laughs, glancing over his shoulder to say, "You might want to take it easy on that apple though, you're giving it quite the beating."
I squeeze tighter, watching as he heads straight for Haven, trails a finger down the length of her neck and presses his lips to her ear. Causing me to grip the apple so hard it explodes in my hand—its sticky wet juice slipping down the length of my fingers and onto my wrist—as Roman looks over and laughs.
Chapter Nineteen
When I get to art, I head straight for the supply closet, slip into my smock, gather my supplies, and am just heading back into the room when I see Damen standing in the doorway, wearing a strange look on his face. A look that, while it may be strange, also fills me with hope, as his eyes are sort of vacant, his jaw slack, and he seems lost and unsure, like he might need my help.
Knowing I need to seize the moment while it's standing there slack jawed before me, I lean toward him, gently touching his arm as I say, "Damen?" My voice shaky, scratchy, as though it's the first time I've used it all day. "Damen, honey, are you okay?" My eyes graze over him, fighting the urge to press my lips hard against his.
He looks at me with a hash of recognition that's soon joined by kindness, longing, and love. And as my fingers strain toward his cheek, my eyes fill with tears, seeing his reddish brown aura fade and knowing he's mine once again—
And then: "Ay mate, move along, move along, you're holdin' up the flow of traffic 'ere." And just like that, the old Damen's gone, and the new Damen's back. He pushes past me, his aura flaring, his thoughts repulsed by my touch. Then I press against the wall, cringing as Roman follows behind, accidentally brushing his body against mine.
"Sorry 'bout that, luv." He smiles, his face leering.
I close my eyes and grasp the wall for support. My head swaying as the euphoric swirl of his bright sunshiny aura—his intense, expansive, optimistic energy—washes right through me. Infusing my mind with images so hopeful, so friendly, so innocuous, they fill me with shame—shame for all my suspicions—shame for being so unkind—And yet—there's something not quite right about it. Something off in the rhythm. Most minds are a jumble of beats, a rush of words, a swirl of pictures, a cacophony of sounds all tumbling together like the most disjointed jazz. But Roman's mind is orderly, organized, with one thought flowing cleanly into the next. Making it sound forced, unnatural, like a prerecorded script—
"By the looks of you, darlin', it seems that was almost as good for you as it was for me. You sure you won't change your mind about that date?" His chilled breath presses my cheek, his lips so close I fear he might try to kiss me.
And just as I'm about to push him away, Damen walks past us and says, "Dude, seriously, what're you doin
g? That spaz is not worth your time."
That spaz is not worth your time that spaz is not worth your time that spaz is not worth your time that spaz is not worth your time that spaz is not worth your time that spaz is not—
"Ever? Have you grown?" I look up to find Sabine standing next to me, handing me a freshly rinsed bowl that's meant for the dishwasher. And it's only after I blink a few times that I remember it's my job to put it there.
"Sorry, what?" I ask, my fingers gripping the soapy wet porcelain as I ease it onto the rack. Unable to think about anything but Damen, and the hurtful words I use to torture myself with, by replaying them again and again.
"You look like you've grown. In fact, I'm sure of it. Aren't those the jeans I just bought you?"
I gaze down at my feet, startled to find several inches of ankle exposed. Which is even more bizarre when I remember how just this morning the hems dragged on the floor. "Um—maybe," I lie, knowing that we both know they are.
She squints, shaking her head when she says, "I thought for sure they'd be the right size. Looks like you're going through a growth spurt." She shrugs. "But then, you're only sixteen, so I suppose it's not too late."
Only sixteen, but damn close to seventeen, I think, longing for the day when I turn eighteen, graduate, and head off on my own so I can be alone with my weird creepy secrets and Sabine can get back to her regularly scheduled life. Having no idea how I'll ever repay her for her kindness, and now adding a pair of overpriced jeans to the tab.
"I was done growing by fifteen, but it looks like you're going to end up a lot taller than me." She smiles, handing me a fistful of spoons.
I smile weakly, wondering just how tall I'll get and hoping I don't turn into some kind of giantess freak, some Ripley's Believe it or Not! cover girl. Knowing that growing three niches in the course of one day is no ordinary growth spurt—not by a long shot. But now that she mentions it, I've also noticed that my nails are starting to grow so fast I have to clip them nearly every day, and that my bangs are now past my chin even though I've only been growing them for the past few weeks. Not to mention how the blue of my eyes seems to be deepening, while my slightly crooked front teeth have righted themselves. And no matter how much I abuse it, how irregularly I cleanse it, my complexion remains clear, poreless, and completely blemish-free. And now I've grown three inches since breakfast?