Since we're spending the night together, Damen doesn't follow me home after school. Instead, we share a brief kiss in the parking lot before I climb into my car and head for the mall.
I want to buy something special for tonight —something pretty for Miles's play and my big date—both of us starring in our own kind of debut. But after checking my watch and seeing I don't have as much time as I thought, I wonder if I should've taken Damen up on his offer to ditch school. I cruise through the parking lot, wondering if I should try to find Haven. We haven't really hung out that much since that whole weird thing with Drina, and then when she met Josh, well, even though he doesn't go to our school, they've been pretty much joined at the hip ever since. He even managed to wean her from her support group addiction. Her after-school ritual of scoping out random church basements and loading up on punch and cookies, while making up some sob story about that particular day's addiction. And up until now, I haven't really minded seeing less of her since she seems so happy. Like she's finally found someone who not only likes her but who's good for her too. But lately I'm starting to miss her, and I'm thinking a little time together might do me some good.
I spot her and Roman leaning against his vintage red sports car, watching as Haven grabs hold of his arm and laughs at something he said. The severity of her black skinny jeans, black shrunken cardigan, Fall Out Boy tank, and purposely messy dyed black hair with shocking red stripe, all softened by her rosy pink aura, its edges expanding, reaching, until it swallows them both. Leaving no room for doubt that if Roman feels the same way, Josh will soon be replaced. And even though I'm determined to stop it before it's too late, I've just started to cruise by when Roman glances over his shoulder and peers at me with a gaze so insistent, so intimate, so loaded with unknown intent —I punch the pedal and zoom past.
Because despite the fact that my friends all think he's so cool, despite the fact that the A-list agrees, despite the fact that Damen isn't the least bit alarmed —I don't like him.
Even though my feelings are based on nothing more substantial than a constant ping in my gut whenever he's near —the fact is: That new guy really gives me the creeps.
Since it's hot, I head over to the indoor mall of South Coast Plaza as opposed to the outdoor mall of Fashion Island, even though the locals would probably do the opposite.
But I'm not a local. I'm an Oregonian. Which means I'm used to my pre-spring weather being much more, well, pre-springlike. You know, gobs of rain, overcast skies, and plenty of mud. Like a real spring. Not this hot, weird, unnatural, summer hybrid that tries to pass as spring. And from what I hear, it's only going to get worse. Which makes me miss home even more. Normally, I go out of my way to avoid places like this —a place so overrun with light and noise and all of that crowd-generated energy that always overwhelms me and sets me on edge. And without Damen by my side, standing in as my psychic shield, I'm back to relying on my iPod again.
Though I refuse to wear my hoodie and sunglasses to block out the noise like I used to. I'm done with looking like a freak. Instead, I narrow my focus to what's right before me, and block out all the peripherals like Damen taught me to do. I insert my earbuds and crank up the volume, allowing the noise to bar everything but the swirling rainbow of auras and the few disembodied spirits floating about (which, despite my narrowed focus, really are right in front of me). And when I head into Victoria's Secret, aiming straight for the naughty nighties section, I'm so focused, so intent on my mission, I fail to see Stacia and Honor just off to the side.
"O. Migawd!" Stacia sings, approaching me with such purpose you'd think I was a bin labeled: gucci —half off! "You cannot be serious." She points at the negligee I hold in my hand, her perfectly manicured nail motioning toward the slit that starts from both the top and bottom and meets at a crystal-encrusted circle somewhere in the middle.
And even though I was merely curious, and not even thinking about buying it, seeing her face all scrunched up like that and hearing the mocking thoughts in her head makes me feel totally foolish.
I drop it back on the rack and fidget with my earbud, pretending as though I didn't hear a thing as I move toward the matching cotton sets, which are way more my style and speed.
But just as I begin browsing through several hot-pink-and-orange-striped camis, I realize they're probably nowhere near Damen's speed. He'd probably prefer something a little more racy. Something with a lot more lace and a lot less cotton. Something that could actually be considered sexy. And without even looking, I know Stacia and her faithful lapdog have followed.
"Aw, look, Honor. Freak can't decide between skanky or sweet." Stacia shakes her head and smirks at me.
"Trust me, when in doubt, always go with skanky. It's pretty much a sure thing. Besides, from what I recall about Damen, he's not so big on sweet." I freeze, my stomach clenching with unreasonable jealousy as my throat squeezes tight. But only for a moment before I force myself to resume breathing and browsing, refusing to let her think, even for a second, that her words might've gotten to me. Besides, I know all about what happened between them, and I'm happy to report that it was neither skanky nor sweet. Mostly because it wasn't anything at all. Damen merely pretended to like her so he could get to me. And yet, just the thought of him even pretending still makes me queasy. "Come on, let's go. She can't hear you," Honor says, scratching her arm and glancing between Stacia and me, then checking her phone for the hundredth time to see if Craig answered her text. But Stacia remains rooted, enjoying herself far too much to give up so easily. "Oh, she can hear me just fine," she says, a smile playing at the corner of her lips. "Don't let the iPod and earbuds fool you. She can hear everything we say and everything we think. Because Ever's not just a freak, she's also a witch."
I turn away and head for the other side of the store, browsing a rack of push-up bras and corsets, telling myself: Ignore her, ignore her Just focus on shopping and she'll go away.
But Stacia's not going anywhere. Instead, she grabs hold of my arm and pulls me right to her, saying, "Come on, don't be shy. Show her. Show Honor what a freak you are!"
Her eyes stare into mine, sending a flood of disturbing dark energy coursing right through me as she squeezes my arm so tight her thumb and index finger practically meet. And I know she's trying to bait me, incite me, aware of exactly what I'm capable of after that time when I lost control in the hallway at school. Only that time she didn't do it on purpose —she had no idea what I could do.
Honor starts to fidget, standing beside her and whining, "Come on, Stacia. Let's go. This is bor-ing."
But Stacia ignores her and grips my arm harder, her nails pressing into my flesh as she whispers, "Go on, tell her. Tell her what you see!"
I close my eyes, my stomach swirling as my head fills with images similar to the ones I saw before: Stacia scratching and clawing her way to the top of the popularity pyramid, stomping much harder than necessary on all those beneath her. Including Honor, especially Honor, who's so afraid of being unpopular she does nothing to stop it... I could tell her what a horrible friend Stacia really is, expose her for the awful person I know her to be. .. . I could pry Stacia's hand from my arm and fling her across the room so hard she'd fly straight through the plate glass window before crashing into the mall directory....