"Can I help you?" the teacher asks, turning away from the board, holding a broken piece of white chalk in his hand.
I stand before the class, cringing as a few of Stacia's minions mock me as I fight to catch my breath.
"Miles," I pant, pointing at him. "I need to speak to Miles. It'll only take a sec," I promise, as his teacher crosses his arms and gives me a dubious look. "It's important," I add, glancing at Miles who's now closed his eyes and is shaking his head.
"I assume you have a hall pass?" his teacher asks, a stickler for the rules.
And even though I know it might very well alienate him and end up working against me, I don't have time to get bogged down in all this red tape, the high school bureaucracy designed to keep us all safe —but that is actually, at this very moment, keeping me from handling a matter that is clearly life and death!
Or at least it might be.
I'm not sure. Though I'd like a chance to find out.
And I'm so frustrated, I just shake my head and say, "Listen, you and I both know I don't have a hall pass, but if you'll just do me the favor of letting me speak with Miles outside for a sec, I promise to send him right back."
He looks at me, his mind sifting through all the alternatives, all the different ways this could play out: kicking me out, escorting me to class, escorting me to Principal Buckley's office —before glancing at Miles and sighing when he says, "Fine. Make it quick."
The second we head into the hall and the door closes behind us, I look at Miles and say, "Give me the salve."
"What?" He gapes.
"The salve. The one Roman gave you. Give it to me. I need to see it," I tell him, extending my hand and wiggling my finger, "Are you crazy?" he whispers, looking around even though it's just wall-to-wall carpet, taupe colored walls, and us.
"You have no idea how serious this is," I say, my eyes on his, not wanting to scare him, though I will if I have to. "Now come on, we don't have all day."
"It's in my backpack." He shrugs.
'"Then go get it."
"Ever, seriously. What the —?"
I just fold my arms and nod. "Go on. I’ll wait."
Miles shakes his head and disappears inside the room.
Emerging a moment later with a sour expression and a small white tube in the palm of his hand. "Here. Happy now?" He tosses it to me.
I take the tube and examine it, twirling it between my thumb and index finger. It's a brand that I recognize, from a store that I frequent. And I don't understand how that could be.
"You know, in case you've forgotten, my play is tomorrow, and I really don't need all of this extra drama and stress right now, so if you don't mind ..."
He extends his hand, waiting for me to return the salve so he can get back to class.
Only I'm not willing to hand it over just yet. I'm looking for some kind of needle hole or puncture mark, something to prove it's been tampered with, that it's not what it seems.
"I mean, today at lunch when I saw how you and Damen toned down the whole smoochy business, I was ready to high-five you, but now it's like you've replaced it with something way worse. I mean, seriously, Ever. Either unscrew the cap and use it, or give it back already."
But I don't give it back. Instead, I close my fingers around it and try to read its energy. But it's just some stupid zit cream. The kind that actually works.
"Are we done here?" He frowns at me.
I shrug and give the tube back. To say I'm embarrassed would be putting it mildly. But when Miles shoves it into his pocket and heads for the door, I can't help but say, "So you noticed?" The words feel hot and sticky in my throat.
"Noticed what?" He stops, clearly annoyed.
"The, um, the absence of the whole smoochy business?”
Miles turns, performing an exaggerated eye roll before leveling his gaze right on mine. "Yeah, I noticed. I figured you guys were just taking my threat seriously."
I look at him.
"This morning —when I said Haven and I were on strike until you guys stopped with all of your —" He shakes his head. "Whatever. Can I please get to class?"
"Sorry." I nod. "Sorry about all the —"
But before I can finish, he's already gone, the door closed firmly between us.
CHAPTER 6
When I get to sixth period art, I'm relieved to see Damen's already there. Since Mr. Robins kept us so busy in English and we barely spoke at lunch, I'm looking forward to a little alone time with him. Or at least as alone as you can be in a classroom with thirty other students.
But after slipping on my smock and gathering my supplies from the closet, my heart sinks when I see that, once again, Roman has taken my place.
"Oh, hey, Ever." He nods, placing his brand-new blank canvas on my easel while I stand there, cradling my stuff in my arms and staring at Damen who's so immersed in his painting he's completely oblivious to me.
And I'm just about to tell Roman to scram when I remember Haven's words, how she said I hate new people. And fearing she might be right, I force a smile onto my face and place my canvas on the easel on Damen's other side, promising myself to get here much earlier tomorrow so I can reclaim my space. "So tell me. Wot are we doin' 'ere, mate?" Roman asks, lodging a paintbrush between his front teeth and glancing between Damen and me. And that's another thing. Normally, I find British accents really appealing, but with this guy, it just grates. But that's probably because it's totally bogus. I mean, it's so obvious with the way he only slips it in when he wants to seem cool.
But as soon as I think it, I feel guilty again. Everyone knows that trying too hard to look cool is just another sign of insecurity. And who wouldn't feel a little insecure on their first day at this school? "We're studying the isms,” I say, determined to play nice despite the nagging ping in my gut. "Last month we got to pick our own, but this month, we're all doing photorealism since nobody picked that last time." Roman looks at me, starting with my growing-out bangs and working his way all the way down to my gold Haviana flip-flops —a slow leisurely cruise along my body that makes my stomach go all jumpy and twisted —and not in a good way.
"Right. So you make it look real then, like a photograph," he says, his eyes on mine.
I meet his gaze, a gaze he insists on holding for several seconds too long. But I refuse to squirm or look away first. I'm determined to stay in the game for as long as it takes. And even though it may seem totally benign on the surface, something about it feels dark, threatening, like some kind of dare.
Or maybe not.
Because right after I think that, he says, "These American schools are amazing! Back home, in soggy old London —" he winks, "it was always theory over practice."
And I'm instantly ashamed for all of my judgmental thoughts. Because apparently, not only is he from London, which means his accent is real, but Damen, whose psychic powers are way more refined than mine, doesn't seem the least bit alarmed.
If anything, he seems to like him. Which is even worse for me, because it pretty much proves that Haven is right.
I really am jealous.
And possessive.
And paranoid.
And apparently I hale new people too.
I take a deep breath and try again, talking past the lump in my throat and the knot in my stomach, determined to come off as friendly, even if it means I have to fake it at first. "You can paint anything you want," I say, using my upbeat friendly voice, which in my old life, before my whole family died in the accident and Damen saved me by making me immortal, was pretty much the only voice I ever used.