"Seriously." He nods. And the moment he stops talking I hear the heightened whispers of Stacia and Honor, calling me a freak, and a few other things much worse than that. Then I watch as he tosses his pen in the air, smiling as it forms a series of slow lazy eights before landing right back on his finger. "So where's your family?" he asks.
And it's so weird how all the noise just stops and starts, starts and stops, like some messed up game of musical chairs. One where I'm always left standing. One where I'm always it.
"What?" I squint, distracted by the sight of Damen's magic pen now hovering between us, as Honor makes fun of my clothes, and her boyfriend pretends to agree even though he's secretly wondering why she never dresses like me. And it makes me want to lift my hood, crank my iPod, and drown it all out. Everything. Including Damen.
Especially Damen.
"Where does your family live?" he asks.
I close my eyes when he speaks-silence, sweet silence, for those fleeting few seconds. Then I open them again and gaze right into his. "They're dead," I say, as Mr. Robins walks in.
''I'm sorry."
Damen gazes at me from across the lunch table as I scan the area, eager for Haven and Miles to show. I just opened my lunch pack to find a single red tulip lying smack between my sandwich. and chips-a tulip! Just like the one from Friday night. And even though I've no idea how he did it, I'm sure Damen's responsible. But it's not so much the strange magic tricks that bother me, it's more the way he looks at me, the way he speaks to me, the way he makes me feel
"About your family. I didn't realize "
I gaze down at my juice, twisting the cap back and forth, forth and back, wishing he'd just let it go. "I don't like to talk about it." I shrug.
"I know what it's like to lose the people you love," he whispers, reaching across the table and placing his hand over mine, infusing me with a feeling so good, so warm, so calm, and so safe-I close my eyes and allow it. Allow myself to enjoy the peace of it. Grateful to hear what he says and not what he thinks. Like an average girl-with a much better than average boy.
"Um, excuse me."
I open my eyes to find Haven leaning against the edge of the table, her yellow eyes narrowed and fixed on our hands. "So sorry to interrupt."
I pull away, shoving my hand in my pocket like it's something shameful, something no one should have to see. Wanting to explain how what she saw was nothing, how it meant nothing, even though I know better. "Where's Miles?" I finally say, not knowing what else to say.
She rolls her eyes and sits beside Damen, her hostile thoughts transforming her aura from bright yellow to a very dark red. "Miles is texting his latest Internet crush, hornyyoungdingdong307," she says, avoiding my eyes as she as she busies herself with her cupcake. Then gazing at Damen, she adds, "So, how was everyone's weekend?"
I shrug, knowing she wasn't really addressing me, watching as she taps the frosting with the tip of her tongue, performing her usual test lick, even though I've yet to see her reject one. And when I glance at Damen, I'm shocked to see him shrug too, because from what I saw, he was poised for a much better weekend than me.
"Well, as you can probably guess, my Friday night sucked. Big-time. I spent most of it cleaning up Austin's vomit, since the housekeeper was in Vegas and my parents couldn't be bothered to come home from wherever the hell they were. But Saturday totally made up for it. I mean, it rocked! Like, seriously, it was probably the best night of my entire life. And I totally would've invited you guys if it hadn't been so last minute." She nods, deigning to look at me again.
"Where'd you go?" I ask, trying to sound casual even though I just envisioned a dark scary place.
"This totally awesome club that some girl from my group took me to."
"Which group?" I sip from my water.
"Saturday is for codependents." She smiles. "Anyway, this girl, Evangeline? She's like a hardcore case. She's what they call a donor."
"What who calls a donor?" Miles asks, placing his Sidekick on thetabk and sitting down beside me.
"The codependents," I say, bringing him up' to speed.
Haven rolls her eyes. "No, not them, the vampires. A donor is a person who allows other vamps to feed off them. You know, like suck their blood and stuff, whereas I'm what they call a puppy, because I just like to follow them around. I don't let any-. one feed. Well, not yet." She laughs.
"Follow who around?" Miles asks, lifting his Sidekick and flipping through his messages.
"Vampires! jeez, try to keep up. Anyway, what I was saying is this codependent donor chick, Evangeline, which, by the way, is her vampire name, not her real name-"
"People have vampire names?" Miles asks, setting his phone on the table where he can still peek at it.
"Totally." She nods, poking her finger deep into the frosting, then licking the tip.
"Is that like a stripper name? You know, like your first childhood pet plus your mom's maiden name? Because that makes me Princess Slavin, thank you very much." He smiles.
Haven sighs, striving for patience. "Uh, no. It's nothing like that. You see, a vampire name is serious. And unlike most people, I don't even have to change mine, because Haven is like an organic vamp name, one hundred percent natural, no additives or preservatives." She laughs. "I told you I'm a dark princess! Anyway, we went to this really cool club somewhere up in L.A. called Nocturnal; or something like that."
"Nocturne," Damen says, gripping his drink as his eyes focus on hers.
Haven sets down her cupcake and claps. "Yay! Finally, someone cool at this table," she says.
"And did you run into any immortals?" he asks, still gazing at her.
"Tons! The place was packed. There was even a VIP coven room, which I totally snuck into and hung out at the blood bar."
"Did they card you?" Miles asks, his fingers racing over his Sidekick as he partakes in two conversations at once.
"Laugh all you want, but I'm telling you it was way cool. Even after Evangeline sort of ditched me for some guy she met, I ended up meeting this other girl, who was even cooler, and who also, by the way, just moved here. So we'll probably start hanging out and stuff."
"Are you breaking up with us?" Miles gapes at her in mock alarm.
Haven rolls her eyes. "Whatever. All I know is that it was better than your guys' Saturday night-well, maybe not yours, Damen, since you seem to be up on these things, but definitely those two," she says, pointing at Miles and me.
"So how was the game?" I elbow Miles, trying to get his attention back on us and away from his electronic boyfriend.
''All I know is there was way too much team spirit, somebody won, somebody lost, and I spent most of it in the bathroom textmessaging this guy who's apparently a bigfat liar!" He shakes his head and shows us the screen. "Look, right there!" He stabs it with his finger. "I've been asking for a picture all weekend because no way am I meeting up without getting a solid visual. And this is what he sends. Stupid phony poseur!"
I squint at the thumbnail, not quite getting what he's so angry about. "How do you know it's not him?" I ask, glancing at Miles.
And then Damen says, "Because it's me."
Nine
Apparently Damen modeled for a short time, back when he lived in New York, which is why his image is out there, floating around cyberspace, just waiting for someone to download and claim that it's them.
And even though we passed it around and had a good solid laugh at the whole weird coincidence, there's still one thing I can't quite get past: If Damenjust moved here from New Mexico and not New York, well, doesn't it seem like he should've looked a little bit younger in that picture? Because I can't think of anyone who looks exactly the same at seventeen as they did at fourteen, or even fifteen, and yet, that thumbnail on Miles's Sidekick showed Damen looking exactly the same as he does right now
And it just doesn't make any sense.
When I get to art, I beeline for the supply closet, grab all my stuff, and head for my easel, refusing to react when I notice how Damen IS set up right next to mine. I just take a deep breath and go about the business of buttoning my smock and selecting a brush, stealing the occasional glance at his canvas and trying not to gawk at his masterpiece in the making-a seriously perfect rendition of Picasso's Woman with Yellow Hair.
Our assignment is to emulate one of the great masters, to choose one of those iconic paintings and attempt to re-create it. And somehow I got the idea that those simple Van Gogh swirls would be a sure thing, a cinch to reproduce, an easy A. But from the looks of my chaotic, hectic strokes, I completely misjudged it. And now it's so far gone, I can't possibly save it. And I've no idea what to do.
Ever since I became psychic, I'm no longer required to study.
I'm not even required to read. All I have to do is place my hands on a book, and the story appears in my head. And as far as tests go? Well, let's just say there's no more "pop'; in the quiz. I just brush my fingers over the questions and the answers are instantly revealed.
But art is totally different. Because talent cannot be faked.
Which is why my painting is pretty much the exact opposite of Damen's.
"Starry Night?" Damen asks, nodding at my drippy, pathetic, blue mottled canvas, as I cringe in embarrassment, wondering how he could've made such an accurate guess from such a poorly realized mess.
Then just to torture myself even further, I take another glance at his effortless, curving brushstrokes, and add it to the never-ending list of things he's amazingly good at.
Seriously, like in English, he can answer all of Mr. Robins's questions, which is kind of weird since he only had one night to skim all three hundred and some odd pages of Wuthering Heights.
Not to mention how he usually goes on to include all manner of random historical facts, talking about those long-ago days as though he was actually there. He's ambidextrous too, which might not sound like all that big a deal, until you watch him write with one hand and paint with the other, with neither project seeming to suffer. And don't even get me started on the spontaneous tulips and magic pen.
'Just like Pablo himself. Wonderful!" Ms. Machado says, smoothing her long glossy braid as she stares at his canvas, her aura vibrating a beautiful cobalt blue, as her mind performs cartwheels and somersaults, jumping in glee, racing through her mental roster of talented former students, realizing she's never had one with such innate, natural ability-until now;
'And Ever?" On the outside she's still smiling, but inside she's thinking: What on eqrth could it possibly be?
"Oh, um, it's supposed to be Van Gogh. You know, Starry Night?" I cringe in shame, my worst suspicions confirmed by her thoughts.
"Well-it's an honorable start." She nods, struggling to keep her face neutral, relaxed. ''Van Gogh's style is much more difficult than it seems. Just don't forget the golds, and the yellows! It is a starry, starry night after all!"
I watch her walk away, her aura expanding and glowing, knowing she dislikes my painting, but appreciating her effort to hide it. Then without even thinking I dip my brush in yellow, before wiping off the blue, and when I press it to my canvas it leaves a big blob of green.
"How do you do it?" I ask, shaking my head in frustration, gazing from Damen's amazingly good painting to my amazingly bad one, comparing, contrasting, and feeling my confidence plummet.
He smiles, his eyes finding mine. "Who do you think taught Picasso?" he says.
I drop my brush to the floor, sending mushy globs of green paint splattering across my shoes, my smock, and my face, holding my breath as he leans down to retrieve it, before placing it back in my hand.
"Everyone has to start somewhere," he says, his eyes dark and smoldering, his fingers seeking the scar on my face.
The one on my forehead.
The one that's hidden under my bangs. The one he has no way of knowing about.
"Even Picasso had a teacher." He smiles, withdrawing his hand and the warmth that came with it, returning to his painting, as I remind myself to breathe.
Ten
The next morning as I'm getting ready for school, I make the mistake of asking Riley's lielp in choosing a sweatshirt.
"What do you think?" I hold up a blue one, before replacing it with a green.
"Do the pink one again," she says, perched on my dresser, head cocked to the side as she considers the options.
"There is no pink one." I scowl, wishing she could just be serious for a change, stop making everything into such a big game. "Come on, help me out, clock's ticking."
She rubs her chin and squints. "Would you say that's more of a cerulean blue or a cornflower blue?"
"That's it." I toss the blue one and start yanking the green over my head.
"Go with the blue."
I stop, eyes visible, nose, mouth, and chin sheltered in fleece.
"Seriously. It brings out your eyes." I squint at her for a moment, then I toss the green one and do as· she says. Rummaging for lip gloss and stopping just short of applying it when she goes,
"Okay, what gives? I mean, the sweatshirt crises, the sweaty palms, the makeup, what's going on?"
'Tm not wearing makeup," I say, cringing as my voice nears a shout.
"Not to fault you on a technicality, Ever, but lip gloss counts.
It definitely qualifies as makeup. And you, dear sister, were just about to apply it."
I drop it back in the drawer and reach for my usual ChapStick instead, smearing it across my lips in a waxy dull line.
"Urn, hello? Still waiting for an answer over here!"
I press my lips, heading out the door and down the stairs. "Fine, play that way. But don't think you can stop me from gueSSing," she says, trailing behind me.
"Whatever," I mumble, going into the garage.