"Well, we know it's not Miles, since you're not really his type, and we know it's not Haven since she's not really your type, which leaves me with-" She slips right through the closed and locked car door and onto the front seat while I try not to cringe. "Well, I guess that's pretty much it for your circle of friends, so tell me, I give up."
I open the garage door and climb in my car the old-fashioned way, then rev up the engine to drown out her voice.
"I know you're up to something," she says, talking over the roar. "Because excuse me for saying so, but you're acting just like you did right before you hooked up with Brandon. Remem ber how nervous and paranoid you were? Wondering if he liked you back, and bippidy-blah blah. So come on, tell me. Who's the unlucky guy? Who's your next victim?"
And the second she says that, an image of Damen flashes before me, looking so gorgeous, so sexy, so smoldering, so palpable, I'm tempted to reach out and claim it. But instead I just clear my throat, shift into reverse, and say, "No one. I don't like anyone. But trust me, that's the last time I'll ever ask you to help."
By the time I get to English, I'm as giddy; nervous, sweaty palmed, and anxious as Riley accused me of being. But when I see Damen talking to Stacia, I add paranoid to the already long list.
"Urn, excuse me," I say; blocked by Damen's gloriously long legs, which are taking the place of her usual booby trap.
But he just ignores me and remains perched on her desk, and I watch as he reaches behind her ear, and comes away with a rosebud.
A single white rosebud.
A fresh, pure, glistening, dewy; white rosebud.
And when he hands it to her, she squeals so loud you'd think he just gave her a diamond.
"Oh-my-gawd! No way! How'd you do that?" She shrieks, waving it around so everyone can see.
I press my lips and gaze down at the ground, fiddling with my iPod and cranking the sound until I can no longer hear her.
"I need to get by;" I mumble, my eyes meeting Damen's, catching the briefest flash of warmth before his gaze turns to ice and he moves out of my way.
I storm toward my desk, my feet moving like they're supposed to, one in front of the other, like a zombie, a robot, some dense numb thing just going through its preprogrammed motions, unable to think on its own. Then I settle onto my chair and continue the routine, retrieving paper, books, and a pen, pretending I don't notice how reluctant Damen is, how he drags his feet when Mr. Robins makes him return to his seat.
"What the Jug?" Haven says, moving her bangs to the side and staring straight ahead, her profanity ban the only New Year's resolution she's ever been able to keep, but only because she thinks
Jug is funny.
"I knew it wouldn't last." Miles shakes his head and gazes at Damen, watching him wow the A-list with his natural charm, magic pen, and stupid fugging rosebuds. "I knew it was too good to be true. In fact, I said exactly that the very first day. Remember when I said that?"
"No," Haven mumbles, still staring at Damen. "I don't re member that at all."
"Well, I did." Miles swigs his Vitamin Water, and nods. "I said it. You just didn't hear me."
I gaze down at my sandwich and shrug, not wanting to get into the whole "who said what when"· debate, and definitely not willing to look anywhere near Damen, Stacia, or anyone else at that table. I'm still reeling from English, when Damen leaned toward me, right in the middle of roll call, so he could pass me a note.
But only so I could pass it to Stacia.
"Pass it yourself," I'd said, refusing to touch it. Wondering how a single piece of notebook paper, folded into a triangle, could possibly cause so much pain.
"Come on," he said, flicking it toward me so it landed just shy of my fingers. "I promise you won't get caught."
"It's not about getting caught." I glared at him. "Then what is it about?" he asked, dark eyes on mine.
It's about not wanting to touch it! Not wanting to know what it says! Because the moment my fingers make contact, I'll see the words in my head-the whole, sexy, adorable, flirty, unfiltered message. And even though it'll be bad enough to hear it in her thoughts, at least then I can pretend that it's compromised, diluted by her dimwitted brain. But if I touch that piece of paper, then I'll know the words are trueand I just can't bear to see them
"Pass it yourself," I finally said, tapping it with the tip of my pencil and sending it off the edge of my desk. Hating the way my heart slammed against my chest as he laughed and bent down to retrieve it.
Hating myself for the flood of relief when he slid it into his pocket instead of passing it to her.
"Um, hel-lo, earth to Ever!"
I shake my head and squint at Miles.
"I asked what happened? I mean, not to point fingers or anything, but you are the last one who saw him today "
I gaze at Miles, wishing I knew: Remembering yesterday in art, the way Damen's eyes sought mine, the way his touch warmed my skin, so sure we'd shared something personal-magical even.
But then I remember the girl before Stacia, the gorgeous haughty redhead at the St. Regis, the one I conveniently managed to forget. And I feel like a fool, for being so naive, for thinking he just might've liked me. Because the truth is, that's just Damen. He's a player. And he does this all the time.
I gaze across the lunch tables, just in time to see Damen compile an entire bouquet of white rosebuds from Stacia's ear, sleeve, cleavage, and purse. Then I press my lips and avert my gaze, sparing myself the gratuitous hug that soon foll.ows.
"I didn't do anything," I finally say; as confused by Damen's erratic behavior as Miles and Haven, only far less willing to admit it.
I can hear Miles's thoughts, weighing my words, trying to decide if he should believe me.
Then he sighs and says, "Do you feel as dejected, jilted, and heartbroken as me?"
I look at. him, wanting to confide, wishing I could tell him everything, the whole sordid jumble of feelings. How just yesterday I was sure something significant had passed between us, only to wake up today and be presented with this. But instead I just shake my head, gather my things, and head off to class, long before the bell even rings.
All through fifth-period French, I think of ways to get out of art. Seriously. Even as I'm participating in the usual drills, lips moving, foreign words forming, my mind is completely obsessed with faking a stomachache, nausea, fever, a dizzy spell, the flu, whatever. Any excuse will do.
And it's not just because of Damen. Because the truth is, I don't even know why I signed up for that class in the first place. I have no artistic ability; my project's a mess, and it's not like I'm going to be an artist anyway. And yeah, I guess if you throw Damen into that already full mix, you end up not only with a seriously compromised GPA, but fifty-seven minutes of awkwardness.
But in the end, I go. Mostly because it's the right thing to do.
And I'm so focused on gathering my supplies and donning my smock, that at first I don't realize he's not even there. And as the minutes tick by with still no sign of him, I grab my paints and head for my easel.
Only to find that stupid triangle note.balanced on the edge.
I stare at it, focusing so intensely that everything around me grows dark and out of focus.
The entire classroom reduced to one single point. My entire world consisting of a triangleshaped letter resting on a thin wooden ledge, the name Stacia scrawled on its front. And even though
I've no idea how it got there, even though a quick survey of the room reaffirms Damen's not there ,
I don't want it anywhere near me. I refuse to participate in this sick little game.
I grab a paintbrush and flick it as hard as I can, watching as it soars through the air before tumbling to the ground, knowing I'm acting childish, ridiculous, especially when Ms. Machado comes by and swoops it up in her hand.
"Looks like you dropped something!" she sings, her smile bright and expectant, having no idea that I put it there on purpose.
"It's not mine," I mumble, rearranging my paints, figuring she can get it to Stacia herself, or better yet, throw it away.
"So there's another Ever I'm not aware oft" She smiles. What?
I take the note she dangles before me, Ever clearly scrawled across its front, and written in Damen's unmistakable hand. Having no idea how this happened, no logical explanation. Because I know what I saw.
My fingers tremble as I begin to unfold it, opening all three corners and smoothing the crease, gasping when a small detailed sketch is unveiled-a small detailed sketch of one beautiful red tulip.
Eleven
Halloween is just a few days away and I'm still working on the final touches for my costume.
Haven's going as a vampire (duh), Miles is going as a pirate-but that's only after I talked him out of going as Madonna in her. cone-breast phase, and I'm not telling what I'm going as. But only because my once great idea has morphed into an overly ambitious project I'm quickly losing faith in.
Though I have to admit I was pretty surprised Sabine even wanted to throw a party to begin with. Partly because she never really seems interested in stuff like that, but mostly because I figured that between the two of us we'd be lucky to come up with five guests max. But apparently Sabine's a lot more popular than I realized, as she quickly filled two and a half columns, while my list was pathetically shorter-consisting of my only two friends and their possible plus ones.
So while Sabine hired a caterer to handle the food and drink, I put Miles in charge of audio/visual (which means he'll dock his iPod and rent some scary movies), and asked Haven to provide the cupcakes. Which pretty much left Riley and me as the sole members of the decorations committee. And since Sabine handed me a catalog and a credit card with specific instructions to "don't hold back," we've spent the last two afternoons transforming the house from its usual look of semicustom Tuscan track home to spooky, scary, crypt-keeper's castle. And it's been so much fun, reminding me of when we used to decorate our old house for Easter, Thanksgiving; and Christmas. Not to mention how staying busy and focused has really helped curb some of our bickering.
"You should go as a mermaid," Riley says. "Or as one of those kids from those OC reality shows."
"Oh jeez, don't tell me you still watch that stuffY I say; balancing precariously on the second to last rung, so I can string up yet another faux spiderweb.
"Don't blame me, Tivo's got a mind of its own." She shrugs. "You have Tivo?" I turn, desperate for any information I can get since she's always so stingy with the afterlife details.
But she just laughs. "I swear, you are so gullible-the things you believe!" She shakes her head and rolls her eyes, reaching into a cardboard box· and retrieving a string of fairy lights. "Wanna trade?" she offers, unraveling the cord. "I mean, it's ridiculous the way you insist on climbing up and down that ladder when I can just levitate and get the job done."
I shake my head and frown. Even though it might be easier, I still like to pretend my life is somewhat normal.
"So what are you going as?"
"Forget it," I say; attaching the web to the corner, before climbing down the ladder to get a good look. "If you can have secrets, then I can too."
"No fair." She crosses her arms and pouts in the way that always worked on Dad, but never on Mom.
"Relax, you'll see it at the party;" I tell her, picking up a glowin-the-dark skeleton and untangling the limbs.
"You mean, I'm invited?" she asks, her voice squeaky, eyes wide with excitement.
"Like I could stop you?" I laugh, propping Mr. Skeleton near the entryway so he can greet all our guests.
"Is your boyfriend coming too?"
I roll my eyes and sigh. "You know I don't have a boyfriend,"
I say, bored with this game before it's even begun.
"Please. I'm not an idiot." She scowls. "It's not like I've forgotten the great sweatshirt debate.
Besides, I can't wait to meet him, or I guess I should say; see him, since it's not like you'd ever introduce me. Which is really pretty rude if you think about it. I mean just because he can't see me doesn't mean-'-"
"Jeez, he's not invited, okay?" I shout, not realizing I've stumbled into her trap until it's too late.
"Ha!" She looks at me, eyes wide, brows raised, lips curving with delight. "I knew it!" She laughs, tossing the fairy lights and jumping in glee, spinning and thrusting and pointing at me.
"I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!" she sings, punching her fists in the air. "Ha! I knew it!" She twirls.
I close my eyes and sigh, chiding myself for falling into her poorly concealed trap. "You don't know anything." I glare at her and shake my head. "He was never my boyfriend, okay? He-he was just some new kid, who at first I thought was kind of cute, but then, when I realized what a total player he is, well, let's just say that I'm overit. In fact, I don't even think he's cute anymore.
Seriously, it lasted like ten seconds, but only because I didn't know any better. And it's not like
I'm the only one who fell for his game, because Miles and Haven were practically fighting over him. So why don't you just stop with all the air punching and hip thrusts, and get back to work, okay?"
And the moment I stop, I know I sounded way too defensive to ever be believed. But now that it's out there I can't take it back, so I just try to ignore her as she hovers around the room singing, "Yup! I so so knew it!"
By Halloween night the house looks amazing. Riley and I taped webs in all of the windows and corners, and stuck huge black widow spiders in their middles. We hung-black rubber bats from the ceiling, scattered bloodied, severed (fake) body parts all around, and set up a crystal ball next to a plug-in raven whose eyes light up and roll around when he says, "You'll be sorry! Squawk!
You'll be sorry!" We dressed zombies in 'blood" covered rags and placed them where you'd least expect to find them. We put steaming cauldrons of witches' brew (really just dry ice and water) in the entry, and scattered skeletons, mummies, black cats and rats (well, fake ones, but still creepy), gargoyles, coffins, black candles, and skulls pretty much everywhere. We even decorated the backyard with jack-o'-lanterns, floating pool globes, and blinking fairy lights. And oh yeah, we placed a life-sized grim reaper out on the front lawn.