Blue Moon (14 page)

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 snakeskin 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.

 

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 flash 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 doing? 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 inches 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?

Obviously, it can only be due to one thing—the immortal juice I've been drinking. I mean, even though I've been immortal for the better half of a year, nothing really changed (well, other than my instantaneous healing abilities) until I started drinking it. But now that I have, it's like all my better physical traits are suddenly magnified and enhanced, while the more mediocre ones are fully improved.

And while part of me feels excited by the prospect and curious to see what else is in store, the other part can't help but notice how I'm developing toward full immortal capacity just in time to spend the rest of eternity alone.

“Must be that juice you're always guzzling.” Sabine laughs. “Maybe I should try it. I wouldn't mind breaking the five-foot-four barrier without the aid of high heels!”

“No!” I say, the words spilling from my lips before I can stop them, knowing that answering like that will only pique her interest.

She looks at me, brows merged, damp sponge in hand.

“I mean, I'm sure you won't like it. In fact, you'll most likely hate it. Seriously, it's got kind of a weird taste.” I nod, attempting a light breezy expression, not wanting her to know how her statement has left me totally freaked.

“Well, I won't know until I try, right?” she says, her eyes still on mine. “Where do you get it anyway? I don't remember ever seeing it in stores. And I've never seen a label on it either. What's it even called?”

“I get it from Damen,” I say, enjoying the feel of his name on my lips, even though it does nothing to fill up the void his absence has left.

“Well, ask him to get me some too, will you?”

And the moment she says it, I know this is no longer just about the juice. She's trying to get me to open up, to explain his absence at our Saturday night dinner, and every day since.

I close the dishwasher and turn away. Pretending to wipe down a counter that's already clean and avoiding her eyes when I say, “Well, I can't actually do that. Mostly because . . . we're um . . . we're sort of taking a break,” I say, my voice cracking in the most embarrassing way.

She reaches for me, wanting to hug me, comfort me, tell me it will all be okay. And even though my back is turned so that I can't see her in the physical sense, I can still
see
it in my head, so I step to the side and move out of her way.

“Oh Ever—I'm so sorry—I didn't know—” she says, her hands hanging awkwardly at her sides, unsure what to do with them now that I've moved.

I nod, feeling guilty for being my usual cold distant self. Wishing I could somehow explain that I can't risk the physical contact because I can't risk knowing her secrets. That it will only distract me and provide images I don't need to see. I mean, I'm barely handling my own secrets, so it's not like I'm eager to add hers to the mix.

“It—it was kind of sudden,” I say, knowing she's not willing to let the case rest until she's gotten a little more out of me. “I mean, it just sort of happened—and—well, I don't really know what to say . . .”

“I'm here if you need to talk.”

“I'm not ready to talk about it yet. It's—it's too new still and I'm trying to sort it all out. Maybe later . . .” I shrug, hoping that by the time
later
arrives, Damen and I will be back together again, and the whole issue resolved.

 

When I get to Miles's, I'm a little nervous,
having no idea what to expect. But when I see him outside, waiting on his front stoop, I heave a small sigh of relief, knowing things aren't nearly as bad as I thought.

I pull up to his drive, lower my window, and call, “Hey Miles, hop in!”

Then I watch as he glances up from his phone, shaking his head as he says, “Sorry, I thought I told you, I'm getting a ride from Craig.”

I gape, my smile frozen in place as I replay his words in my head.

Craig? As in Honor's boyfriend Craig? The sexually confused Cro-Magnon jock whose true preferences I learned by eavesdropping on his thoughts? The one who practically lives to make fun of Miles because it makes him feel “safe”—like he's not one of “them.”

That Craig?

“Since when are you friends with Craig?” I ask, shaking my head and squinting at him.

Miles reluctantly rises and comes around to my side. Pausing from his texting pursuits long enough to say, “Since I decided to get a life, branch out, and expand my horizons. Maybe you should try it too. He's pretty cool once you get to know him.”

I watch as his thumbs get back to work, as I struggle to get a grip on his words. Feeling like I've landed in some crazy, implausible, alternate universe where cheerleaders gossip with goths, and jocks hang with drama freaks. A place so unnatural it could never truly exist.

Except that it does exist. In a place called Bay View High.

“This is the same Craig that called you a fag and gave you a swirly on your first day of school?”

Miles shrugs. “People change.”

I'll say.

Except that they don't.

Or at least not that much in one day unless they have a very good reason for doing so—unless someone else, someone behind the scenes, is
prompting
them,
engineering
it so to speak. Manipulating them against their will and causing them to say and do things that are totally against their true nature—all without their permission, without their even realizing it.

“Sorry, I thought I told you, but I guess I got busy. But you don't need to come by anymore, I've got it all covered,” he says, dismissing our friendship with a shrug, as though it bore no more importance than a ride to school.

I swallow hard, resisting the urge to grab him by the shoulders and demand to know what happened—why he's acting like this—why
everyone
is acting like this—and why they've all unanimously decided against me.

But I don't. Somehow, I manage to restrain myself. Mostly because I have a terrible suspicion I might already know. And if it turns out that I'm right, then it's not like Miles is responsible anyway.

“Okay, well, good to know.” I nod, forcing a smile I definitely don't feel. “I guess I'll just see you around then,” I say, my fingers drumming against the gearshift, waiting for a response that's not
coming anytime soon, and backing out of his drive only when Craig pulls up behind me, honks his horn twice, and motions for me to move.

 

In English, it's even worse than I anticipated. And I'm not even halfway down the aisle before I notice that Damen is now sitting by Stacia.

And I'm talking hand-holding, note-passing, whispering distance from Stacia.

While I remain alone in the back like a complete and total reject.

I press my lips together as I make my way toward my desk, listening to
all
of my classmates hiss:

“
Spaz! Watch out, Spaz! Don't fall, Spaz!”

The same words I've been hearing since the moment I got out of my car.

And even though I've no idea what it means, I can't say I'm all that bothered by it—until Damen joins in. Because the moment he starts laughing and sneering along with the rest, all I want to do is go back. Back to my car, back home where it's safe—

But I don't. I can't. I need to stay put. Assuring myself that it's temporary—that I'll soon get to the bottom of it—that there's no possible way I've lost Damen for good.