Blue Moon (15 page)

And somehow, this helps me get through it. Well, that, and Mr. Robins telling everyone to
shush.
So when the bell finally rings, and everyone's filed out, I'm almost out the door when I hear:

“Ever? Can I speak to you for a moment?”

I grip the door handle, my fingers closed and ready to twist.

“I won't keep you long.”

And I take a deep breath and surrender, my fingers cranking the sound on my iPod the second I see his face.

Mr. Robins never keeps me after class. He's just not the stop and chat type. And all of this time I was sure that completing my homework and acing my tests insured me against this exact kind of thing.

“I'm not sure how to say this, and I don't want to overstep my bounds here—but I really feel I must say something. It's about—”

Damen.

It's about my one true soul mate. My eternal love. My biggest fan for the last four hundred years, who is now completely repulsed by me.

And how just this morning he asked to change seats.

Because he thinks I'm a stalker.

And now, Mr. Robins, my recently separated, well-meaning English teacher who hasn't a clue, about me, about Damen, about much of anything outside of musty old novels written by long-dead authors, wants to explain how relationships work.

How young love is intense. How it all feels so urgent, like it's the most important thing in the world while it's happening—only it's not. There will be plenty of other loves, if I just allow myself to move on. And I have to move on. It's imperative. Mostly because:

“Because stalking is not the answer,” he says. “It's a crime. A very serious crime, with serious consequences.” He frowns, hoping to relay the seriousness of all this.

“I'm not stalking him,” I say, realizing too late that defending myself against the
S
word before going through all the usual steps of:
He said what? Why would he do that? What could he mean?
like a normal, more clueless person would, makes me appear suspiciously guilty. So I swallow hard when I add, “Listen, Mr. Robins, with all due respect, I know you mean well, and I don't know what Damen told you, but—”

I look in his eyes,
seeing
exactly what Damen told him:
that I'm obsessed with him, that I'm crazy, that I drive by his house day and night,
that I call him over and over again, leaving creepy, obsessive, pathetic messages—
which may be partially true,
but still
.

But Mr. Robins isn't about to let me finish, he just shakes his head and says, “Ever, the last thing I want to do is choose sides or get between you and Damen, because frankly, it's just none of my business and it's something you're ultimately going to have to work out on your own. And despite your recent expulsion, despite the fact that you rarely pay attention in class, and leave your iPod on long after I've asked you to turn it off—you're still one of my best and brightest students. And I'd hate to see you jeopardize what could turn out to be a very bright future—
over a boy
.”

I close my eyes and swallow hard. Feeling so humiliated I wish I could just vanish into thin air—disappear.

No, actually it's much worse than that—I feel mortified, disgraced, horrified, dishonored, and everything else that defines wanting to slink off in shame.

“It's not what you think,” I say, meeting his gaze and silently urging him to believe it. “Despite whatever stories Damen might've told you, it's not at all what it appears to be,” I add, hearing Mr. Robins sigh along with the thoughts in his head. How he wishes he could share how lost he felt when his wife and daughter walked out, how he never thought he'd make it through another day—but fearing it's inappropriate, which it
is.

“If you just give yourself some time, focus your attention on something else,” he says, sincerely wanting to help me, and yet afraid of overstepping his bounds. “You'll soon find that—”

The bell rings.

I shift my backpack onto my shoulder, press my lips together, and look at him.

Watching as he shakes his head and says, “Fine. I'll write you a tardy pass. You're free to go.”

 

I'm a YouTube star.
Apparently the footage of me untangling myself from a seemingly never-ending string of Victoria's Secret bras, thongs, and garter belts has not only earned me the oh so clever nickname of
Spaz
but has also been viewed 2323 times. Which just happens to be the number of students enrolled here at Bay View. Well, with a few of the faculty members tossed in.

It's Haven who tells me. Finding her at her locker after barely making it through a gauntlet of people shouting, “Hey, Spaz! Don't fall, Spaz!” she's kind enough not only to fill me in on the origin of my newfound celebrity but to lead me to the video so I can watch the spectacle of myself
spazzing
out right there on my iPhone.

“Oh, that's just great,” I say, shaking my head, knowing it's the least of my problems, but still.

“It's pretty fuggin' bad,” she agrees, closing her locker and looking at me with an expression that could only be read as pity—well, pity on a time crunch with only a few seconds to spare for a spaz like me. “So—anything else? 'Cause I need to get going, I promised Honor I'd—”

I look at her, I mean, really look at her. Seeing how the flamered stripe in her hair is now pink, and how her usual pale-skinned, darkly clad, Emo look has been swapped for the spray-tanned,
sparkle-dress, fluffy-haired ensemble of those same cliquey clones she always made fun of. But despite her new dress code, despite her new A-list membership, despite all the evidence presented before me, I still don't believe she's responsible for anything she wears, says, or does at this point. Because even though Haven has a tendency to latch on to others and mimic their ways—she still has her standards. And I know for a fact that the Stacia and Honor brigade is one group she never aspired to join.

But still, knowing all that doesn't make it any easier to accept. And even though I know it's useless, even though it clearly won't change a thing, I still look at her and say, “I can't believe you're friends with them. I mean, after everything they've done to me.” I shake my head, wanting her to know just how much that hurts.

And even though I hear her response a few seconds earlier, it does little to soften the blow when she says, “Did they push you? Did they shove you or trip you or make you fall on top of that rack? Or did you do that all on your own?” She looks at me, brows raised, lips pursed, narrowed eyes focused on mine. As I stand there stunned, mute, my throat searing so hot I couldn't speak if I tried.

“It's like—lighten up already, would you?” She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “They meant for it to be funny. And you'd be a helluva lot happier if you could just unclench, stop taking yourself and everything around you so damn seriously, and fuggin' learn to live a little! I mean, seriously, Ever. Think about it, okay?”

She turns, merging seamlessly into the crowd of students, all of them heading for the extra long table in their new lunchtime exodus, while I make a run for the gate.

I mean, why torture myself? Why hang around just so I can watch Damen flirt with Stacia, and get called
spaz
by my friends? Why have all of these advanced psychic abilities if I'm not going to exploit them and put them to good use—like ditching school?

“Leaving so soon?”

I ignore the voice behind me and keep going. Roman's pretty much the last person I'm willing to talk to at this point.

“Ever, hey, hold up! Seriously.” He laughs, picking up his pace until he's right alongside me. “Where's the fire?”

I unlock my car and slide in, yanking the door and almost getting it closed, until he stops it with the palm of his hand. And even though I know I'm stronger, that if I really wanted I could just slam the door closed and be on my way, the fact that I'm still not used to my new immortal strength is the one thing that stops me. Because as much as I dislike him, I'm a little reluctant to slam it so hard I sever his hand.

I'd much rather save that kind of thing for when I might need it.

“If you don't mind, I really need to get going.” I pull the door again, but he just grips it tighter. And when I combine the amused look on his face with the surprising strength in his fingers, I feel the strangest ping in my gut when I realize those two seemingly random things support my deepest suspicions.

But when I look at him again, watching as he lifts his hand to sip from his soda, exposing a wrist that's free of all markings, bearing no tattoos of a snake eating its own tail—the mythical Ouroboros symbol which happens to be the sign of an immortal turned rogue—it just doesn't add up.

Because the fact is, not only does he eat and drink, not only are his aura and thoughts accessible (well, to me anyway), but as much as I hate to admit it, from what I can see, he bears no outward signs of evil. And when you put that together, it's obvious my suspicions are not only paranoid but unfounded as well.

Which means he's not the malevolent immortal rogue I supposed him to be.

Which also means he's not responsible for Damen dumping me, or Miles's and Haven's defection. Nope, that would point right back to me.

And even though all the evidence supports that—I refuse to accept it.

Because when I look at him again, my pulse quickens, my stomach pings, and I'm overcome by a feeling of unease and dread. Making it impossible for me to believe he's just some jolly young chap from England who wound up at our school and found himself all smitten with me.

Because the one thing I know for sure is: Everything was fine until he arrived.

And nothing's been the same since.

“Skipping out on lunch, are you?”

I roll my eyes. I mean, it's pretty obvious what I'm up to, so I won't waste my time with an answer.

“And I see you have room for one more. Mind if I join you?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. So if you'd kindly remove your—” I motion toward his hand, flicking my fingers in the international sign for
scram.

He holds up his hands in surrender, shaking his head when he says, “I don't know if you've noticed, Ever, but the more you evade me, the faster I chase. It'll be a lot easier for both of us if you just stop running.”

I narrow my gaze, trying to
see
past the sunshiny aura and well-ordered thoughts, but I'm blocked by a barrier so impenetrable it's either the end of the road, or he's way worse than I thought.

“If you insist on the chase,” I say, my voice much surer than I feel. “Then you better start training. 'Cause, dude, you're in for a marathon.”

He winces, body flinching, eyes widening as though he's been stung. And if I didn't know better, I'd think it was real. But the fact is, I do know better. He's just hamming it up, practicing a few facial expressions for dramatic effect. And I don't have time to be the butt of his joke.

I shift into reverse and back out of my space, hoping to leave it at that.

But he just smiles, slapping the hood of my car when he says, “As you wish, Ever. Game on.”

 

I don't go home.

I started to. In fact, I had every intention of driving home, hauling upstairs, and flinging myself on my bed, burying my face in a fat pile of pillows and crying my eyes out like a big pathetic baby.

But then, just as I was turning onto my street, I thought better. I mean, I can't allow myself that kind of luxury. I can't waste the time. So instead, I make a U-turn and head toward downtown Laguna. Making my way through those steep narrow streets, driving past well-tended cottages with beautiful gardens and the double-lot McMansions that sit right beside them. Heading for the address of the only person I know who can help me.

“Ever.” She smiles, pushing her wavy auburn hair off her face as her large brown eyes settle on mine. And even though I arrived unannounced, she doesn't seem the least bit surprised. But then her being psychic makes her pretty hard to startle.

“I'm sorry for just showing up and not calling first, I guess I—”

But she doesn't let me finish. She just opens the door and waves me right in, ushering me toward the kitchen table where I sat once before—the last time I was in trouble and had nowhere to turn.

I used to loathe her,
really
loathed her. And when she started convincing Riley to move on—to cross the bridge to where our parents
and Buttercup were waiting—it got even worse. But even though I used to count her as my worst enemy besides Stacia, all of that seems like so long ago now. And as she fusses around the kitchen, setting out cookies and brewing green tea, I watch, feeling guilty for not keeping in touch, for only coming around when I'm desperately in need.

We exchange the usual pleasantries, then she takes the seat across from me and cradles her teacup as she says, “You've grown! I know I'm short, but you positively tower over me now!”

I shrug, unsure how to deal with this but knowing I better get used to it. When you grow several inches in a matter of days, people tend to notice. “I guess I'm a late bloomer. You know, going through a growth spurt—or—something,” I say, my smile feeling clumsy on my lips, realizing I need to come up with a much more convincing reply, or at least learn how to reply with conviction.

She looks me over and nods. Not buying a word of it but deciding to just let it go. “So, how's the shield holding up?”

I swallow hard, blinking once, twice. I was so focused on my mission I'd forgotten about the shield she helped me create. The one that blocked out all the noise and sound the last time Damen went away. The one I dismantled the moment he returned.