Blue Moon (8 page)

Haven shrugs and rolls her eyes, licking a glob of frosting from her thumb and mumbling, “Whatever.”

“Why do you care so much anyway?” Miles peers at her. “I thought you were all about Josh?”

“I
am
all about Josh,” she says, avoiding his gaze as she wipes some non existent crumbs from her lap.

But when I look at her and
see
the way her aura wavers and flares a deceitful shade of green, I can tell it's not true. She's smitten and that's all there is to it. And if Roman becomes smitten too, then it's
adios Josh, hello creepy new guy
.

I unzip my lunch pack, going through the motions of pretending I'm still interested in food when I hear: “Ay, mate, what time's the premiere?”

“Curtain's at eight. Why? You coming?” Miles asks, his eyes lighting up, his aura glowing in a way that makes it pretty obvious he hopes that he will.

“Wouldn't miss it,” Roman says, sliding onto the space beside Haven and bumping her shoulder in the smarmiest, most insincere way. Clearly aware of the effect it elicits and not afraid to exploit it.

“So how was life among the A-list? Everything you dreamed it would be?” she asks in a voice that, if you couldn't see her aura, you'd think she was flirting. But I know she's serious, because auras don't lie.

Roman reaches toward her, gently pushing her bangs away from her face. A gesture so intimate her cheeks flush bright pink. “
Wot's
that now?” he says, his gaze fixed on hers.

“You know, table A? Where you were sitting?” She mumbles, struggling to keep her composure while under his spell.

“The lunchtime caste system,” Miles says, breaking their enchantment
and pushing his half-eaten yogurt aside. “It's the same at every school. Everyone divides into cliques designed to keep others out. They can't help themselves, they just do. And those people you were just with? They're the top clique, which, in the high school caste system, makes them The Rulers. As opposed to the people you're sitting with now—” He points at himself. “Who are otherwise known as The Untouchables.”

“Bullocks!” Roman says, pulling away from Haven and popping the top on his soda. “Complete rubbish. I don't buy it.”

“Doesn't matter if you do. It's still a fact.” Miles shrugs, gazing longingly at table A. Because despite how he goes on and on about our table being the truly cool table, the truth is, he's painfully aware that in the eyes of the Bay View student body, there's nothing cool about it.

“It may be your fact, but it's not mine. I don't do with segregation, mate. I like a free and open society, room to roam around and explore all my options.” Then, looking at Damen, he says, “What about you? You believe in all this?”

But Damen just shrugs and continues gazing at me. He couldn't care less about A-lists and B-lists, who's cool and who's not. I'm the only reason he enrolled in this school, and I'm the only reason he stays.

“Well, it's nice to have a dream.” Haven sighs, inspecting her short black nails. “But it's even nicer when there's a remote possibility of it coming true.”

“Aw, but that's where you're wrong, luv. It's not a dream at all.” Roman smiles in a way that makes her aura beam a bright shimmery pink. “I'll make it happen. You'll see.”

“So what? You fancy yourself the Che Guevara of Bay View High?” My voice contains a sting I don't bother to hide. Though to be honest, I'm more surprised by my use of the word
fancy
than the tone of my voice. I mean, since when do I talk like that? But when I
glance at Roman and see his expansive, overwhelming, yellow-orange aura, I know he's affecting me too.

“I rather
fancy
that, yes.” He smiles his languid grin, his eyes gazing into mine so deeply, I feel like I'm naked—like he sees everything,
knows
everything, and there's nowhere to hide. “Just think of me as a revolutionary, because by the end of next week, this lunchtime caste system will come to an end. We're going to break these self-imposed barriers, push all the tables together, and have ourselves a party!”

“Is that your prediction?” I narrow my gaze, trying to deflect all of his intrusive energy away.

But he just laughs, not the least bit offended. A laugh that, on the surface, is so warm, engaging, and all-encompassing—no one would guess at the subtext beneath—the creepy edge, the hint of malice, the barely concealed threat meant solely for me.

“I'll believe it when I see it,” Haven says, wiping red crumbs from her lips.

“Seeing
is
believing,” Roman says, his eyes right on mine.

 

“So what's your take on all that?” I ask, just after the bell rings and Roman, Haven, and Miles head off to class as Damen and I lag behind.

“Of all what?” he asks, pulling me to a stop.

“Of Roman. And all of his lunch-table revolution nonsense?” I say, desperate for some validation that I'm not jealous, possessive, or crazy—that Roman really is a creep—and that it has nothing to do with me.

But Damen just shrugs. “If you don't mind, I'd rather not focus on Roman right now. I'm far more interested in
you.
”

He pulls me toward him, bestowing me with a long, deep, breath-stealing kiss. And even though we're standing right in the
middle of the quad, it's as though everything around us no longer exists. Like the entire world has shrunk down to this one single point. And by the time I break away, I'm so charged, so heated, and so breathless, I can barely speak.

“We're going to be late,” I finally manage, taking his hand and pulling him toward class.

But he's stronger than I am, so he simply stays put. “I was thinking—what do you say we skip it?” he whispers, his lips on my temple, my cheek, then my ear. “You know, just blow off the rest of the day—since there are so many other,
better
places we could be.”

I gaze at him, nearly swayed by his magnetism, but I shake my head and pull away. I mean, I get that he finished school hundreds of years ago and now finds it all rather tedious. And even though I mostly find it tedious too, since having instant knowledge of all the stuff they're trying to teach really does make it seem pretty pointless, it's still one of the few things in my life that feels somewhat normal. And ever since the accident, when I realized I'd never be normal again, well, it made me prize it that much more.

“I thought you said we were supposed to maintain a normal façade at all costs,” I say, pulling him along as he grudgingly lags behind. “Isn't attending class and feigning interest part of that façade?”

“But what could be more normal than two hormonal teens, ditching school and getting an early start on the weekend?” He smiles, the warmth of his beautiful dark eyes nearly luring me in.

But I shake my head again and hold firm, gripping his arm even tighter as I drag him toward class.

 

Since we're spending the night together,
Damen doesn't follow me home after school. Instead, we share a brief kiss in the parking lot before I climb into my car and head for the mall.

I want to buy something special for tonight—something pretty for Miles's play and my big date—both of us starring in our own kind of debut. But after checking my watch and seeing I don't have as much time as I thought, I wonder if I should've taken Damen up on his offer to ditch school.

I cruise through the parking lot, wondering if I should try to find Haven. We haven't really hung out that much since that whole weird thing with Drina, and then when she met Josh, well, even though he doesn't go to our school, they've been pretty much joined at the hip ever since. He even managed to wean her from her support group addiction. Her after-school ritual of scoping out random church basements and loading up on punch and cookies, while making up some sob story about that particular day's addiction.

And up until now, I haven't really minded seeing less of her since she seems so happy. Like she's finally found someone who not only likes her but who's good for her too. But lately I'm starting to miss her, and I'm thinking a little time together might do me some good.

I spot her and Roman leaning against his vintage red sports car,
watching as Haven grabs hold of his arm and laughs at something he said. The severity of her black skinny jeans, black shrunken cardigan, Fall Out Boy tank, and purposely messy dyed black hair with shocking red stripe, all softened by her rosy pink aura, its edges expanding, reaching, until it swallows them both. Leaving no room for doubt that if Roman feels the same way, Josh will soon be replaced. And even though I'm determined to stop it before it's too late, I've just started to cruise by when Roman glances over his shoulder and peers at me with a gaze so insistent, so intimate, so loaded with unknown intent—I punch the pedal and zoom past.

Because despite the fact that my friends all think he's so cool, despite the fact that the A-list agrees, despite the fact that Damen isn't the least bit alarmed—I don't like him.

Even though my feelings are based on nothing more substantial than a constant ping in my gut whenever he's near—the fact is: That new guy really gives me the creeps.

 

Since it's hot, I head over to the indoor mall of South Coast Plaza as opposed to the outdoor mall of Fashion Island, even though the locals would probably do the opposite.

But I'm not a local. I'm an Oregonian. Which means I'm used to my pre-spring weather being much more, well, pre-springlike. You know, gobs of rain, overcast skies, and plenty of mud. Like a
real
spring. Not this hot, weird, unnatural, summer hybrid that tries to pass as spring. And from what I hear, it's only going to get worse. Which makes me miss home even more.

Normally, I go out of my way to avoid places like this—a place so overrun with light and noise and all of that crowd-generated energy that always overwhelms me and sets me on edge. And without Damen by my side, standing in as my psychic shield, I'm back to relying on my iPod again.

Though I refuse to wear my hoodie and sunglasses to block out the noise like I used to. I'm done with looking like a freak. Instead, I narrow my focus to what's right before me, and block out all the peripherals like Damen taught me to do.

I insert my earbuds and crank up the volume, allowing the noise to bar everything but the swirling rainbow of auras and the few disembodied spirits floating about (which, despite my narrowed focus, really are right in front of me). And when I head into Victoria's Secret, aiming straight for the naughty nighties section, I'm so focused, so intent on my mission, I fail to see Stacia and Honor just off to the side.

“O. Migawd!” Stacia sings, approaching me with such purpose you'd think I was a bin labeled:
gucci
—
half off
! “You
cannot
be serious.” She points at the negligee I hold in my hand, her perfectly manicured nail motioning toward the slit that starts from both the top and bottom and meets at a crystal-encrusted circle somewhere in the middle.

And even though I was merely curious, and not even thinking about buying it, seeing her face all scrunched up like that and hearing the mocking thoughts in her head makes me feel totally foolish.

I drop it back on the rack and fidget with my earbud, pretending as though I didn't hear a thing as I move toward the matching cotton sets, which are way more my style and speed.

But just as I begin browsing through several hot-pink-and-orange-striped camis, I realize they're probably nowhere near Damen's speed. He'd probably prefer something a little more racy. Something with a lot more lace and a lot less cotton. Something that could actually be considered
sexy.
And without even looking, I know Stacia and her faithful lapdog have followed.

“Aw, look, Honor. Freak can't decide between skanky or sweet.” Stacia shakes her head and smirks at me. “Trust me, when in doubt,
always go with skanky. It's pretty much a sure thing. Besides, from what I recall about Damen, he's not so big on sweet.”

I freeze, my stomach clenching with unreasonable jealousy as my throat squeezes tight. But only for a moment before I force myself to resume breathing and browsing, refusing to let her think, even for a second, that her words might've gotten to me.

Besides, I know all about what happened between them, and I'm happy to report that it was neither skanky nor sweet. Mostly because it wasn't anything at all. Damen merely
pretended
to like her so he could get to me. And yet, just the thought of him even pretending still makes me queasy.

“Come on, let's go. She can't hear you,” Honor says, scratching her arm and glancing between Stacia and me, then checking her phone for the hundredth time to see if Craig answered her text.

But Stacia remains rooted, enjoying herself far too much to give up so easily. “Oh, she can hear me just fine,” she says, a smile playing at the corner of her lips. “Don't let the iPod and earbuds fool you. She can hear everything we say and everything we think. Because Ever's not just a freak, she's also a witch.”

I turn away and head for the other side of the store, browsing a rack of push-up bras and corsets, telling myself:
Ignore her, ignore her, just focus on shopping and she'll go away
.

But Stacia's not going anywhere. Instead, she grabs hold of my arm and pulls me right to her, saying, “Come on, don't be shy.
Show
her. Show Honor what a freak you are!”

Her eyes stare into mine, sending a flood of disturbing dark energy coursing right through me as she squeezes my arm so tight her thumb and index finger practically meet. And I know she's trying to bait me, incite me, aware of exactly what I'm capable of after that time when I lost control in the hallway at school. Only that time she didn't do it on purpose—she had no idea what I could do.