Evermore (17 page)

"You're right, Miles, you're absolutely right. Though it's always nice to be asked. Anyway, that was Drina. She's still in New York, enjoying a major shopping spree. She even bought a bunch of stuff for me, if you can believe it." She looks at us, her eyes wide, but when we don't respond, she makes a face and continues. 'Anyway, she said hi even though you couldn't be bothered to say hi back. And don't think she didn't know it," she says, scowling at us. "But, she's heading back soon, and she just invited me to this really cool party and I totally cannot wait!"

"When?" I ask, trying not to sound as panicked as I feel. Wondering if it could possibly be on the twenty-first of December.

But she just smiles and shakes her head. "Sorry, no say. I promised not to tell."

"Why?" Miles and I both say.

"Because it's super exclusive, invitation only, and they don't need a bunch of crashers showing up."

"And that's how you see us? As party crashers?"

Haven shrugs and takes a hearty sip of her drink.

"Now that's just wrong." Miles shakes his head. "We're your best friends, so by law, you have to tell us."

"Not this," Haven says. "I'm sworn to secrecy. Just know that I'm so excited I could burst!"

I gaze at her, sitting before me, face flushed with a happiness that sets me on edge, but my head hurts so badly, and my eyes are really tearing, and her aura's so merged/with everyone else's, I can't get a read.

I take a sip of my drink, forgetting about the vodka until a trail of hot liquid slips down my throat, courses into my bloodstream, and makes my head sway.

"You still sick?" Haven asks, shooting me a worried look.

"You should take it easy. Maybe you're not completely over it."

"Over what?" I squint, taking another sip, and then another, my senses blunted a little more with each taste.

"The fever-dream flu! Remember how you fainted that day at school? I told you the whole dizzy nausea thing is just the beginning. Just promise to tell me if you have the dreams, because they're amazing."

"What dreams?"

"Didn't I tell you?"

"Not in detail." I take another sip, noting how my head feels woozy yet clear, all the visions, random thoughts, colors, and sounds suddenly shrinking and fading away.

"They were wild! And don't get mad, but Damen was in some of them, though it's not like anything happened. It wasn't that kind of dream. It was more like he was saving me, like he was fighting these evil forces to save my life. So bizarre." She laughs. "Oh, speaking of, Drina saw Damen in New York."

I stare at Haven, my body growing cold, despite the alcohol blanketing my insides. But when I take another sip, the chill slips away, taking my pain and anxiety with it.

So I take another.

And then another.

Then I squint at her and say, "Why did you just tell me that?"

But Haven just shrugs. "Drina just wanted you to know."

After the festival, we pile into Haven's car, make a quick stop at her house to refill her flask, then head into town where we park on the street, stuff the meter full of quarters, and storm the sidewalks, three across, arms linked, making all the other pedestrians move out of our way, as we sing "(You Never) Call Me When You're Sober," at the top of our lungs and wildly off-key. Staggering in fits of laughter every time someone snickers and shakes their head at us.

And when we pass one of those New Age bookstores advertising psychic readings, I just roll my eyes and avert my gaze, thrilled that I'm no longer part of that world, now that the alcohol's released me, now that I'm free.

We cross the street to Main Beach, and stumble past Hotel Laguna, until we fall onto the sand, legs overlapping, arms entwined, passing the flask back and forth, and mourning its loss the moment it's empty

"Crap!" I mumble tilting my head all the way back and tapping hard on the bottom and sides, straining for every last drop.

"Jeez, take it easy." Miles looks at me. 'Just sit back and enjoy the buzz."

But I don't want to sit back. And I am enjoying the buzz. I just want to make sure it continues. Now that my psychic bonds have been broken, I want to ensure they stay broken. "Wanna go to my house?" I slur, hoping Sabine's not at home so we can get to the leftover Halloween vodka and keep the buzz rolling.

But Haven shakes her head. "Forget it," she says. "I'm wrecked. I'm thinking of ditching the car and crawling back home."

"Miles?" I gaze at him, my eyes pleading, not wanting the party to end. This is the first time I've felt so light, so free, so unencumbered, so normal, since—well, since Damen went away.

"Can't." He shakes his head. "Family dinner. Seven-thirty sharp. Tie optional. Straightjacket required." He laughs, falling onto the sand, as Haven topples over and joins him.

"Well, what about me? What am I supposed to do?" I cross my arms and glare at my friends, not wanting to be left on my own, watching as they laugh and roll around together, oblivious to me.

The next morning, even though I oversleep, the first thing I think when I open my eyes is: My head's not pounding! At least not in the usual way.

Then I roll over, reach under my bed, and retrieve the bottle of vodka I stashed there last night, taking a long deep swig and I closing my eyes as its warm wonderful numbness blankets my tongue and sinks down my throat.

And when Sabine peeks her head in my room to see if I'm up, I'm thrilled to. see her aura has vanished from sight.

"I'm awake!" I say, shoving the bottle under a pillow and rushing over to hug her. Anxious to see what kind of energy exchange there will be, and elated when there is none.

"Isn't it a beautiful day?" I smile, my lips feeling clumsy and loose as they unveil my teeth.

She gazes out the window and back at me. "If you say so." She shrugs.

I look past my french doors and into a day that's gray, overcast, and rainy. But then again, I wasn't referring to the weather. I was referring to me. The new me. The new, improved, non psychic me!

"Reminds me of home." I shrug, slipping out of my nightgown and into the shower.

The second Miles gets in my car he takes one look at me, and goes, "What the—?" I gaze down at my sweater, denim mini, and ballet flats, relics Sabine saved from my oId life, and smile.

"I'm sorry, but I don't accept rides from strangers," he says, opening the door and pretending to climb back out.

"It's me, really. Cross my heart and hope to—well, just trust that it's me." I laugh. "And close your door already, I don't need you falling out and making us late."

"I don't get it," he says, gaping at me. "I mean, when did this happen? How did this happen? Just yesterday you were practically wearing a burka, and now it looks like you've raided Paris Hilton's closet!"

I look at him.

"Only classier, way classier."

I smile, pushing down on the gas, my wheels sliding and lifting off the soggy wet street and easing up only when I remember how my internal cop radar is gone and Miles starts screaming.

"Seriously, Ever, what the hell? Omigod, are you still drunk?"

"No!" I say, a little too quickly. "I'm just, you know, coming out of my shell, that's all. I can be kind of—shy, for the first several—months." I laugh. "But trust me, this is the real me." I , nod, hoping he buys it.

"Do you realize you've picked the wettest, most miserable day of the year to come out of your shell?"

I shake my head and pull into the parking lot as I say, "You have no idea how beautiful it is. Reminds me of home."

I park in the closest available space, then we race for the gate, backpacks held over our heads like makeshift umbrellas, as the soles of our shoes splash water onto our legs. And when I see Haven shivering under the eaves, I feel like jumping with,glee when I see she's aura-free.

"What the—?" she says, eyes bugging as she looks me up and down.

"You guys really need to learn how to finish a sentence." I laugh.

"Seriously, who are you?" she says, still gawking at me.

Miles laughs, wraps his arms around both of us, and leads us past the gate, saying, "Don't mind Miss Oregon, she happens to think it's a beautiful day."

When I walk into English, I'm relieved that I can no longer see or hear anything I'm not meant to. And even though Stacia and Honor are whispering back and forth, scowling at my clothes, my shoes, my hair, even the makeup I wear on my face, I just shrug it off and mind my own business. Because while I'm sure they're not saying anything remotely kind, the fact that I no longer have access to the actual words makes a whole world of difference. And when I catch them both looking at me again, I just smile and wave until they're so freaked out they turn away.

But by third-period chemistry, the buzz is nearly gone. Giving way to a barrage of sights, colors, and sounds that threaten to overwhelm me.

And when I raise my hand and ask for the hall pass, I'm barely out the door before I'm taken over completely.

I stagger toward my locker, spinning the dial around and around, trying to remember the correct number sequence. Is it 24-18-12-3? Or 12-18-3-24?

I glance around the hall, my head pounding, my eyes tearing, and then I hit it—18-3-24-12. And I dig through a pile of books and papers, knocking them all to the ground but paying no attention as they splay around my feet, just wanting to get to the water bottle I've hidden inside, longing for its sweet liquid release.

I unscrew the cap and tilt my head back, taking a long deep pull, soon followed by another, and then another, and another. And hoping to make it through lunch, I'm taking one last swig when I hear:

"Hold it—smile—no? That's okay, I still got it."

And I watch in horror as Stacia approaches, camera held high, an image of me, guzzling vodka, clearly displayed.

"Who would've thought you'd be so photogenic? But then again, it's so rare we get the chance to see you without your hood." She smiles, her eyes grazing over me, from my feet to my bangs.

I stare at her, and even though my senses are blunted from drink, her intentions are clear.

"Who would you prefer I send this to first? Your mom?" She lifts her brows and covers her mouth in mock horror, as she says, "Oh, so sorry, my apologies. What I meant to say was your aunt? Or perhaps one of your teachers? Or maybe all of your teachers? No? No, you're right, this should go straight to the principal, one bird, one stone, a quick and easy kill, as they say."

"It's a water bottle," I tell her, leaning down to pick up my books and shoving them back in my locker, striving for nonchalance, acting as though I don't even care, knowing she can sniff out fear better than any police-trained bloodhound. "All you have is a photo of me, drinking from a water bottle. Big effin' deal."

"A water bottle." She laughs. "Yes, and so it is. And so very original I might add. I'm sure you're the absolute very first person to ever think of pouring vodka into a water bottle." She rolls her eyes. "Please. You are so going down, Ever. One quick sobriety test, and it's good bye Bay View, hello Academy for Losers and Abusers."

I gaze at her standing before me, so sure, so smug, so completely overconfident, and I know she has every right to be, she caught me red-handed. And even though the evidence may appear circumstantial, we both know that it isn't. We both know that she's right.

"What do you want?" I finally whisper, figuring everybody has a price, I just need to find hers. I've heard enough thoughts over the past year, seen enough visions, to confirm this is true.

"Well, for starters, I want you to quit bothering me," she says, folding her arms across her chest, anchoring the evidence snugly under her armpit.

"But I don't bother you," I say, the words slightly slurred.

"You bother me."

"Au contraire." She smiles, looking me over, eyes scathing.

"Just having to look at you day after day is a bother. A huge horrible bother."

"You want me to transfer out of English?" I ask, still holding that stupid bottle, unsure what to do with it. If I leave it in my locker, she'll nark and have it confiscated—and if I stow it in my backpack, same thing.

"You know you still owe me for that dress you destroyed in your spastic rampage."

So that's it, blackmail. Good thing I won all that money at the track.

I dig through my backpack and locate my wallet, more than willing to reimburse her if it'll put an end to all this. "How much?" I say.

She looks me over, trying to calculate my immediate net worth. "Well, like I said, it was designer—and not so easily replaced—so—"

"A hundred?" I pick off a Ben Franklin and offer it to her.

She rolls her eyes. "While I totally get how you're completely clueless about fashion and all things worth having, you really need to up the offer. Aim a little higher, a tad bit steeper," she says, eyeballing my wad.

But since blackmailers have a way of returning and constantly upping the ante, I know it's better just to deal with it now, before it can go any further. So I look at her and say, "Since we both know you bought that dress at the outlet mall, on your way home from Palm Springs"—I smile, remembering what I saw that day in the hall—"I'll reimburse you for the cost of the dress, which, if memory serves, was eighty-five dollars. In which case, a hundred seems like a pretty generous deal, wouldn't you say?"

She looks me over, her face twisting into a grin, as she takes the bill and shoves it deep into her pocket. Then she glances between the water bottle and me, and smiles when she says, "So, aren't you going to offer me a drink?"

If someone had told me just yesterday that I'd be hanging in the bathroom, getting whacked with Stacia Miller, I never would've believed it. But sure enough, that's exactly what I did. Trailed her right inside so we could huddle in the corner and suck down a water bottle full of vodka.

Nothing like shared addictions and hidden secrets to bring people together.

And when Haven walked in and found us like that, her eyes bugged out when she said, "What the fug?"

And I fell over in fits of howling laughter, as Stacia squinted at her and slurred, "Welthome gosh girthl."

"Am I missing something?" Haven asked, gazing between us, eyes narrowed, suspicious. "Is this supposed to be funny?"

And the way she looked, the way she stood there so authoritative, so derisive, so serious, so not amused, made us laugh even more. Then as soon as the door slammed behind her, we got back to drinking.

But getting tanked in the bathroom with Stacia does not ensure access to the VIP table. And knowing better than to even try, I head for my usual spot, my head so polluted, my brain so fuzzy, it takes a moment before I realize I'm not welcome there either.

I plop myself down, squint at Haven and Miles, then start laughing for no apparent reason. Or at least not one that's apparent to them. But if they could only see the looks on their faces, I know they'd laugh too.

"What's up with her?" Miles asks, glancing up from his script. Haven scowls. "She's bent, totally and completely bent. I caught her in the bathroom, getting twisted with, of all people, Stacia Miller."

Miles gapes, his forehead all scrunched in a way that makes me start laughing all over again. And when I won't quiet down, he leans toward me, pinches my arm, and says,

"Shh!" He glances all around and then back at me.

"Seriously, Ever. Are you crazy? Jeez, ever since Damen left you've been—"

"Ever since Damen left—what?" I pull away so fast I lose my balance and nearly fall off the bench, righting myself just in time to see Haven shake her head and smirk. "Come on, Miles, spit it out already." I glare at him. "You too, Haven, spit it out." Only it comes out more like, schthpititowt, and don't think they don't notice.

"You want us to schthpititowt?" Miles shakes his head as Haven rolls her eyes. "Well, I'm sure we'd be happy to if we only knew what it meant. Do you know what it means?" He looks at Haven.

"Sounds German," she says, glaring at me.

I roll my eyes, and get up to leave, only I don't coordinate it so well, and I end up banging my knee. "Owww" I cry, slumping back onto the bench, gripping my leg as my eyes squinch in pain.

"Here, drink this," Miles urges, pushing his Vitamin Water toward me. "And hand over your keys, because you are so not driving me home."

Miles was right. I so did not drive him home. That's because he drove himself home. I got a ride from Sabine.

She gets me settled in the passenger seat, then goes around to her side, and when she starts the engine and pulls out of the lot, she shakes her head, clenches her jaw; glances at me, and says, "Expelled? How do you go from honor roll to expelled? Can you please explain that to me?"

I close my eyes and press my forehead against the side window; the smooth, clean glass cooling my skin.

"Suspended," I mumble.

"Remember? You pleaded it down. And quite impressively, I might add. Now I know why you earn the big bucks." I peer at her from the corner of my eye just as the shock of my words transform her face from concern to outrage, rearranging her features in a way I've never seen. And even though I know I should feel bad, ashamed, guilty, and worse—the fact is, it's not like I asked her to litigate. It's not like I asked her to plead extenuating circumstances. Claiming that my drinking on school grounds was: clearly mitigated by the gravity of my situation, the huge toll of losing my entire family.