“I’m fine. I just don’t understand why he hates us so much.”
She sighed. “You know the history. There’s a lot of bad blood there because your father sent Marcel Girard to prison. It will probably always be that way between us.”
“Yeah,” I said, my stomach dropping. There would never be a world where a mountain of history didn’t divide Peter and me, and that was a depressing thought.
I was distracted when the countdown to New Year’s began, and my mother pulled me close. “Here we go. Let’s forget about all that unpleasantness and enjoy our night,” she encouraged. I tried to muster some enthusiasm, but it was difficult.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
Seven.
Against my own better judgement, my eyes went to Peter where he stood with his family, and it was almost like he sensed my gaze. His eyes met mine. Luckily, his dad was turned in the opposite direction, so he couldn’t see us staring at each other again.
Six.
Five.
Four.
My breath caught. Our gazes held. I had no idea why we were still looking at each other, but I couldn’t seem to break the connection. He held me transfixed.
Three.
Two.
One.
When midnight hit, I was still staring at Peter. He gestured to his dad before mouthing the word, Sorry. Butterflies filled me. There was a genuine apology in his eyes. Then he mouthed more words, Happy New Year, and my stomach swirled. I found the wherewithal to mouth the same words back at him.
Happy New Year.
His wide mouth began to curve into a smile just as a number of loud pops and bangs drew my attention up to the sky. Several witches and warlocks formed a group about twenty yards away, fusing their magic with the fireworks to make a work of art in the sky far superior to anything a human could ever dream of creating. Every hue my mind could conjure was present, moving and twisting among the star dotted canvas, creating a symphony of colour, a blast of sound. The sparks danced and coalesced, moving in a mesmerising rhythm. I couldn’t look away.
Finally, I remembered Peter and brought my eyes back to him, but he was no longer looking at me. His back was turned as he watched the fireworks with his family. For a moment, I wondered if I’d imagined the entire thing.
But no, I hadn’t imagined it. Peter Girard had definitely wished me a Happy New Year. But why? He’d never bothered to speak to me before, and his father was already mad at him for exchanging a few words with me. Was he playing a game? Hatching some kind of sinister plan? All I knew was that I wasn’t going to let myself get carried away with fanciful notions of a possible friendship. No, when it came to Peter Girard, I was very much going to keep my wits about me.
3.
The first day back at school was always stressful. For a start, I hated wearing my uniform. It was far too constricting, consisting of a cream shirt, a burgundy and grey striped tie, a burgundy blazer with the St. Bastian’s crest, alongside the choice of either grey trousers or a skirt. I typically wore trousers, though lots of the girls at school opted for skirts. If you were part of Belinda Williams’ group, you also hitched said skirts up as high as they would go.
I tied my hair up in a ponytail, checked my appearance in my full-length mirror, then went to see if Rebecca was ready. Normally, I drove to school alone, but since my sister was starting her new position today, I’d offered her a lift.
Rebecca didn’t drive, so she was glad not to have to take the bus. St. Bastian’s was located on the outskirts of the city, obscured within the ancient foliage of the Yellowbranch Forest. My mother and her best friend, Rita, cast a glamour many years ago when the school was built to ensure that the building remained invisible to human eyes. The spell also repelled them, so if a human had a whim to explore the part of the forest where St. Bastian’s was located, they felt a distinct revulsion towards the impulse.
Because of the school’s obscure location, the nearest bus stop was a twenty-minute walk away. I made the trek before my parents bought me a car for my eighteenth birthday. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a small hatchback, but it was a dream not to have to take the bus anymore. The only downside was that Peter Girard took the bus, too, so I didn’t get to pathetically pine for him from afar any longer, which was probably a good thing.
I needed to get over my crush. My parents might not be as hateful as Peter Senior, but I doubted they’d be pleased if I suddenly announced I wanted to date his son. As my mother said, there was too much bad blood there.