"It's just nerves," I say, glancing at him as the light turns green.
"Exactly!" He nods. "Which just proves what an amateur I am. Because professionals, real professionals, they don't get nervous. They just go into their creative zone and... create. Maybe I'm not cut out for this?" He looks at me, his face tense with worry. "Maybe it's just a fluke that I got the lead." I glance at him, remembering how Drina claimed to climb inside the director's head and sway him toward Miles. But even if that's true, that doesn't mean hecan't handle it, doesn't mean he wasn't the best.
"That's ridiculous." I shake my head. "Tons of actors get nervous, suffer from stage fright or whatever. Seriously. You wouldn't believe some of the stories Riley used to—" I stop, eyes wide, mouth open, knowing I can never finish that sentence. Can never divulge the stories gleaned from my dead little sister who used to enjoy spying on the Hollywood elite. "Anyway, don't you wear, like, a ton of heavy pancake makeup?"
He glances at me. "Yeah. So. What's your point? The play's Friday, which, for your information, happens to be tomorrow. This will never be gone by then."
"Maybe." I shrug. "But what I meant was, can't you use the makeup to cover it?"
Miles rolls his eyes and scowls. "Oh, so I can sport a huge flesh-colored beacon instead? Would you look at this thing? There's no disguising it. It's got its own DNA! It's casting shadows!" I pull into the school parking lot, claiming my usual space, the one right next to Damen's shiny black BMW.
And when I look at Miles again, for some reason I feel compelled to touch his lace. As though my index finger is inexplicably drawn to the zit on hischin.
"What're you doing?" he asks, cringing and pulling away.
"Just—just be still," I whisper, having no idea whatI'm doing, or why I'm even doing it. All I know is my finger has a definite destination in mind.
"Well don't—touch it!" he shouts, the exact moment I make contact. "Great, that's just great. Now it'll probably double in size." He shakes his head and climbs out of the car, and I can't help but feel disappointed to see the pimple still there.
I guess I was hoping I'd developed some kind ofenhanced healing ability. Ever since Damen told me, right after I'd decided to accept my fate and startdrinking the immortal juice, that I could expect to go through some changes, anything from super-enhanced psychic abilities (which I was not looking forward to), to super-enhanced physical abilities (which couldcertainly have its benefits in P.E.), or something else altogether (like the ability to heal others, which has my vote since it would be totally cool), I've been on the lookout for something extraordinary. But so far, all I got is an extra inch of leg, which really doesn't do much for me besides requiring a new pair of jeans. And that probably would've happened eventually anyway.
I grab my bag and climb out of my car, my lips meeting Damen's the instant he comes around to my side.
"Okay, seriously. How much longer can this possibly last?"
We both pull away and look at Miles.
"Yeah, I'm talking to you." He wags his finger. "All of the kissing, and hugging, and let us not forget the constant whispering of sweet little nothings." He shakes his head and narrows his eyes. "Seriously. I was hoping you guys would be over it by now. I mean, don't get me wrong, we're all very happy that Damen's back in school, that you've found each other again, and will most likely live happily ever after. But really, don't you think it's time to maybe try and tone it down a little? Because some of us aren't quite as happy as you. Some of us are a little bit love deprived."
"You're love deprived?" I laugh, not at all offended by anything he just said, knowing it has far more to do with his anxiety about the play than anything to do with Damen and me. "What happened to Holt?"
"Holt?" He balks. "Don't even talk about Holt! Do not even go there, Ever!" He shakes his head and turns on his heel, heading toward Haven who's waiting by the gate.
"What's his problem?" Damen asks, reaching for my hand and entwining my fingers with his, gazing at me with eyes that still love me, despite yesterday.
"Tomorrow's opening night." I shrug. "So he's freaking out, has a zit on his chin, and naturally he's decided to hold us responsible," I say, watching as Miles links arms with Haven as he leads her toward class.
"We're not talking to them," he says, glancing over his shoulder and frowning at us. "We're on strike until they stop acting so love struck or this zit goes away, whichever comes first." He nods, only half joking. Haven laughs and skips alongside him, as Damen and I head into English. Going right past Stacia Miller who smil
es sweetly at him and then tries to trip me. But just as she drops her small bag in my path, hoping to incite a nice, humiliating face plant, I see it lifting, and I feel it smacking—right into her knee. And even though I feel the pain too, I'm still glad I did it.
"Owww!" she wails, rubbing her knee and glaring at me, even though she has no tangible proof that I'm in any way responsible.
But I just ignore her and take my seat. I've gotten better at ignoring her. Ever since she got me suspended for drinking on campus, I've done my best to stay out of her way. But sometimes—sometimes I just can't help myself.
"You shouldn't have done that," Damen whispers, attempting a stern look as he leans toward me.
"Please. You're the one who wants me to practice manifesting." I shrug. "Looks like those lessons are finally starting to pay off."
He looks at me, shaking his head as he says, "You see, it's even worse than I thought, because for your information that was psychokinesis you just did, not manifesting. See how much there is to learn?"
"Psychowhat?"
I squint, unfamiliar with the term, though the act itself was sure fun. He takes my hand, a smile playing at the corner of his lips as he says, "I've been thinking..." I glance at the clock, seeing it's already five minutes past nine and knowing Mr. Robins is just now leaving the teachers' lounge. "Friday night. What do you say we go somewhere... special?" He smiles.
"Like Summerland?" I look at Damen, my eyes growing wide as my pulse quickens. I've been dying to get back to that magical, mystical place. The dimension between the dimensions, where I can manifest oceans and elephants, and move things far greater than projectile Prada bags—only I need Damen to get there.
But he just laughs and shakes his head. "No, not Summerland. Though we will return there, I promise. But I was thinking more like, I don't know, maybe the Montage, or the Ritz, perhaps?" He raises his brows.