"But Miles's play is Friday and I promised we'd be there!" I say, realizing just after I've said it that I'd conveniently forgotten all about Miles's Hairspray debut when I thought I was going to Summerland. But now that Damen wants to check into one of the area's most swanky hotels—my memory is somehow restored.
"Okay, then, how about after the play?" he offers. But when he looks at me, when he sees how I hesitate, how I press my lips together and search for a polite way to decline, he adds, "Or not. It was just athought." I gaze at him, knowing I need to accept, that I want to accept. Hearing the voice in my head shouting: Say yes! Say yes! You promised yourself you'd leap forward, without once looking back, and now's your chance—so just go ahead and do it! JUST! SAY! YES!
But even though I'm convinced that it's time to move on, even though I love Damen with all of my heart and am determined to get over his past and take the next step, what comes out of my mouth is entirely different.
"We'll see," I say, averting my gaze and focusing on the door, just as Mr. Robins walks in.
Chapter Four
When the fourth-period bell finally rings, I get up from my desk and approach Mr. Munoz.
"Are you sure you're finished?" he asks, looking up from a pile of papers. "If you need another minute, that's perfectly okay."
I glance over my test sheet, then shake my head. Wondering what he'd do if he ever found out that I'd finished approximately forty-five seconds after he first handed it to me, then spent the next fifty minutes only pretending to struggle.
"I'm good," I tell him, knowing it's true. One of the perks of being psychic is that I no longer have to study, instead I just sort of know all the answers. And even though it's sometimes tempting to show off and ace all of my tests in a long steady stream of perfect scores, I usually try to hold back and get a few wrong since it's important to not overdo it.
Or at least that's what Damen says. Always remindingme how imperative it is to keep a low profile, to at least give the appearance of being normal—even though we're anything but. Though the first time he said it, I couldn't help but remind him of how there seemed to be an awful lot of tulip manifesting going on back when we first met. But he just said that certain allowances had to be made in his efforts to woo me, and that it took longer than necessary since I didn't bother to look up their true meaning of undying love, until it was almost too late. I hand the paper to Mr. Munoz, cringing when the tips of our fingers make contact. And even though our skin just barely brushed, it was still enough to show me far more than I ever needed to know, allowing for a pretty clear visual of his entire morning so far. Everything from his incredibly messy apartment with the kitchen table that's littered with takeout containers and multiple versions of the manuscript he's been working on for the past seven years, to him singing "Born to Run" at the top of his lungs as he tried to find a clean shirt before heading over to Starbucks where he bumped into a petite blonde who spilled her iced venti chai latte all down the front of it—resulting in a cold, wet, annoying stain that one flash of her beautiful smile seemed to erase. A glorious smile he can't seem to forget—a glorious smile that—belongs to my aunt!
"Want to wait while I grade it?"
I nod, practically hyperventilating as I focus on his red pen. Replaying the scene I just saw in my head, each time coming to the same horrific conclusion—my history teacher is hot for Sabine!
I can't let this happen. Can't allow her to ever go back there. I mean, just because they're smart, cute, and single, doesn't mean they need to date.
I stand there, frozen, unable to breathe, struggling to block out the thoughts in his head by focusing on the tip of his pen. Watching as he leaves a trail of tiny red dots that turn into checkmarks at numbers seventeen and twenty-five—just as I'd planned.
"Only two wrong. Very good!" He smiles, brushing his fingers against the stain on his shirt, wondering if he'll ever see her again. "Would you like to see the correct answers?" Uh, not really,I think, eager to be out of there as soon as I can, and not just so I can get to the lunchtable and see Damen, but in case his fantasy decides to pick up where I forced it to leave off. But knowing that the normal thing would be to appear at least somewhat interested, I take a deep breath and smile and nod as though I'd like nothing more. And when he hands me the answer key, I just go through the motions, saying, "Oh, look at that, I got the wrong date." And, "Of course! How could I not know that? Duh!"
But he just nods, mostly because his thoughts are already back on the blonde—aka: The only woman in the entire universe who he is absolutely forbidden to date! Wondering if she'll be there tomorrow—same time and place.
And even though the idea of teachers in lust pretty much grosses me out in a general sense, this particular teacher's being in lust over someone who's practically like a parent to me—just will not do. But then I remember how just a few months ago I hada vision of Sabine dating some cute guy in her building. And since Munoz works here, and Sabine works there, I figure there's really no threat of my two worlds colliding.
But just in case I'm wrong, I still manage to say, "Um, it was a fluke." He looks at me, brows merged, trying to make sense of my words. And even though I know I've gone too far, even though I know I'm about to say something as far from normal as you can get, I really don't feel I have much of a choice. I cannot have my history teacher dating my aunt. I can't tolerate it. I just can't.
So I motion toward the stain on his shirt when I add, "You know, her, Miss Iced Venti Chai Latte?" I nod, seeing the alarmed look on his face. "I doubt she'll be back. She doesn't really go all that often." Then before I can say anything else that will not only dash his dreams but confirm the full extent of my freakdom, I sling my bag over my shoulder and run for the door, shrugging off the last of Mr. Munoz's lingering energy as I make my way toward the lunchtable where Damen is waiting—eager to be with him again after three very long hours apart.
But when I get there, it's not quite the homecoming I expected. There's a new guy sitting beside him, right in my usual place, and he's soaking up so much attention, Damen barely notices me. I lean against the edg
e of the table, watching as they all break into laughter at something the new guy said. And not wanting to interrupt or come off as rude, I take the seat across from Damen rather than right beside him in my usual place.
"Omigod, you are so funny!" Haven says, leaning forward and briefly touching the new guy's hand. Smiling in a way that makes it clear her new boyfriend, Josh, her self-proclaimed soul mate, has been temporarily forgotten. "Too bad you missed it, Ever, he's so hysterical Miles even forgot to obsess on his zit!"
"Thanks for the reminder." Miles scowls, his finger seeking the spot on his chin—only it's no longer there.
His eyes go wide, looking to each of us for confirmation that his mammoth-sized zit, the bane of this morning's existence, really is gone. And I can't help but wonder if its sudden disappearance is because of me, because of when I touched it this morning, back in the parking lot. Which would mean I really do have magical healing abilities.
But just after I think it, the new guy says, "Told you it'd work. Stuffs brilliant. Keep the rest in case it returns."
And I narrow my gaze, wondering how he could'vehad enough time to intervene on Miles's complexion issues when it's the first I've yet to see of him.
"I gave him some salve," he says, turning toward me.
"Miles and I are in homeroom together. I'm Roman, by the way." I look at him, taking in the bright yellow aura that swirls all around him, its edges extended, beckoning, like a friendly group hug. But when I take in his deep navy blue eyes, tanned skin, blond tousled hair, and casual clothes with just the right amount of hipster chic—despite his good looks, my first reaction is to run away. Even when he flashes me one of those languid, easy, make-your-heart-swoon kind of smiles, I'm so on edge, I can't seem to return it.
"And you must be Ever," he says, retracting his hand, the one I hadn't even noticed was extended and waiting to be shaken until he pulled it away.
I glance at Haven who's clearly horrified by my rudeness, then over at Miles who is too busy mirror gazing to notice my faux pas. But when Damen reaches under the table and squeezes my knee, I clear my throat, look at Roman, and say, "Urn, yeah, I'm Ever." And even though he shoots me that smile again, it still doesn't work. It just makes my stomach go all jumpy and queasy.