And just as I’m thinking the worst—sure that Haven got to him long before I could—I see it. We see it. His brilliant orange aura glowing all around him—the only thing that allows us to relax and get our breathing back on track.
Still taking a moment to process it all, unsure of even where to begin, I’m relieved when Damen says, “Looks like Firenze was good to you. Very good to you, in fact.” He directs a smile toward Miles, while giving me a reassuring squeeze of his hand.
Miles laughs, his face lifting in a way that softens all those new edges. But then, just as quickly, it’s gone, his aura wavering and flaring as he focuses on Damen, and that’s all it takes for me to remember.
I guess I’ve been so caught up in my drama with Haven and Sabine I’d forgotten all about Damen and the portraits Miles uncovered of Drina and him.
Portraits that were painted centuries ago.
Portraits that bear no easy answers—no logical explanations of any kind.
And even though I vowed never to do it unless absolutely necessary, I think this is definitely one of those moments that constitutes an emergency. So while Damen’s engaging him in small talk about Firenze, I quietly take a moment to peer into Miles’s mind. Needing to see what he thinks, what he suspects, and surprised to see he’s not at all focused on any of the things that I feared. Instead, he’s focused on me.
“I’m disappointed,” he says, interrupting Damen in favor of addressing me.
I cock my head to the side, having slipped out of his mind seconds before I had a chance to grasp just what he’s truly trying to get at.
“I came home new and improved, as you can see.” He runs his hand down the length of his body like a game-show model displaying the grand prize. “And I was pretty much planning for this to be my best year yet. But now I learn that my friends are still fighting, still not speaking to each other, and still forcing me to choose between them, even though I specifically warned them to get it settled before I returned, because no way will I play this game. No way will I be forced to play Meryl Streep in Sophie’s Choice. I just won’t. In fact—”
“Is that what she said?” I cut in, sensing that this particular monologue could go on ’til the final bell rings if I let it. “She said you had to choose?” Lowering my voice as a group of students file past.
“No, but then again, she didn’t have to. I mean, I think it’s pretty clear that if you’re not talking to her and she’s not talking to you, then I’m going to have to choose. Either that, or lunch just got even more awkward than it was last year.” He shakes his head, his shiny brown locks waving softly from side to side. “And I will not tolerate that. I just won’t. So, basically, you have between now and tomorrow to get it all figured out. Or I will be forced to brown bag it elsewhere. Oh, and just in case you’re not taking me seriously, you should know that now that I have the keys to my mom’s old car, you no longer have the carpool advantage. You and Haven are on equal footing as far as my affections are concerned. Which means you’ve no choice but to work it out, if you ever want to see me again, or—”
“Or what?” I try to keep my voice light, jokey, since I have no idea how to break it to him that if anything, knowing Haven, our problem will only have escalated by then.
“Or I’m going to find a whole new table and a whole new group of friends.” He nods, glancing between Damen and me, wanting us to know he has every intention of making good on the threat.
“We’ll see what we can do,” Damen says, wanting just to move past it, past all of this.
“No promises,” I add, eager to tone it down, keep it realistic, and not play into any sense of
false hope he might have.
Assuming we’re in the clear the moment the bell rings, Damen grabs my hand and starts to lead me toward class. Stopping when Miles taps his shoulder and says, “And you—” He pauses, long enough to carefully look him over from his head to his feet. “You and I will talk later. You’ve got some serious explaining to do.”
five
I guess I’d been so focused on Haven I hadn’t even thought about my other nemeses—namely Stacia Miller and her faithful sidekick Honor.
But by the time I slip into sixth-period physics, the door closing behind me the second the final bell rings, the sound of their muffled laughs and snickers is pretty much all the reminder I need.
I head straight for the middle, smiling to myself as I catch a glimpse of Stacia’s shocked face as I claim the empty seat nearest them. I mean, why force them to strain their necks to get a good look when I can just as easily pick a desk that provides for a much better, far more clear, totally unobstructed view of their favorite object of torment—me.
But Stacia’s the only one who seems shocked by my choice. Honor just takes it in stride. Sitting up a little straighter as she lifts her brow and looks me over, her gaze so guarded, so conflicted it’s nearly impossible to decipher.
Nearly.
Though I’m far less focused on her expression than the thoughts that stream through her head. Thoughts she purposely directs right at me, correctly assuming I’m listening when she thinks:
I know you can hear me. I know all about you. And I know that you know what I plan to do to Stacia. How I plan to make her pay for every crappy thing she’s ever done to me or anyone else unfortunate enough to get in her way. What I don’t know is if you’re planning to help me or stop me. But just in case you’re planning to stop me, you really need to rethink it. For one thing, she’s been a total bitch to you from the start, and for another, well, even if you do try to stop me, you can’t. No one can. Not you, not Jude, and especially not Stacia, so it’s best to not even go there—
And even though she’s looking right at me, eager for some kind of reaction, some kind of acknowledgment that I’ve received her message loud and clear, I’ve no intention of giving her the satisfaction. No intention of listening to any more than I already have.
Between her pathetic, revenge-driven manifesto, Stacia’s usual mean-spirited inner commentary, Mr. Borden’s silent lament how yet again, another year of his life will be wasted on a fresh supply of ungrateful, incurious students—an embarrassing collection of bad haircuts and worse clothing, completely indistinguishable from those who came and went before—between all of that and everyone else’s private dramas and angst—the din is too great.
Too depressing.
And totally depleting.