Blackwood: A Hexed Story (2 page)

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I wonder if Jarrod is going to the homecoming dance….

I can’t help imagining what it would be like if he asked me to go with him. I picture him pulling up in front of my house in his mom’s Chevy sedan. I wonder what he’d wear? Not black or blue, I think. Maybe a white tux that would make the red of his hair stand out and his eyes look impossibly blue.

I sigh.

Oh, who am I kidding? He’s probably going to ask one of the hot cheerleaders. Maybe Amy or Ashley, the brunette twins with the killer legs. Maybe even Thea, with her huge brown eyes and sheet of gorgeous, silky hair.

The thought makes my chest ache—so much for leaving class so I wouldn’t feel sick thinking of him.

I turn my back to the poster, and my breath hitches.

A guy stands in the hallway. Not just any guy—the one in the leather jacket I saw outside the school this morning.

He’s unnaturally tall, well over six feet, despite looking no more than a few years older than me. His dark hair falls in a tangle of waves to his jaw, and his leather jacket is pushed up to reveal colorful tattoos spreading up his right arm, his skin
taut with lean muscle. When he turns just right, I see that his tattoos spill out of his jacket onto his neck.

He stands in front of a bank of lockers down the hall, hunched over as he takes a combination lock into his hands, holding it almost
reverently
. His lips move as he mumbles something under his breath. He waves a palm in front of the lock.

It clicks open.

I gasp; then, realizing my mistake, I leap back into the alcove. My heart thumps hard behind my ears. How did he get the lock to open like that? He didn’t even spin the dial. I stand against the wall for a long minute, trying to slow my breathing and the frantic thump of my heart. But curiosity overwhelms me, and taking a breath for courage, I peer out.

The guy’s still there. He rifles through the contents of the locker, inspecting items and then tossing them back inside with an air of disgust. He leans in to reach for something at the back, and a flash of color behind him catches my eye: a pink zebra-print mirror stuck onto the door of the locker, right above two purple flower magnets that hold up a photo of Devon Mills, Fairfield High’s star quarterback and Indie’s boyfriend. I feel the blood drain out of my head as realization sets in.

It’s Indie’s locker. What is this guy doing in Indie’s locker?

Whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t seem to find it. He stuffs everything back inside, then quietly closes the door and restores the lock. He takes off down the hall, turning in to Mrs. Malone’s office.

The principal’s office is the last place I would have thought this guy would go, and that makes me even more intrigued. I emerge from the alcove, keeping close to the
wall as I take quick, light steps down the hall until I’m flattened against the corkboard just outside the secretary’s office.

I round the corner and come face to face with the guy.

I yelp, my hand flying over my pounding heart.

“Whoa, there,” he says, his voice gravelly but somehow light. He smiles down at me, this devious smile that makes his dark eyes flash, and I’m surprised to find that, though he looks like a gangbanger you wouldn’t want to cross in a dark alley, dude is kind of…hot.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“No prob.” A beat passes. “If you’ll excuse me…” He gives me another brazenly confident grin.

“Oh, right.” I step aside. As the guy walks by, I notice a file clutched under his arm, the letters
OOD
poking out under his leather jacket. It takes me a half second to put it together. Indigo Blackwood. BlackwOOD.

“Wait!” I call out, setting off at a jog. But he doesn’t stop. He turns down a hallway. My jog turns into a sprint. I turn the corner just seconds after him.

He’s gone.

I cast my eyes down either side of the hallway. Banks of lockers stretch along both walls, shiny under the glare of the harsh fluorescent light. Empty. No trace of the guy in the leather jacket.

There’s no way he could have gotten away that fast. It’s like…it’s like he disappeared.

But that’s impossible.

My legs weak beneath me, I jog back to the office and clutch the window frame as I pant for air. The principal’s ancient secretary clacks away at her keyboard.

“Excuse me,” I say.

Mrs. Fields looks at me, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Can I help you?”

“That guy. What was he doing with Indie’s file?”

Her eyebrows pinch together. “What guy?”

“The guy in the leather jacket.”

She tilts her head to the side.

“Just now. He was just here and he left with Indie’s file. And earlier he was poking around inside her locker.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, dear.”

I open and close my mouth before I can find words. “You’re telling me you didn’t just see a supertall guy in a leather jacket right here in your office taking off with a file?”

She narrow her eyes at me. I rake my fingers through my hair, dread and panic clamping down on my chest. “Just check for Indie’s file,” I say. “It’ll be missing.”

“Miss Abernathy,” she says cautiously, “are you feeling quite all right?”

I become hyperaware of how I must look—sweaty and disheveled, spouting nonsense about a strange man.

“Can you just check Indie’s file, please? You don’t have to show it to me. Just check that it’s there.”

She watches me for a moment, considering. And then she turns around in her chair and wheels herself over to the file cabinet. I hold my breath while she flicks through the files with bent fingers.

“Indigo Blackwood!” Her voice is triumphant as she pulls out a folder, holding it up so I can see. And sure enough, there it is. A manila file with the name INDIGO BLACKWOOD in dark, bold script across the top.

Heat floods my cheeks. “Oh. Um, I’m sorry, then. I must have…Never mind. I should get going.”

Mrs. Fields gives me a strange look as I head down the hall back to class, trying to process what just happened.

So the guy
wasn’t
making off with Indie’s file. I could swear that he was, but obviously I was wrong. And if I’m wrong about that, what else was I wrong about? Maybe it
wasn’t
Indie’s locker after all and my eyes were playing tricks on me. Maybe the stress of everything with Indie and Jarrod is finally getting to me.

Maybe I should see a counselor or something. Or better yet, a psychiatrist.

Before I slip back into homeroom, I can’t help sweeping one last glance down the hallway, hoping to see the guy, if just to prove to myself I’m not crazy. But the hallway is empty.

I try to focus on the rest of Mrs. Anderson’s lecture on SAT prep, but my head isn’t really in it. My mind replays the scene of the guy breaking into the locker over and over again.

It
wasn’t
Indie’s locker, I decide. There
wasn’t
anything strange about the way he opened it either; it was far away—I probably didn’t see him spinning the dial. And the guy didn’t
disappear
. He probably just slipped into a classroom or down another hallway before I saw him. I overreacted.

The bell rings. I’m stuffing my notebook into my bag when I feel another pen jab in my back. I look behind me.

“Hey,” Jarrod whispers. He looks around and then leans in closer. “I was wondering…”

I swallow, my mouth turning hot and dry. All of a sudden, the guy in the leather jacket flies right out of my head. He’s going to ask me—Jarrod’s going to ask me to the homecoming dance!

“Are you still tutoring?” he asks. “Because I’m getting behind on math again and I could really use the help.”

My stomach drops.

“If you’re not too busy,” he adds.

A part of me says,
Come on, Paige. You really thought he was going to ask you to the dance? Just say yes. It may not be homecoming, but it’s the best someone like you is going to get
. But a bigger part of me says I don’t want to be with someone who’s ashamed to hang out with me. Who has to pretend to need tutoring because he’s too embarrassed to take me on a date. Who laughs at me.

“I’m really busy, actually.” I stand up, pulling my bag over my shoulders. “Contact the guidance counselor. Maybe he can hook you up with someone.”

His face falls, and I swear I can see hurt flash across his eyes. There’s a pang in my gut, but I turn my back on him before I can change my mind.

The rest of the morning passes in a blur. I try flagging Indie down in the hallway after homeroom, but she says she’s too busy to talk. I try to pull her aside before math,
but Bianca is in that class too, and she won’t give us one freaking minute alone. I don’t see Indie again until lunch.

I’m sitting at what is impolitely termed the Loser Table, unwrapping my turkey sandwich, when she walks in.

Indie is usually flanked by at least two friends, but miracle of all miracles, today she walks in by herself. Her hair flies around her head in perfect curls that bounce like they have a life of their own. She’s wearing a plain white tank top, a denim skirt, and ankle boots, but somehow she makes the whole thing look like the height of fashion. She looks perfect.

I become acutely aware of my oversized Vincent Van Go Go T-shirt, pin-striped shorts, and Chucks. For a half second I feel like maybe I should try harder to dress in style, but in the next half second I lob that idea right out the window. I’m not changing myself for anyone—the whole point of Operation Save Indie is to lead her away from Bianca and not to become another lemming just to fit in.

I push myself up from my seat.

“Indie!”

She flinches at the sound of my voice, but she doesn’t turn. I jog over to her and grab her arm.

“Ind.”

“Hey,” she says uneasily. She looks around to see if anyone’s watching us. It stings, but I remind myself that this isn’t the real Indie. These are the effects of Bianca’s manipulations.

“Can I talk to you? It’s really imp—”

A hip rams my side. I lose my footing and stumble back, landing on my ass on the hard linoleum. An “Oooh” passes through the cafeteria. When I look up, Bianca’s standing over me with her arm around Indie’s shoulders.

“Whoops, didn’t see you there,” she says, her voice full of saccharine sweetness.

Anger flashes white-hot in my veins. Indie stares at me openmouthed before shaking off Bianca’s arm.

In my mind I’m already leaping on Bianca, Discovery Channel–style, ripping out her hair with my teeth, when a shadow falls over me and Jessie’s reaching to help me up. She hoists me to my feet as Bianca leads Indie to their table at the back of the room, but not before I hear her mutter, “God, she’s, like, totally obsessed with you.”

Bitch.

“You okay?” Jessie asks.

I nod. Physically, I’m fine. My pride, on the other hand…

“Thanks,” I mutter.

“Don’t mention it,” Jessie says. We take our seats, and I pick up my sandwich even though I’m suddenly not hungry anymore.

“Can I ask you something?” Jessie says after a moment.

“Sure.”

“Why do you even want to be friends with her?”

I pause with my sandwich halfway to my mouth. “What do you mean?”

She leans in. “Indie. She’s not very nice to you. I mean, I know you said you guys are neighbors and you used to be friends and everything, but she’s obviously not who she used to be. Why do you even try?”

“She’s a good person,” I say. “Bianca’s making her be this way.”

Jessie shakes her head, unconvinced. “You can’t make someone be a way they don’t want to be.”

God, her too? I put my sandwich down. “I just…I see the real Indie in there. I know she doesn’t want to be like this. I think if I could just get a chance to remind her what great friends we were, then she wouldn’t want to hang out with Bianca anymore.”

Jessie gives me an unimpressed look.

“I know how stupid it sounds,” I say, picking at the crust around my sandwich.

“Not stupid.” Jessie sighs. “I don’t see it, but if you say she’s nice, then…then I believe you.”

I give her a grateful smile, but some part of me wonders if she’s right—if they’re
both
right. Maybe chasing after Indie doesn’t mean I’m saving her from Bianca. Maybe it just makes me pathetic. A mewling O’Haira circling Indie’s feet, begging for her love and attention.

I don’t see Indie again until school is out. I spot her big blond curls moving across the football field toward the student parking lot and sprint after her.

“Indie!”

She glances over her shoulder, but she doesn’t stop.

“Ind, wait up!”

I could be mistaken, but I swear she walks faster. This is getting old.

I snatch her arm, gasping for air. “There you are. Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

“No,” she lies. “But I can’t talk. I’m late for work.”

She walks toward the parking lot at such a clip I have to jog to keep up with her.

I waited all day for a chance to get her alone, but now that it’s happened I can’t figure out what to say. Or even if I want to say it anymore.

“Yes?” she says.

“Um…,” I start, then chicken out. “So listen, I know reading’s not cool and blah blah blah, but I just read the most fantastic book. Seriously, the best book ever. It’s by this totally weirdo hippie guy but he’s a genius, a genius, Ind. I totally thought of you when I read it.”

“Great. It’s just that I have to get to the shop right now. Otherwise I’d love to hear all about it.”

She opens the driver’s-side door.

“Actually, I was wondering if I could get a ride,” I say. “My mom has a work meeting, and my new violin teacher is right by your mom’s shop.”

I give her a sheepish smile, waiting for the moment when she says no. But after a long pause, she sighs and says, “Okay, get in.”

Well. That was unexpected.

“Sweet, thanks,” I say, feigning nonchalance.

I shove my backpack and violin case into the backseat, then fall into the warmed leather of her Sunfire. The vehicle is so hot it might as well be a sauna. I fan my face as sweat breaks out across my upper lip.