Blue Moon (13 page)

Watching as he slips his bag onto his shoulder and gazes at me, his quick powerful stride closing the distance between us in a handful of seconds. But only the physical distance, not the emotional one, because when I look into his eyes they seem miles away.

And just when I realize I've been holding my breath, he leans into the window, his face close to mine when he says, “Yeah. I got your messages. All fifty-nine of them.”

I can feel his warm breath on my cheek as my mouth drops open and my eyes search his, seeking the heat his gaze always provides, and shivering when I come away cold, dark, and empty. Though it's nothing like the lack of recognition I glimpsed the other day. No, this is far worse.

Because now when I look in his eyes—it's clear that he knows me—he just wishes he didn't.

“Damen, I—” My voice cracks as a car honks behind me and Miles mutters something unintelligible under his breath.

And before I've had a chance to clear my throat and start over, Damen's shaking his head and walking away.

 

“Are you
all right
?” Miles asks,
his face displaying all of the heartbreak and pain I'm too numb to feel.

I shrug, knowing I'm not. I mean, how can I be all
right
when I'm not even sure what's all
wrong
?

“Damen's an asshole,” he says, a hard edge to his voice.

But I just sigh. Even though I can't explain it, and even though I don't understand it, I just know in my gut that things are far more complicated than they might seem.

“No he's not,” I mumble, climbing out of the car and closing the door much harder than necessary.

“Ever, please . . . I mean, I'm sorry to be the one to point it out, but you
did
just see what I saw, right?”

I head toward Haven who's waiting by the gate. “Trust me, I saw
everything,
” I say. Replaying the scene in my mind, each time pausing on his distant eyes, his tepid energy, his complete lack of interest in me—

“So you agree? That he's an asshole?” Miles watches me carefully, assuring himself I'm not the kind of girl who would ever allow a guy to treat her like that.

“Who's an asshole?” Haven asks, glancing between us.

Miles looks at me, his eyes asking permission, and after seeing me shrug, he looks at Haven and says, “Damen.”

Haven squints, her mind swimming with questions. But I've got my own set of questions, questions with no probable answer. Such as:

What the hell just happened back there?

And:

Since when does Damen have an aura?

“Miles can fill you in,” I say, glancing between them before walking away. Wishing more than ever that I could be normal, that I could lean on them and cry on their shoulders like a regular girl. But there just happens to be more to this situation than meets their mortal eyes. And even though I can't yet prove it—if I want answers, I'll have to go straight to the source.

 

When I get to class, instead of hesitating at the door, like I thought I would, I surprise myself by bursting right in. And when I see Damen leaning against the edge of Stacia's desk, smiling and joking and flirting with her—I feel like I've stepped into a major case of déjà vu.

You can handle this,
I think.
You've been here before
.

Remembering the time, not so long ago, when Damen pretended to be interested in Stacia, but only to get to me.

But the closer I get, the more I realize that this is nothing at all like the last time. Back then all I had to do was look into his eyes to find the smallest glimmer of compassion, a sliver of regret he just couldn't hide.

But now, watching as Stacia outdoes herself with her hair-tossing, cleavage-flaunting, eyelash-batting routine—it's like I'm invisible.

“Um, excuse me,” I say, causing them to look up, clearly annoyed by the interruption. “Damen, could I, um, could I talk to you for a sec?” I shove my hands in my pockets so he can't see them shake, forcing myself to breathe like a normal, relaxed person would—in and out, slow and steady, with no gasping or wheezing.

Watching as he and Stacia glance at each other, then burst out laughing at the exact same time. And just as Damen's about to speak, Mr. Robins walks in and says, “Seats, everyone! I want to see you all in your seats!”

So I motion to our desks, and say, “Please, after you.”

I follow behind, resisting the urge to grab him by the shoulder, spin him around, and force him to look me in the eye as I scream:

Why did you leave me? What on earth happened to you? How could you do that—on
that
night—of all nights?

Knowing that sort of direct, confrontational approach will only work against me. That if I want to get anywhere at all, then I'll have to act cool, calm, and easy.

I toss my bag to the floor, stacking my book, notebook, and pen on my desk. Smiling as though I'm no more than a casual friend interested in a little Monday morning chat when I say, “So, what'd you do this weekend?”

He shrugs, his eyes grazing over me before resting on mine. And it's a moment before I realize the horrible thoughts that I hear are coming straight from his head.

Well, if I'm gonna have a stalker, at least she's hot,
he thinks, his brows merging together as I instinctively reach for my iPod, wanting to tune him out, yet knowing I can't risk missing something important, no matter how much it might hurt. Besides, I've never had access to Damen's mind before, never been able to hear what he's thinking. But now that I can, I'm not sure that I want to.

And when he twists his lips to the side and narrows his eyes, thinking:
Too bad she's totally psycho—definitely not worth risking a tap.

The bite of his words is like a stake in my chest. And I'm so taken aback by his casual cruelty, I forget they weren't spoken out loud when I shriek, “Excuse me? What did you just say?”

Causing all of my classmates to turn and stare, their sympathies lying with Damen for having to sit next to me.

“Is something wrong?” Mr. Robins asks, glancing between us.

I sit there, totally speechless. My heart caving when Damen looks at Mr. Robins and says, “I'm fine. She's the freak.”

 

I followed him.
I'm not ashamed to admit it. I had to. He left me no choice. I mean, if Damen's going to insist on avoiding me, then surveillance is my only option.

So I followed him out of English, waited for him after second period—third and fourth too. Staying in the background and observing from afar, wishing I'd agreed to let him transfer to all of my classes like he originally wanted, but thinking it was too creepy, too codependent, I wouldn't let him. So now I'm forced to linger outside his door, eavesdropping on his conversations along with the thoughts in his head—thoughts that, I'm horrified to report, are depressingly vain, narcissistic, and shallow.

But that's not the real Damen. Of this I'm convinced. Not that I think he's a manifest Damen because those never last more than a few minutes. What I mean is, something's happened to him. Something serious that's making him act and think like—well, like most of the guys in this school. Because even though I never had access to his mind until now, I
know
he didn't think like that before. He didn't act like that either. No, this new Damen is like an entirely new creature, where only the outside is familiar—while the inside is something else altogether.

I head toward the lunch table, steeling myself for what I might find, though it's not until I've unzipped my lunch pack and shined my apple on my sleeve, that I realize that the real reason I'm alone isn't because I'm early.

It's because everyone else has abandoned me too.

I look up, hearing Damen's familiar laugh, only to find him surrounded by Stacia, Honor, and Craig, along with the rest of the A-list crew. Which wouldn't be all that surprising with the way things are going, except for the fact that Miles and Haven are there too. And as my eyes sweep the length of the table, I drop my apple and my mouth runs dry when I see that
all
of the tables are now pushed together.

The lions are now lunching with lambs.

Which means Roman's prediction came true.

Bay View High School's lunchtime caste system has come to an end.

“So, what do you think?” Roman says, sliding onto the bench opposite me, hooking his thumb over his shoulder as a smile widens his cheeks. “Sorry for just dropping in on you like this, but I saw you admiring my work, so I thought I'd stop by for a chat. Are you
all right
?” He leans toward me, his face appearing genuinely concerned, though luckily I'm not stupid enough to fall for it.

I meet his gaze, determined to hold it for as long as I can. Sensing he's responsible for Damen's behavior, Miles's and Haven's defection, and the entire school living in harmony and peace—but lacking the evidence needed to prove it.

I mean, to everyone else he's a hero, a true Che Guevara, a lunchtime revolutionary.

But to me he's a threat.

“So I assume you made it home safely?” he asks, chugging his soda though his eyes are on me.

I glance at Miles, watching as he says something to Craig that makes them both laugh, then I move on to Haven, seeing her lean toward Honor, whispering into her ear.

But I don't look at Damen.

I refuse to watch him gaze into Stacia's eyes, place his hand on her knee, and tease her with his very best smile as his fingers creep along her thigh . . .

I saw plenty of that already in English. Besides, I'm pretty sure that whatever they're up to is just foreplay—the first tentative step toward the kind of horrible things I saw in Stacia's head. The vision that freaked me so bad I took down a whole rack of bras in my panic. And yet, by the time I got myself upright and settled again, I was sure she'd done it on purpose, never considered it to be some kind of prophecy. And even though I still think she created it just out of spite, and that their being together now is merely a coincidence, I have to admit it's pretty disturbing to see it played out.

But even though I refuse to watch it, I still try to listen—hoping to hear something pertinent, some vital information exchange. But just as I focus my attention and try to tune in, I'm met by a big wall of sound—all of those voices and thoughts merging together, making it impossible to distinguish any particular one.

“You know, Friday night?” Roman continues, his long fingers tapping the sides of his soda can, refusing to budge from this line of questioning, even though I refuse to participate. “When I found you alone? I have to tell you, Ever, I felt awful leaving you like that, but then again, you insisted.”

I glance at him, uninterested in playing this game but thinking that if I just answer his question, then maybe he'll leave. “I made it home just fine. Thanks for your concern.”

He smiles, the grin that probably makes a million hearts swoon—but only chills mine. Then he leans in and says, “Aw, now look at that, you're being sarcastic, aren't you?”

I shrug and gaze down at my apple, rolling it back and forth across the table.

“I just wish you'd tell me what I've done to make you hate me so much. I'm sure there's got to be some kind of peaceful solution, some way to remedy this.”

I press my lips together and stare at my apple, rolling it along on its side as I push it hard against the table, feeling its flesh soften and give as the skin starts to break.

“Let me take you to dinner,” he says, his blue eyes focused on mine. “What do you say? A right and proper date. Just the two of us. I'll get the car detailed, buy some new clothes, make a reservation somewhere swank—a good time guaranteed!”

I shake my head and roll my eyes, the only response I plan to give.

But Roman's undaunted, refusing to fold. “Aw, come on, Ever. Give a bloke a chance to change your mind. You can opt out at anytime, scout's honor. Hell, we'll even make up a safe word. You know, if at any time you decide things have strayed too far from your comfort level, you just shout out the safe word, all activity will cease, and neither of us will ever speak of it again.” He pushes his soda aside and slides his hands toward mine, the tips of his fingers creeping so close, I yank mine away. “Come on, give a little, will ya? How can you say no to an offer like that?”

His voice is deep and persuasive, his gaze right on mine, but I just continue rolling my apple, watching the flesh burst free of the skin.

“I promise it'll be nothing like those rubbish dates that wanker Damen probably takes you on. For one thing, I'd never leave a girl as gorgeous as you to fend for herself in a parking lot.” He looks at me, a smile playing at his lips when he says, “Well, I suppose I did leave a gorgeous girl like you to fend for herself, but only because I was honoring your request. See? I've already proven I'm at your service, willing to jump at your every command.”

“What's with you?” I finally say, peering into those blue eyes without flinching or looking away. Wishing he'd just give it a rest and rejoin the only other lunch table in this school, the one where everybody's welcome but me. “I mean, does
everyone
have to like you? Is that it? And if so, don't you think that's just a
tad
insecure?”

He laughs. And I mean, a genuine, thigh-slapping laugh. And when he finally calms down, he shakes his head and says, “Well no, not
everyone.
Though I do have to admit, it
is
usually the case.” He leans toward me, his face mere inches from mine. “What can I say? I'm a likable guy. Most people find me quite charming.”

I shake my head and look away, tired of being toyed with and eager to put an end to this game. “Well, I'm sorry to break it to you, but I'm afraid you're going to have to count me among the rare few who aren't the least bit charmed by you. But please, do us both a favor and try not to view it as a challenge and set out to change my mind. Why don't you just go rejoin your table and leave me alone. I mean, why bring everyone together if you don't plan to enjoy all the fun?”