Blue Moon (3 page)

“I'm not anorexic.”

She looks at me.

“I'm not bulimic, I'm not on some crazy fad diet, I'm not starving myself, I'm not striving to be a size zero, and I'm not trying to look like an Olsen twin. Seriously, Sabine, do I
look
like I'm wasting away?” I stand, allowing for an unobstructed view of me in all of my tight-jeaned glory, because if anything, I feel like the opposite of wasting away. I seem to be bulking up at a pretty good pace.

She looks me over. And I mean
really
looks me over. Starting from the top of my head and going all the way down to my toes, her eyes coming to rest on my pale exposed ankles I had no choice but to display when I discovered that my favorite jeans are too short and rolled them up to compensate.

“I just thought . . .” She shrugs, unsure of what to say now that the evidence presented before her so clearly points to a
not guilty
verdict. “Because I never see you eating anymore—and you're always sipping that red—”

“So you just assumed I'd gone from adolescent binge drinker to anorexic food avoider?” I laugh so she'll know I'm not mad—a little annoyed maybe, though more with myself than with her. I should've faked it better. I should've at least
pretended
to eat. “You have nothing to worry about.” I smile. “Really. And just so we're clear, I have no intention of taking and/or dealing drugs, experimenting with body modification, cutting, branding, scarification, extreme piercing, or whatever else makes this week's
Top Ten Mal-adjusted Behaviors to Look for in Your Teen
list. And for the record, my sipping that red drink has nothing to do with trying to be celebrity
skinny or trying to please Damen. I just happen to like it, that's all. Besides, I happen to know for a fact that Damen loves me and accepts me exactly as I—” I stop, knowing I've just started a whole other topic I'm unwilling to explore. And before she can even get to the words now formulating in her head, I just hold up my hand and say, “And
no
, that's
not
what I meant. Damen and I are—”
Hooking up, dating, boyfriend and girlfriend, friends with benefits, eternally bound.
“Well, we're together. You know, committed, like a couple. But we
aren't
sleeping together.”

Yet.

She looks at me, her face as pinched and uncomfortable as I feel inside. Neither of us wanting to explore this topic, but, unlike me, she feels it's her duty.

“Ever, I wasn't insinuating—” she starts. But then she looks at me, and I look at her, and she shrugs, deciding to just let it go since we both know she most certainly was.

And I'm so relieved that it's over and that I got off relatively easy, that I'm completely taken by surprise when she says, “Well, since you really seem to care about this young man, I think I should get to know him. So let's schedule a time when we can all go to dinner. How does this weekend sound?”

This weekend?

I swallow hard and look at her, knowing exactly what she's after, hoping to kill two birds with one meal. Having found the perfect opportunity to watch me scarf down a full plate of food, while putting Damen on the stand so she can totally grill him.

“Well, that sounds great and all except that Miles's play is on Friday.” I fight to keep my voice steady and sure. “And then there's supposed to be an after party—and that'll probably run pretty late—so . . .”

She nods, her eyes right on mine, her gaze so uncanny and knowing it's making me sweat.

“So it's probably not going to work,” I finish, knowing I'll have to go through with it eventually, but hoping for later rather than sooner. I mean, I love Sabine, and I love Damen, I'm just not sure I'm going to love them together, especially once the interrogation begins.

She looks at me for a moment, then nods and turns away. And just when I'm able to exhale, she glances over her shoulder to say, “Well, Friday's clearly out, but that still leaves Saturday. Why don't you tell Damen to be here at eight?”

 

Even though I oversleep,
I still manage to get out the door and over to Miles's on time. I guess because it doesn't take me nearly as long to get ready now that Riley's no longer around to distract me. And even though it used to bug me the way she'd perch on my dresser wearing one of her crazy Halloween costumes while grilling me about boyfriends and making fun of my clothes, ever since I convinced her to move on, to cross the bridge to where our parents and our dog Buttercup were waiting, I haven't been able to see her.

Which pretty much means she was right. I can only see the souls who've stayed behind, not the ones who've crossed over.

And like always when I think about Riley, my throat constricts and my eyes start to sting, and I wonder if I'll ever get used to the fact that she's gone. I mean, permanently and irreversibly gone. But I guess by now I should know enough about loss to realize that you never really stop missing someone—you just learn to live around the huge gaping hole of their absence.

I wipe my eyes and pull into Miles's drive, remembering Riley's promise, that she'd send me a sign, something to show she's okay. But even though I've been holding tight to her pledge, staying alert, and searching vigilantly for some indication of her presence—so far I've got nothing.

Miles opens the door and just as I start to say
hi,
he holds up his hand and says, “Don't speak. Just look at my face and tell me what you see. What's the very first thing you notice? And
don't
lie.”

“Your beautiful brown eyes,” I say, hearing the thoughts in his head and wishing, not for the first time, that I could show my friends how to shield their thoughts and keep all their private stuff private. But that would mean divulging my mind-reading, aura-seeing, psychic-sensing secrets, and that I can't do.

Miles shakes his head and climbs inside, yanking down on the mirrored visor and inspecting his chin. “You're such a liar. Look, it's right there! Like a shining red beacon you can't possibly miss, so don't even try to pretend you don't see it.”

I glance at him as I back out of the drive, seeing the zit that dared sprout on his face, though it's his bright pink nail polish that steals my attention. “Nice nails.” I laugh.

“It's for the play.” He smirks, still zit gazing. “I can't even believe this! It's like I'm totally falling apart just when everything was going so perfect. Rehearsals have been great, I know all of my lines as well as everyone else's . . . I thought I was totally and completely ready, and now
this
!” He jabs at his face.

“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 he can'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 face. As though my index finger is inexplicably drawn to the zit on his chin.

“What're you doing?” he asks, cringing and pulling away.

“Just—just be still,” I whisper, having no idea what I'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 of enhanced healing ability. Ever since Damen told me, right after I'd decided to accept my fate and start drinking 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 could certainly 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 smiles 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?”

“Psycho-what?”
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.

“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.