Never (The Ever Series Book 2) (19 page)

Unlike the TV shows, I’m not going to become captain of the cheer squad my first day. Just the thought makes me laugh a little. Maybe if it was cross country season, I might be able to talk myself into trying out, but I still doubt it. Right now, I just want to survive the day.

Walking back into the hallway, I look for the offices and hear musical instruments. I peek in through the window at the top of the door and see a bunch of kids laughing and goofing around as they rehearse. It must be the a.m. band practice. The scene causes a pang of loneliness to hit me in the chest. Taking out my phone, I stare down at it. I want to text Ashley or Taylor and ask how spring break is going. But what would I say about disappearing right before the dance?

Hey! I’m in Southern California enjoying the good weather! Never coming back.
Sorry I took off without telling anyone!

Taylor might understand why I left, but maybe not. I put the phone back and walk until I reach a sign for the administrative offices. I tell the woman behind the counter that I’m new and give her my name. A moment later, when she hands me a printout, it’s official. I am enrolling in the third high school of my junior year. I want to tell myself something plucky and brave, like
third school’s the charm
. But, really, I feel like a chunk of my soul has gone missing.

I would be okay if I had come down here for any other reason. I could have endured it. But just knowing that my mom didn’t want me around—never had—it was enough to destroy me. I don’t see what could ever fix that. Going to a new school, living with my dad. These are just bandages to cover up the wound.

I scan my surroundings for some sign of what direction to take and then start walking. With sudden nostalgia, I look down at my shoes, which are bone dry, and think of the squishing sound from my first day at Springview.
Enough
! I tell myself firmly. I’m here now, and I’m going to leave Portland behind. But instead of feeling lighter, my entire body wilts at the thought, like I’ve decided to amputate my right side.

But there’s no other way.

I stop in front of the classroom that matches my schedule. Poking my head in the door, I see a young woman with short-cropped brown hair.

“
Bonjour
. …
Je suis une nouvelle étudiante
,” I say.

“
Tu es une nouvelle
élève,” she corrects.

Oops. Suddenly I realize my mistake. I just said I was a university student. My cheeks flush, and I try to think of what to say next.

“
Je suis desolée
.”

“
Pas de problème
.
C’est pourquoi tu es ici
.”

I think she just said my poor French is the reason why I’m here, but I’m having some trouble understanding her since her accent is so thick. I think she’s probably French or French Canadian, not American. After she hands me a textbook, the same one I had at Pali, I turn and look for a seat. When first bell rings about twenty minutes later, students begin trickling in, always in twos or threes. This is the problem. Nobody else is looking to make friends; they’ve already got them. My stomach falls when I realize that the only reason Ashley came up to me my first day was because Josh had made a bet with her.

I got lucky at Springview, and I know it.

I make a half-hearted attempt to smile as people sit down around me, but mostly they’re too busy talking with their friends to notice. Besides, attempting prolonged eye contact will only accomplish one of two things. It will either, A) make me look desperate and crazy, or B) blow my attempt to avoid picking up people’s thoughts.

By the time I get through second period AP U.S. History, I realize that it’s like I’m back at Pali, as in: I’m completely invisible. When the lunch bell rings after my fourth period English class, I’m about to ask the girl sitting next to me—who I managed to smile and say hi to—if I can sit with her and her friends during lunch. But I hesitate, and she gets up and leaves before I can. Feeling like I’ve failed the new girl test—again—I pack up my stuff and walk out into the hallway.

Following in the direction that most people seem to be headed, I remember with a sinking feeling that there was a sign posted somewhere declaring that Dana Point High School is a closed campus, which means going out to my car and hiding isn’t an option. I step through a pair of double doors and see the lunch area is similar to Pali’s, not Springview’s.

Tables outside. Walk-up windows to order food. Perfectly blue sky above.

There are some other displays set up, but I’m looking for something as easy as possible. I stop when I see something that makes me rethink food altogether—a banner proclaiming that it’s not too late to get tickets for the spring formal. I had been starting to get excited about going to the dance with my friends, but now that I’m back in Southern California, my insanity has worn off. I am officially reinstating my no dance policy. Friendless
and
dateless has lame music video written all over it.

Getting in line, I decide on the one universal food group: pizza. It can be pretty bad and still be all right. I take my tray and walk back the way I came, looking for an unobtrusive spot to settle. Before leaving the house this morning, I took one of my dad’s countless paperback spy thrillers from the shelf in the living room. Based on my calculations, I can read one a week until I graduate without even putting a dent in his dog-eared collection, one he started way before I was born and long before e-readers.

I’m in the middle of wondering whether I’ll get in trouble if I go sit on the grass at the edge of the school grounds when I see him. If I had never laid eyes on him before, there’s no way I would walk up to him like I’m doing right now. He’s reading a book, and for some reason I find this almost funny. But when I get close enough to see which book it is, I’m too shocked to make a sarcastic comment.

“I tried reading that in the fourth grade,” I blurt.

My stalker looks up at me, not seeming particularly surprised by my presence.

“You read Sir Walter Scott’s
Ivanhoe
in the fourth grade? That would have made you, what? Nine?” Alex laughs.

“I
tried
to read it,” I correct sheepishly. “I only made it about halfway.”

He holds out his hand, inviting me to sit down. I pause, and then figure, why not?

“I take it you had some reason for choosing such a tome?” he asks.

I smile.

“
Tome
? Do you always talk like you’re practicing for the SATs?”

“A perfectly acceptable word choice. Would you prefer, ‘
Dude, that’s like way long!
’?” he asks in surfer voice.

I stifle a laugh.

“No.”

“Why
Ivanhoe
at such a young age, then?”

I redden at the thought of explaining why I chose that book in particular.

“If I tell you, won’t I ruin it for you?” I point out.

“I’ve already finished it,” he says, setting it on the table in front of him.

“You’re
re
-reading
Ivanhoe
?”

“Why not?”

I take a bite of my pizza and shrug.

“Well?” he prompts.

“Where’s your lunch?” I ask, looking at the empty space in front of him.

“I finished it.”

“Already? Lunch started five minutes ago.”

“Kindly stop changing the subject. Why
Ivanhoe
?”

“You promise you won’t laugh?”

He nods gravely, and I sigh.

“Okay. When I was a kid, my mom had a copy of the movie that she recorded from TV.”

“The 1950s version?”

I frown and shake my head.

“Um, no. The one I watched was
only
made a decade or two before I was born,” I laugh.

“So you wanted to read the book because you saw a film adaptation?” Alex clarifies.

I nod and take a bite of my salad. But my cheeks are already turning red. I can’t bring myself to look up at him.

“What?” Alex asks.

“Nothing! It’s stupid.”

“Well, now you have to tell me,” he laughs.

“All right. … I cannot believe I’m telling you this,” I grumble, looking up at him. “In the movie version, the romance between Rebecca and Ivanhoe was much more, um, obvious. You know, in the book, it’s all her tending to his wounds and him saying stuff like, ‘Ah! If only you weren’t of a different race!’ As a kid, I was rooting for them, because …”

“They couldn’t be together,” Alex finishes.

“Yeah,” I blush. “I guess the whole forbidden love thing really got to me. They never even had a chance because they were so different.”

He’s staring at me, not saying anything, and suddenly I’m having trouble looking away. That’s when I realize that this is the first time I’ve really looked into someone’s eyes since I made the mistake of reading Jessica’s thoughts. Only, this time I’m not picking up
any
thoughts. My skin prickles, and I turn and catch eyes with the first person I see—it’s a guy I recognize from my U.S. History class.

I wish Kayla would look at me like that.

Shifting my eyes to the right, I see a pretty blonde girl sitting a couple of seats away from him. She’s staring at
Alex
. With a spike of dread, I finally notice that she’s not the only one looking over here. Several girls at other tables are sneaking glances at him, too. My stomach plummets. God! What was I thinking? What am I doing here talking about
Ivanhoe
with this guy?

I turn back to Alex, who’s frowning, and as I stare into his eyes, the bigger picture hits me. I can’t see anything in his mind, which means there’s something wrong. With him or me. Jumping up, I grab my backpack and pick up my tray.

“I-I have to go,” I stammer.

“Wren! Wait!” he calls.

I dump the contents of my tray in the trash and make it almost to the double doors when a large hand locks around my wrist. From the shock of electricity, I know who it is. I turn reluctantly and look up at Alex, seeing an expression of concern in his eyes and nothing else.

“What happened? What did I do?”

He looks truly confused, and I don’t blame him. I would be perpetually confused by what people do if I couldn’t read their thoughts—like I can’t read his right now. I shake my head, desperate to get away from him. There’s nothing I can say that won’t sound nuts.
You’re too hot to hang out with
?
I can’t read you mind so one of us must be defective
? Or worse:
I can’t be friends with you because it might all turn out to be an elaborate joke
? I’d sound freaking crazy!

“Nothing!” I blurt. “Just leave me alone.”

“No.”

I stare up at him in shock and nearly laugh.

“No? Are you kidding me?”

His grip loosens.

“Is that what you truly want?”

I think about his question. Do I
want
to reject the one person who has offered friendship?

“I don’t know what I want.”

Ignoring the buzzing in my veins, I shake free and rush into the hall. I never want anything from
anyone
ever again. I’m afraid to want anything. Besides, as messed up as I am right now, I’m better off by myself until I can put the pieces back together.

B
y the time I get to my dad’s house after school, my irrational fear has worn off, and I feel like a jerk and a crazy person. But that’s kind of the point. Why should I subject Alex—whatever his motivations are—to the craziness that is me? He may have his own issues, but that’s not an excuse to combine them into one crazy stew, is it?

There’s no one home when I open the front door, which means Jessica is out doing whatever she does in the afternoons. Pilates? My dad won’t be home for several hours; I’m sure of it. That’s good, though. Because I don’t want to have to pretend that everything’s great right now.

Lucky for me, most of my teachers told me I could take the coming weekend to catch up on assignments, which gives me some breathing room. Dropping my bag on the bed, I change into shorts, which is something I never had reason to do in Portland. When I get to the kitchen, I open the French doors and step outside. The concrete is warm beneath my feet. I look around. The back yard is obviously professionally landscaped, full of bright flowers behind the white stucco wall surrounding the pool.

I tilt my face toward the sun.
This
is one thing I missed about Southern California. The warmth. Sitting down on a white deck chair, I look around at the palm trees swaying in the breeze along the periphery of the back yard and then close my eyes. I want to enjoy this. I really do. Like a tropical vacation. But the truth is I didn’t
want
a vacation from my life. Worse, I feel incomplete here. Deep down I know it’s about more than my mom. It’s like invisible strings are pulling at me, willing me back to something. Restless, I get up and walk to the edge of the pool. As I stare down at the surface of the water, a chill washes over me despite the warm breeze. The image of Alex’s bright blue eyes pops into my head, and I feel a jolt of pure terror. Shivering, I frown. Why would I feel terrified of the person who saved me?

He’s a mystery, yeah. And I can’t read his thoughts. But maybe that’s a
good
thing, I tell myself. Maybe a friend like him is the solace I need right now. Or maybe I just don’t know what I need or want. Which only leaves me with one option: to muddle through it until I figure things out.

“Wrennie?”

I look back toward the house and see Jessica standing at the door. There goes my alone time.

“Sylvie’s got the day off. You mind watching Ben for a little bit? Mommy needs a break, huh?” she coos at Ben before setting him down in a baby-bucket contraption on the kitchen table.

I smile. My mom definitely would get a kick out of Jessica’s wardrobe choice. Silk robe, huge sunglasses from the other day, a barely there bathing suit that displays her ample top half, plus high-heeled sandals. Her hair is piled up on her head, exposing her roots.
Oh, yeah. Welcome back to Southern California
, I think dryly. It’s sort of shocking now that I’ve been away from it. I get up and walk over as she comes outside.

“If he gets cranky, there’s formula on the counter,” she calls as I pass her.

Inside, I see a stroller against the wall. It’s kitted out with all kinds of accessories. Taking the bottle, I lean over and pick up my little brother. He’s heavier than I expected. Carrying him over to the stroller, I strap him in and put his bottle into one of the many cup holders. After double-checking that the brake on the stroller is locked, I run back to my room and get my music.

“All right, Ben. Let’s go for a little ride while your mommy gets some desperately needed ‘me time,’” I laugh to myself.

As soon as I roll Ben out the front door, the stairs to the sidewalk make me rethink my decision, and I wheel the stroller back to the garage and down the cobblestone driveway. At the street, I decide on a quick walk along the golf course. Right now, Ben is babbling and cooing, but I’m not sure how long that will last before he erupts into a tantrum upon discovering his mommy is nowhere in sight. I put on my headphones and then turn down the volume on my iPod so I can still hear my passenger.

At the main road, I start walking in the direction of the coffee shop where I met Alex for the first time. I won’t make it that far today, but getting away from Jessica for a half hour sounds good. I’ve been walking nearly ten minutes when the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I shiver and look around. Suddenly I freeze when I notice a silver sedan with darkly tinted windows creeping along right next to me.

The passenger-side window starts to come down, and the driver—a balding, overweight man in his mid-thirties or early forties leans toward the window and gestures for me to come closer. I feel a shock of fear, but before I can even think of what to do, a motorcycle roars up alongside the sedan. The bike stops, and the rider flips up his visor. As the guy on the motorcycle reaches over and taps the sedan’s driver’s side window, I stare in awe at the strangeness of the situation. Suddenly the car’s engine revs, and the vehicle takes off, disappearing around the curve in the road. Which leaves me staring at the rider of the motorcycle.

His preternaturally green eyes seem to see straight through me for an instant. Then he flips the visor down, and just like that, the motorcycle tears off, too. Breathless and shaking, I do a three-point turn with the stroller. When Ben starts fussing, I reach over absent-mindedly and pat his head.

“It’s okay, baby,” I murmur. “We’re going home.”

And locking the door behind us
, I add silently.

Who’d have thought that Laguna Niguel was teeming with weirdoes and stalkers? I shudder. I’m already kind of used to Alex showing up at odd moments. But the creeper in the car, the motorcycle man, and the two miscreants from the weekend? God! I regret not being able to take my pepper spray on the plane with me. There’s only one solution: It’s time for me to find a good self-defense class and learn how to kick some serious stalker ass. For right now, though, I walk quickly. As soon as I’ve pushed the stroller into the garage, I unbuckle Ben and pull him from his seat. When we get to the kitchen, Jessica is standing at the counter drinking a diet soda. I carry Ben over to her, but she waves me off. With her trademark saccharin smile, she points at the high chair.

“Thanks, hon.”

All right, that is
it
! I now officially feel an eye twitch developing. I don’t know which is worse:
Hon
or
Wrennie
. I would kill to commiserate with Taylor over our step-monsters.

“We’re going out for dinner tonight. … You can come with if you want.”

I smile and shake my head.

“That’s all right. I’ve got homework. I’m sure I can find something around here.”

Despite Jessica’s distaste for cooking, Sylvie, their housekeeper, keeps the refrigerator stocked with food. As soon as I get back to my room, I take out my binder and make a plan for how I’m going to catch up in my classes. But what I really feel like doing is turning on the news to make sure there aren’t several serial killers wandering Southern California at the moment.

Crawling into bed, I lean against the wall and pile my books next to me. My new English class is reading
Moby Dick
, which I already read parts of in Mrs. Rose’s class. Plus, I’m way ahead in the reading for History. French shouldn’t be too much of problem, which just leaves Chemistry and Algebra. I decide that if I spend all my free time reading or doing homework, maybe I’ll forget how wrong my life feels.

When I get to school the next day, I spend every second with my nose in a book, aware that it’s very much like I’ve been transported back to the awkwardness of seventh grade. Reading has always been my best distraction. But it’s not enough this time, and eventually I have to admit to myself that I’m anxious to run into Alex. Because sometime between yesterday afternoon and this morning, I decided that if he can tolerate my strangeness, then I can tolerate his. And I’ve already sworn that I will officially ignore his hotness—because paying attention to how perfectly beautiful he is would just make a mess of things.

At the lunch bell, I realize that I actually
want
to tell him everything—about why I came down here, how much I miss Portland, and what happened with my mom. Admittedly, this is partially because I have no one else to tell. It’s also because I’ve come to terms with the fact that I don’t want to talk to normal people and try to convince them that I’m normal, too. I’m not, and I think my brain would crack from the effort.

I rush through the line and look around. He’s not at the table where I saw him yesterday—or anywhere else. Disappointed, I give up and find an empty table. Reaching for my book, which is definitely not as literarily epic as Ivanhoe, I take a few halfhearted bites of my chicken Caesar salad. More often than I should, I look around for any sign of Alex. Then, at the very edge of the school grounds on the grass, I catch sight of him. He has his back to me, and he’s talking to someone—another guy even taller than Alex, which is freaking tall. Curious, I watch them for several seconds until I realize they’re not talking.

They’re
fighting
.

I can’t see them very well at this distance, but the stranger’s honey-colored hair is like a halo in the sunshine. Judging from all the gesturing and the generally hostile energy he’s putting off, I’m guessing this guy is
not
happy. When he points angrily and looks over Alex’s shoulder, I freeze in place. Did he just point at me? No. They’re just really far away. He could have been pointing at anyone or anything. I jump when the stranger grabs Alex’s shirt and yanks him roughly. Instinctively, I get up and start hurrying toward them, prepared to—what? Defend Alex’s honor? Rush someone twice my size? I slow down, and I’m trying to figure out the best approach when the stranger abruptly releases his hold on Alex and stalks off. I exhale a whoosh of air and wonder if I’ve been holding my breath this entire time. As soon as Alex begins walking back toward the lunch area, I meet him halfway.

“What just happened? Who was that guy?” I demand.

“I’m sorry you saw that,” he says, shaking his head.

“Well, too late. I did. And I thought I was about to witness your murder in front of the whole school. What the hell was that about?”

He shakes his head again.

“He thinks I took something from him.”

I look him up and down.

“Did you?”

“I’m keeping something safe for him, but he doesn’t see it that way.”

I contemplate this.

“But if whatever
it
is belongs to him, then that’s for him to decide, right?” I reason.

“I take that back.
It
doesn’t belong to him,” Alex says.

“Okay, are you gonna tell me what
it
is?”

Suddenly what Alex said at the beach—about redeeming himself—hits me, and my eyes widen.

“You’re not into drugs, are you?”

He laughs, and I give him a sharp look.

“Are you? ’Cause if you are, that’s it. We’re done. I’ve got enough trouble; I don’t need someone else’s.”

“You have my word. No drugs.”

Some of my tension dissolves, and I turn and walk back to my seat. I have to admit that I’m relieved when Alex follows and sits down across from me.

“Good. … But whatever your deal is, that guy looked really pissed. I’d be careful if I were you.”

“Did he look familiar to you?” Alex asks in his eerily intense way.

I shrug and study him suspiciously.

“Should he?”

He shakes his head casually.

“I thought that perhaps he had been hanging around.”

My thoughts briefly drift to the stranger on the motorcycle, but I shake my head and pick up my fork. Alex obviously isn’t telling me everything, so I don’t feel any obligation to tell him every last thing.

“Am I back in your good graces, then?” he says in his typically odd way.

“
You
are strange,” I laugh. “But so am I. So I guess we’re even. … And I’m sorry about yesterday. You must have thought I was some kind of psycho brat from hell.”

“Psycho, yes. Brat from hell? No.”

Picking up a grape from my fruit cup, I lob it at him. When he catches it between his thumb and index finger, I gawk.

“How did you … ?”

“Reflexes.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Now, tell me. What’s caused you to become a
psycho brat from hell
, as you put it?”

The bell rings, and I smile.

“That’s a long story.”

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow at lunch?” he asks.

I nod and start picking up my stuff before looking up at him.

“Question: why, exactly, aren’t you surrounded by a throng of adoring masses?”

He smiles his beautiful, enigmatic smile, and I try once more to read something from behind his eyes without any luck.

“I’m strange, remember?” he says, jarring me out of my concentration.

“Right. Got it.”

I start walking away and shake my head. It just figures that one of the bright spots of my move back to Southern California is my very own stalker.