Unhinged: 2 (14 page)

By the end of lunch, our tryst in the bathroom will be all over school. By the end of the day, Jenara will hear of it. And by tonight, Jeb will know all about my dirty little secret that never was.

During eighth-period art class, we’re working in groups to make decorations for prom. The goal is to create an “enchanted forest” setting for the refreshment area and picture booth.

One student’s family owns an apple orchard and provided almost two dozen six-foot “trees” formed of antlerlike branches. For the past two weeks we’ve been spray-painting them white, sprinkling them with glitter, then transferring them into matching ceramic pots filled with clear glass gemstones to keep them upright.

It was a fun project. Until today.

After what Taelor saw in the bathroom, I can’t bring myself to join any of the groups. This is what I get for being a recluse. No one
knows me well enough—
really
knows me—to jump to my defense when rumors abound.

I feign a headache because of the spray-paint fumes, and while I’m slouched alone at my table in the corner, I text Jeb. It’s against school policy to use your cell during class, but Mr. Mason has stepped out for a minute. His temporary substitute is either terrified of high schoolers or oblivious, because I’m not the only one with my phone in my hand.

I try a little damage control, texting Jeb that I had a weird encounter with the exchange student and not to flip out until I can explain.

I send Jenara a similar message.

She and Corbin ditched school right after lunch to attend his mom’s interior design showcase. But it’s just a matter of time until someone texts or calls her with the lowdown. Better she hear it from me first.

A fly buzzes around the room and settles on my shoulder.
Fix things, Alyssa.
Its whisper is a tickle in my ear.
The flowers have been compromised. You must stop them.

I swish the bug away gently. I’m fed up with their obscure riddles. I have enough to worry about.

A few giggles break out at the table across from mine. Four junior girls avert their eyes when I look their way, pretending to focus on the lanterns they’re making of stiffened fabric doilies and white LED tea lights. As the girls form domes by tying two doilies together, their giggles escalate. It’s the same group that was ogling Jeb last Friday when he came to pick me up on his bike. I’m not sure if they’re talking about what Morpheus and I supposedly did, or what an idiot I am to screw around on an incredible guy like my
boyfriend. Either way, it’s obvious I’m the topic of conversation, just like I have been in every class since fifth period.

My neck and cheeks burn.

The phone hums between my fingers. I click on Jeb’s response.

Uh … encounter? Details plz.

He sounds either jealous or rushed.

Biting my lower lip, I type the lie I worked up last period:
Turns out his family is good friends with the London Liddells. I’ll explain everything when you pick me up.

I’ll do better than explain. I’m going to make a mosaic in front of him. Let him watch my blood’s magic in action. Then, once he’s past the freak-out stage, maybe he can help me figure out a way to avoid facing Red and still protect Wonderland and the people we love.

My phone buzzes again.
Can’t pick U up 2day after all. Interview was rescheduled for this afternoon. Get a ride w/Jen?

No
. I want to scream, to tell him I really need him to drop everything and come see me
now
, but before I can respond at all, the classroom door opens and Mr. Mason comes in. Along with half my classmates, I scramble to hide my phone. Mr. Mason talks quietly to the sub, then sends him on his way.

After sitting at his desk, Mr. Mason fishes an art supply catalog out of a drawer. Against every instinct to hunch at my table and blend into the surroundings, I raise my hand. From behind his pinkish lenses, he spots me and waves me forward.

I start toward the front of the room. A hissing sound stops me in my tracks. It sounds just like the clown in the girls’ bathroom. Spine rigid, I turn to see two guys off in the far corner, spray-painting one of the “trees.”

I continue forward. My stomach churns as the girls resume their
giggling. The gazes on my back weigh heavy and make my steps slow and awkward.

When I arrive at the desk, Mr. Mason looks up and adjusts his glasses. “Alyssa. I’ve been meaning to speak to you about your mosaics.”

Nodding, I gesture to his cabinet. “Right. Should we wrap them in butcher paper for the trip home?”

His jaw drops, but then he regains his composure and stands on his side of the desk, hands splayed next to the catalog. “Your mom didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“She called me from the hospital after your accident. She’d heard about your mosaic series and wanted to see them, so I took them to her Saturday evening.”

My pulse pounds beneath my jawline.
Who told Mom about my artwork?
My blood shuttles even faster to imagine her seeing Queen Red’s vicious slaughter in the scenes.

“So my mom has them?”

“Well, she only has three. They were too heavy for me to carry from my car all at once. When I came back for the rest … they were gone. Stolen.”

A sense of violation chills me. I think of the clown and my sedated, web-filled dream. Morpheus had to be behind all of that, whether he confirms or denies it. So he must’ve been at the hospital, spying from the shadows, pulling strings. He could’ve heard Mr. Mason and Mom’s call. Which means he stole those three mosaics and already knows that my mom has the other ones. So he asked me to bring them to him for nothing. He’s messing with my mind again.

I’m done playing his games. Unless he comes clean with everything, I’m not going anywhere but home today.

“I can’t apologize enough,” Mr. Mason says. “I don’t know how it happened. The car is new. Its alarm system is top-notch. But somehow the thief got the door open without setting it off.” His cheeks redden as he picks up the catalog. “I’ve been looking through all my supply lists, trying to find more of those red-lined gems. I want to buy you some replacements. It can’t make up for all your hard work … but …”

The bell rings, causing me to jump.

My classmates gather their books and bags and scramble out the door. A heavy knot forms in my gut, like I’ve swallowed a huge rock. All I can think is:
Mom knows.
She knows my head is still in Wonderland, yet she hasn’t said a word.

I take the catalog from Mr. Mason and lay it facedown on his desk. “You’ll never find gems to replace the ones I used.” In a daze, I walk to my table and grab my backpack. “But don’t worry. Making those mosaics wasn’t as hard as you think.”

I leave before he can respond.

There’s a buzz in my ears, as if all the bugs hidden inside every crevice of tile and under every locker are talking at once. The sensation fills my head and muffles sounds as I walk through the crowded halls.

Taelor and her crew glare at me when I pass, but it’s as if an invisible wall stands between us. Slammed lockers swish like paper fans; chatter and laughter are as small and insignificant as the squeaks of a mouse. I’m removed from everything.

All except my anger … Morpheus and my mom are both hiding things from me.

I don’t know who told her about the mosaics, but one thing I
do
know is that if Mom’s emotionally and mentally stable enough to see
my gory artwork and then hide that knowledge without going into a full-scale meltdown, she’s not as fragile as I thought.

She and I are going to have a talk about her past
today
.

I step outside, grateful for the warm wind and sun on my face. The buzz in my head gets quieter and fades to white noise. It’s like the bugs are preoccupied with something else. Or maybe they’re finally giving me a reprieve.

I purposely take the long way around, which costs me a good eight minutes, so the lot’s almost deserted. Morpheus is waiting where he said he’d be, next to the Dumpsters, where the cool kids avoid parking.

It looks like he’s as much of a social pariah as I am after our rumored bathroom interlude, because he’s completely alone, too. Though he doesn’t seem to mind. When he sees me, he adjusts a pair of sunglasses, and a taunting grin spreads across his borrowed face.

I think of poor Finley and shudder to imagine the horrors he must be experiencing now, coming down off his high in Wonderland. At least he has Ivory to comfort him.

Morpheus gestures a tattooed forearm at the car behind him.

“A modified Mercedes-Benz Gullwing,” he says. “Never seen one of these, I’d venture.”

I come to a standstill about three feet away. There’s no reason to be impressed. I doubt he paid a penny for it. He probably got inside the owner’s head and just drove it off the lot.

The car’s body is sporty and black without any sheen, as if someone took carbon paper and rubbed it over the paint. Even the hubcaps and rims are matte black. A peek in the tinted windows reveals red leather seats and upholstery. I pretend not to notice that this ride fits Morpheus to a tee: beautifully gothic, eccentric, and intense.

If I’m going to get the truth about everything from him, I have to get the upper hand. Morpheus thrives on attention, whether it’s positive or negative. He revels in my hatred of him, just as he revels in my atypical bouts of adoration. What he can’t stomach is indifference. It makes him needy and, in turn, vulnerable.

So that’s exactly what he’s going to get from me. Complete and utter disinterest.

I make it a point not to meet his gaze and focus instead on the glare in the center of the hood where one vertical strip shimmers like polished onyx. My lips press tightly shut so I don’t scream about the mosaics he’s had all along.

With my less-than-stellar reaction, Morpheus’s smirk fades, and satisfaction unfurls inside my chest. Wearing a downtrodden grimace, he presses a button on the key chain.

The locks clack and pop open. Both doors glide upward as if on a current of air. Once they’re fully open, they spread into the sky like wings. The car looks uncannily alive, like a bat in flight … or a giant moth.

In that moment, my ruse is forgotten.

Wings
.

Morpheus flashes a magnificent smile. A pantomime of his own wings appears—a filmy black haze, almost like smoke—spreading behind him in an elegant arc that both mirrors and overshadows the doors.

“I’ll let you drive, luv.” His deep voice drizzles through me, liquid temptation. He holds out the key chain and raises his brows expectantly beneath his hat’s brim. The jewels under his eyes light up in faint gold shimmers at the edge of his sunglasses.

All I can think of is finding a country road and picking up speed
until every tree rushes by and Newton’s law of acceleration presses against my chest like cinder blocks. Then I’ll open the windows so the wind can rip through me.

Just like flying.

A flicker of excitement ignites in my veins, spurred by the darkness inside me: the darkness that likes to ride Jeb’s bike for its power and freedom and sensuality, the darkness that makes the nodules on my shoulder blades itch in anticipation. It’s the side I rarely let out to play.

Forget Wonderland, my missing mosaics, Mom’s lies, and Morpheus’s games. The bad girl wants to play right now. I step up and snag the keys out of Morpheus’s hand. “Where to?” I ask.

He smirks. “You decide. Somewhere private, where we can read the mosaics.”

I clench my jaw, ready to play my ace. “Which mosaics? The ones my mom has or the ones you’re hiding?”

He drags off his sunglasses and answers with a blank stare. It’s pretty impressive. He actually appears bewildered.

“You must be certifiable to think I wouldn’t figure it out,” I say. Before I can step around him to the car, he catches my waist and spins me so my backpack presses his chest.

He pulls me close by my bag’s straps and leans down to whisper, “Poor idea of a joke, luv.” His hot breath makes the skin beneath my hair tingle. He slips the straps from my shoulders, and I turn around to face him.

“Remember my invisible box, Morpheus.” I cross my arms.

“Remember my human name, Alyssa.” He frowns and bounces the backpack as if to gauge what’s inside. His frown transforms into a worried scowl. “They aren’t here.”

“Stop with the fake surprise,
M
.” I sidestep him, climbing into the driver’s seat. The warm leather wraps me in luxury, as if it were made to fit the contours of my body. I click the seat belt into place, catching part of my too-long skirt in the latch. I attempt to open the seat belt to free it, but the bunched-up fabric causes the button to jam. I refuse to ask Morpheus for help. I’ll just take care of it later.

The car smells like hookah smoke, which only feeds my annoyance. I insert the key and twist it just enough for the dashboard to light up, and then I acclimate myself with the instrument panel and all its shiny silver gauges and techno-features.

After shoving the backpack into the small space behind my seat, Morpheus crouches next to me. His soles scrape the asphalt as he holds the door frame above his head. “Are you seriously saying that half of your artwork has gone missing?”