The sheer arrogance.
It’s all so … outrageous.
“I can assure you, I’m not that kind of girl.”
My words make his expression go expressionless. Completely deadpan, like an invisible switch has been flipped. He studies me for a drawn out moment. “You look like someone.”
“Excuse me?”
“You look like someone,” he repeats.
When he makes no attempt to elaborate, I lift my eyebrows in clear agitation. “Who?”
“A girl I … sort of know.”
“Well, I’m not her.”
“Obviously.”
“Don’t follow me again.”
“You’re a guest onmyproperty,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets.
A retort lashes across my tongue. I’m not a guest. I live here, too. But even if I were a guest, that doesn’t give him the freedom to follow me or kiss me. I swallow the words. Rafe Vandenberg could very well have a say in my father’s job. As much as I might want to bring him down a peg or two, I want to stay here more. I clench my teeth to keep the retort inside.
He looks amused, and maybe a little disappointed. Like he would have enjoyed a verbal spar.
My phone dings.
Grateful for the interruption, for an excuse tolook away, I slip my phone from my pocket to check the screen. The time comes as a shock.
It’s five past noon.
I was supposed to be in the basement of Evermore Books, recording an episode for the podcast with Twig five minutes ago.
6
INTENSE ENCOUNTERS
Of all the places in Foggy Hollow, my least favorite is Foggy Hollow High. It has nothing to do with the institution of learning and everything to do with the building itself. For a town so steeped in history and lore, our high school resembles a factory—an industrial-looking concrete block with boxy windows, gray lockers, and cheap desks marked with doodles from decades of students who probably felt as trapped as I do. Tacky motivational posters line the walls, all stamped with our mascot. The phoenix, a brilliant bird from ancient mythology. Yet somehow, here, it’s been reduced to lame looking stock art.
Today, though, a different vibe hangs in the air.
A new classmate has injected our Monday doldrums with an arousing energy. The first bellhasn’t even rung yet and the student body is wide awake.
I’m in an alcove off the main hallway with Naomi Kapoor and Harper Mahoney, the third and fourth members of my four-person friend group. Naomi and Harper have been best friends since Hickory Grove Elementary. Twig and I bonded with them in junior high gym class, mostly over our shared ineptitude with all things sports. Naomi’s parents are from India, making her one of the few students of color in Foggy Hollow—a second connection between her and Twig. A third is their shared expertise in robotics. Harper comes from a big family and shops secondhand like me. We both have speaking parts in this year’s reenactment. At the moment, Twig’s missing from our usual foursome, which is probably for the best, given our current fixation.
“He is absurd,” Naomi says in a low voice.
“More like unreal,” Harper adds.
The three of us are staring at the profile of Jude Vandenberg as he opens his locker. Perfectly tousled golden hair. Dark, brooding eyebrows. Full lips. And a lean, athletic frame dressed in clothes that scream old money. I tried catching a glimpse of him yesterday, when he arrived just before sunset in a black Mercedes Benz driven by a chauffeur, but all I got was a very distant, mostly obstructed view.
A pair of freshmen boys mosey past.
Naomi shifts. “I can’t believe you get to live with him.”
“I don’t livewithhim.”
