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I wince. Jesus.
But then, in a flash of movement, the new kid reaches over the table, grabs the back of Manny’s chair, and I watch, stunned, as he pulls the chair with Manny in it back to his table and places himself between Emo kid and us. Then he quickly reaches over, grabs Manny’s sketchbook and box of pencils, and dumps them on his workspace, in front of his new table partner.
My heart races, but I lock my jaw, trying to appear less shaken than I am. Oh, my God.
Students turn their heads to check out the action as the new guy slams back down into his seat, doesn’t say a word or cast a look at anyone, and resumes frowning. Manny’s breathing is hard, his body tight and rigid at what just happened, and Trey and his friend are suddenly quiet, their eyes locked on the new guy.
“Fags stick together, I guess,” Trey says under his breath.
I shoot a glance at New Guy out of the corner of my eye, knowing he must’ve heard that. But he’s as still as ice. Only now the muscles in his arm bulge, and his jaw flexes.
He’s mad, and he let us know it. No one ever does that. I never get called out.
Trey doesn’t say anything more, and the rest of the class eventually turns back around while the teacher gets started. I try to concentrate on her instructions, but I can’t. I feel him next to me, and I want to look. Who the hell is he?
And then it hits me. The warehouse. Holy shit.
I blink, looking at him again. It’s the guy from the scavenger hunt all those months ago. I still have our pictures in my phone.
Does he remember me?
That’s so weird. I’d never actually posted our pictures to the page we were supposed to post on. After I left him and his friend, I was so pre-occupied the rest of the night, unable to stop myself from looking around for him again, that I never finished my hunt.
But I never found him. After I walked away from him, he seemed to disappear.
Ms. Till finishes her brief instructions, and I spend the rest of the hour stealing glances and messing around on pointless little drawings. I’d been working on a project for a week, but I ignore it today, because I don’t want Trey to see it.
And even though this is the class I enjoy most, it’s also the one I feel the least secure. Art isn’t my calling, but I enjoy doing things with my hands and being creative, so it was either this or Auto Shop. And I wasn’t spending five months in a room with twenty guys trying to look up my cheerleading skirt.
So instead I’m here, drawing a picture for Misha. Designing his first album cover as a surprise graduation gift. Not that he has to use it—I wouldn’t expect him to—but I think he’ll get a kick out of it. Something to motivate him.
Of course, I don’t want Trey to see it and ask about it. He’ll just make a joke out of something I love.
No one knows about Misha Lare. Not even Lyla. He’s mine and too hard to put into words. I don’t even want to try.
Not to mention, if I don’t tell anyone, he won’t be as real. And it won’t hurt so much when I eventually have to lose him.
Which I will, if I haven’t already. All good things come to an end.
“It’s him,” Ten whispers in my ear before sitting down at the lunch table with Lyla, Mel, and me. “That’s the guy vandalizing the school.”
He twists his head, jerking his chin behind us, and I look up from my Math homework, and turn around, following his eyes.
The new kid sits at a round table by himself, legs spread out underneath and crossed at the ankles, his arms folded over his chest. Black wires drape his chest, leading to the earbuds sitting in his ears, and the same hard expression from this morning is focused on the tabletop in front of him.
I hold back a smile. So he is real. Ten sees him, too.
And then my gaze drops to his right arm, seeing the tattoos scaling down the length. A flutter hits my stomach.
I hadn’t seen those this morning.
Probably because I wasn’t seated on that side of him. I couldn’t make out what the pictures were, but I could tell there was script mixed in. Glancing around the room, I notice others looking at him, as well. Curious sideways glances, closed whispers…
Turning back around, I put my pencil to the paper again, finishing the assignment I’d gotten this morning so I won’t have to do it tonight. “You think he’s sneaking into the school? What makes you say that?”
“Well, look at him. Jail’s in his future.”
“Yeah, that’s proof,” I mumble sarcastically, still writing.
