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Spotting a place at the end of a long row of lockers, I drop to the floor, reach into my bag, and smile when I discover Paloma packed one of my favorites: a small plastic container filled with goat cheese enchiladas covered with her amazing, homemade tomatillo sauce.
With my plastic fork at the ready, I’m about to dig in when I’m stopped by a soft rustling sound that could only come from a lunch sack. Wondering who could possibly be as big an outcast as me, I scooch forward just enough to peer around the bend where I spy a pair of long legs, dark jeans, and heavy, thick-soled black shoes so large I hope they belong to a guy. Then I retreat to my corner, happy to know I’m not nearly as alone as I’d thought—that I’m not the only friendless loser who doesn’t belong in this school.
twenty-six
The bell rings—again. That awful, shrill sound blaring through the hall, bouncing off the ugly beige walls and red metal lockers, sparking a stream of students into a flurry of movement, as I try my best to find m
y next classroom.
I pause by the door, schedule in hand, taking a moment to confirm I’m in the right place, since I really don’t need to make that particular mistake yet again.
Independent study. Right. Last class of the day—praise be, hallelujah, and more.
I make my way inside and introduce myself to the man at the podium bearing a squinty mean gaze, a cruel slash of a mouth, a size-too-small T-shirt forced to stretch over a belly that will always arrive well before the rest of him, and a crew cut so tight it’s mostly just scalp. Pausing when he places a red checkmark next to my name and tells me to grab any seat.
If I’ve learned anything today, it’s that it can’t be that easy. It may not be obvious at first sight, but somewhere in this deceptively innocuous classroom, territory has been staked, boundaries drawn, and an invisible wall erected, bearing an equally invisible sign that states clueless new girls like me are not welcome here.
“Any seat,” he barks, shooting me a look that’s already pegged me as just another moron in a succession of many.
I give the room a thorough once-over, noting how instead of the usual desks, it’s divided into a series of tall, square, black tables and old metal stools. All too aware of the way my fellow classmates track my movements, sighing with overblown relief when I pass them in favor of the back where I toss my bag onto a table, grab an empty stool, and ask, “This seat taken?” My eyes grazing over the only other occupant, a guy with long glossy dark hair with his head bent over a book.
“It’s all yours,” he says. And when he lifts his head and smiles, my heart just about leaps from my chest.
It’s the boy from my dreams.
The boy from the Rabbit Hole, the gas station, and the cave—sitting before me with those same amazing, icy-blue eyes, those same alluring lips I’ve kissed multiple times—but only in slumber, never in waking life.
I scold my heart to settle, but it doesn’t obey.
I admonish myself to sit, to act normal, casual—and I just barely succeed.
Stealing a series of surreptitous looks as I search through my backpack, taking in his square chin, wide generous lips, strong brow, defined cheekbones, and smooth brown skin—the exact same features as Cade.
“You’re the new girl, right?” He abandons his book, tilting his head in a way that causes his hair to stream over his shoulder, so glossy and inviting it takes all of my will not to lean across the table and touch it.
I nod in reply, or at least I think I do. I can’t be too sure. I’m too stricken by his gaze—the way it mirrors mine—trying to determine if he knows me, recognizes me, if he’s surprised to find me here. Wishing Paloma had better prepared me—focused more on him and less on his brother.
I force my gaze from his. Bang my knee hard against the table as I swivel in my seat. Feeling so odd and unsettled, I wish I’d picked another place to sit, though it’s pretty clear no other table would have me.
He buries his smile and returns to the book. Allowing a few minutes to pass, not nearly enough time for me to get a grip on myself, when he looks up and says, “Are you staring at me because you’ve seen my doppelganger roaming the halls, playing king of the cafeteria? Or because you need to borrow a pencil and you’re too shy to ask?”
I clear the lump from my throat, push the words past my lips when I say, “No one’s ever accused me of being shy.” A statement that, while steeped in truth, stands at direct odds with the way I feel now, sitting so close to him. “So I guess it’s your twin—or doppelganger, as you say.” I keep my voice light, as though I’m not at all affected by his presence, but the trill note at the end gives me away. Every part of me now vibrating with the most intense surge of energy—like I’ve been plugged into the wall and switched on—and it’s all I can do to keep from grabbing hold of his shirt, demanding to know if he dreamed the dreams too.
He nods, allowing an easy, cool smile to widen his lips. “We’re identical,” he says. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed. Though it’s easy enough to tell us apart. For one thing, he keeps his hair short. For another—”
“The eyes—” I blurt, regretting the words the instant they’re out. From the look on his face, he has no idea what I’m talking about. “Yours are … kinder.” My cheeks burn so hot I force myself to look away, as words of reproach stampede my brain.
Why am I acting like such an inept loser? Why do I insist on embarrassing myself—in front of him—of all people?
I have to pull it together. I have to remember who I am—what I am—and what I was born to do. Which is basically to crush him and his kind—or, at the very least, to temper the damage they do.
He shoots me an odd look, moving right past my words when he says, “What I was going to say is we’re only identical on the outside, inside is a whole other story. He’s far more social, always surrounded by large crowds of fawning admirers who follow him around like some kind of starstruck entourage.”
“And you don’t have one of those—an entourage?” I ask, wondering how that could possibly be. With his good looks and easy demeanor, he’s way more attractive than his brother.
I shake my head. Clear the thought from my mind. No matter how cute he may be, no matter how kind his energy seems, he’s still a Richter—a bona fide member of the El Coyote clan. He’s someone to keep a close eye on, but no more.
He leans toward me, his eyes so piercing, so blue, I have to force myself to meet them. “Me? An entourage?” He laughs, pushing a hand through his hair. “It really is your first day, isn’t it?” He lowers his arm, allowing the strands to fall to his shoulders when he adds, “At any rate, welcome to Milagro. This school’s not really known for being hospitable, so I doubt anyone got around to saying that.”
