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“Your twin did.” I meet his gaze, striving to get a deeper, more reliable impression than the first time around, but all I get is that same cloud of kindness and love, so I turn away, force it from my mind.
“Guess good manners run in the family. Who would’ve thought?” He laughs, quick to chase it with “Oh, and sorry if I didn’t mention it before, but I’m Dace.”
He shoots me an expectant look, but I offer no response. If he really is a Richter, and there’s no doubt he is, he’s been made all too aware of my arrival. According to Paloma, they’ve been waiting for some sign of me ever since Django’s demise.
“Just in case you’re wondering how this class works.” He moves past the snub. “You can work on whatever you want, and if you choose not to work, at least try to make it look like you’re busy. Coach Sanchez will be out of here soon, but see that camera at the front?”
My eyes follow the length of his thumb as it jabs toward a point just beyond. The two of us peering into the eye of a camera perched dead center over the chalkboard—an all-seeing, unblinking eye recording all of our actions.
“Get out of line and they got you on video.” He lifts a brow and rolls his eyes. “This was supposed to be an art class. That’s what I signed up for, anyway. But when the budget got slashed, art and the teacher who taught it were the very first casualties. No one cares about the arts in this town—it’s all about sports and the people who play them. So now, instead of drawing and painting, we have independent study hall, a surly coach who takes roll, and a camera to record all our actions. Though I’m sure it was probably the same thing at your last school?”
I shrug, refusing to either confirm or deny, refusing to engage any more than I have. I’m too freaked by his presence—too angry with Paloma for her failure to prepare me for him. My fingers seeking the pouch I wear at my neck, reassured by the faint outline of the feather and Raven, before reaching for the waterlogged paperback I’ve been trying to finish since that mess in Morocco. Immersing myself in the magickal world the author created, scribbling notes in the corner, underlining favored passages, and doodling in the margins, until the bell rings again and I’m free.
It’s over.
I made it.
It was never a given. There were definitely moments I wasn’t so sure.
I shove my book in my bag and shoot for the exit. Surprised to find Dace just beside me, holding the door, and motioning for me to go first.
It’s such a kind and decent thing to do in a day that’s been anything but—I can’t help but soften toward him. And when I accidentally brush up against him as I make my way out, I can’t help the way my breath hitches, the way my heart skips a few beats, the way all of my nerve endings seem to ignite—all because of his touch.
“You never told me your name,” he says, his voice so hauntingly familiar it causes a rush of heat to blanket my skin.
I sigh, staring blankly down the hall when I say, “Psycho Girl—Psycho Horseback Singing Girl…” I shrug. “I’ve heard it both ways.”
He squints. His hand reaching for my shoulder, then falling away the instant he catches the look of reproach on my face.
“Look,” I say, knowing I need to stop him before he can go any further. His kindness will only distract me at a time when I need to stay focused. “I’ve had a really bad day. And if my calculations are right, I have three hundred and eight more, give or take, before I get to graduate and get the heck out of this place. So, why don’t you just call me whatever you want. Everyone else does. It’s not like it matters…” My cheeks go hot, my eyes start to sting, and I know I’m rambling like a lunatic, but I can’t seem to stop, can’t seem to care. The world’s most socially inept Seeker—that’s me in a nutshell.
“Don’t let them reduce you to that,” he says, his gaze intense, his voice surprising me with its sincerity, its urgency. “Don’t let them de
fine how you see yourself, or your place here. And if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m not hard to find. I’m either in class, reading in the library, or eating lunch in the North hallway.”
The second he says it, my gaze flies down the length of him. Slipping past a gray V-neck tee and dark denim jeans, not the least bit surprised when I land on the same heavy, black, thick-soled shoes I spied earlier.
Then before he can say anything more, I’m gone. Trying to ignore the comforting stream of kindness and love that swarms all around me.
These impressions as Paloma calls them, may come in handy in my life as a Seeker, but if I don’t get a handle on them in my life as a student, if I don’t learn to control them, they’ll have me labeled as a much bigger freak than I already am.
Not that I should care what any of my classmates think—it’s not like they made such a stellar impression on me.
I push through the double doors and into the light. Taking in the rush of activity—people hugging and saying good-bye, carrying on like they’ll never see each other again, before hurrying to catch buses, or meet up with the long line of cars that trail along the curb. A few of them unlocking bikes, fewer still choosing to walk, and I can’t help but regret my decision to tell Chay not to come get me. I don’t have it figured out nearly as much as I’d thought.
Despite my newly honed skills and burgeoning magick, when it comes to navigating the rules of high school, I’ve never felt so lost and inadequate.
I can skip down the Spirit Road, survive a brutal vision quest—but can I handle high school? Not even close. The thought makes me laugh.
Though, unfortunately, the laugh wasn’t just confined to my head, and before I know it, I’m met with a chorus of: “Psycho!”
The girls are back. Back in formation with Lita standing tall in the center, flanked by her sidekicks. She shakes her head in disdain, while the other two snicker. But as much as they’re committed to hating me, the boys remain undecided, their eyes narrowed as they take a full inventory. Willing to risk whatever wrath their interest evokes, simply because I’m a new girl in a school where everyone knows everyone.
I take a deep breath, prepping myself for another round with Lita and company, when Cade saunters up from behind, addressing me when he says, “Sorry you had such a tough day. Milagro’s not used to newcomers.” Winking when he adds, “Go home. Get some rest. Tomorrow offers a fresh new start, as they say. I look forward to seeing you then, Daire Santos.” He starts to turn away, then stops just as quickly as though a new thought occurred to him. “It is Santos now, right?” His mouth tugs at the side. “You no longer go by Lyons?”
He pauses, waiting for me to confirm it, but I don’t. Can’t. His words leave me stunned.
Meeting my silence with a flash of his most practiced, most devastating smile, he leads the group away, as I stay rooted in place, left to grapple with his words—the fact that he knows more about me than he rightfully should.
