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“C’mon.” I lift my chin, making an exaggerated show of inhaling. “Smells like Paloma’s making her famous blue-corn pancakes and, trust me, you don’t want to miss them.”
* * *
As committed as I was to being nicer to Jennika, when she insists on driving me to school, I can’t help but shoot Paloma a pleading look, begging her to intervene in some way.
We need to talk. Need to continue my training. But now with Jennika’s surprise visit, I’ve no idea when we’ll be able to manage. By the time she left last night, it was too late and too cold for Paloma to teach me how to determine the firesong, so I was hoping we could do it today. But from the way things are going, that particular forecast seems doubtful.
Despite my pleading look, Paloma just tells me to have a good day—that she’ll see me when I return. And though there’s a hint of something deeper lying just beneath the words, before I can grasp it, Jennika’s tugging on my sleeve, dragging me outside to her rental car.
“You really should learn how to drive.” She climbs behind the wheel as I slide in beside her.
“I know,” I say, hoping she won’t offer to trade seats and teach me. We’ll just end up arguing at a time when I’m really trying not to.
“Not that there’s anywhere to actually drive to once you do get your license…”
She makes a frowny face. Letting me know, yet again, just how much she detests this place. Continuing to mutter under her breath, the same tired dialogue about how she can’t understand why I would choose to live in this dump over the super-cool place she just got in LA. Stopping only when she sighs, fluffs her hair, and trains her focus on the car stereo.
When she asks me to look inside the glove compartment for her Hole CD, I know she wants to start over and find common ground. Nineties music, the songs of her youth, is always the go-to when she’s looking for a reminder of less troubled times.
“You look cute in that top,” she says, her mood instantly brightening after a few beats of Courtney Love singing “Celebrity Skin.” “And those jeans are a perfect fit—I had a feeling they would be.” She shoots me an appraising look, as I shrug, mumble thanks, and stare out the window. Watching a mangy stray dog plow through the contents of an overturned trash can, while an even mangier cat looks on, waiting to spring into action at the first opportunity.
“Dace Whitefeather is going to be damn sorry he dumped you,” she says, in a misguided attempt to cheer me.
“I truly hope not.” I peer at her. Satisfied when I see the flash of shock that crosses her face.
Her brow merging in an attempt to make sense of my words—make sense of me. Trying to find some trace of her teachings, the values she fought to instill.
“It’s better if he doesn’t think anything about me.” I push the words past the sob clogging my throat—the one that’s been permanently lodged there since that awful night in his kitchen. “It’s better if he just moves on.”
She considers me for a moment, her head bobbing back and forth as though weighing my words. Ultimately choosing to drop it, she says, “Where’d you get this?” She pinches the sleeve of the black down jacket I wear. “I’m not sure what’s worse, Daire—that old army jacket you always wore or this thing.” She shakes her head, having decided I’m an enigma who makes the kind of choices she’ll never understand.
“It’s Django’s.” I watch her jaw drop as her eyes grow bigger than I’ve ever seen them.
“Where’d you find that?” She stares at me, gripping the wheel so tightly her knuckles turn white.
“In a box full of his stuff. You should look through it while you’re here. I think you’d find it interesting.”
“No.” She rips her gaze from mine, focuses on the bumpy dirt road ahead. “Maybe.” She rubs her lips together, continues to squint out the window. “I don’t know. We’ll see.” She sighs, her shoulders sinking in surrender and remaining that way, until she pulls into the parking lot and says, “Hey, aren’t those your friends? And isn’t that your ex standing with them?”
I follow her gaze to where Xotichl, Auden, Lita, Crickett, Jacy, and yes, even Dace, are talking and laughing. My eyes grazing over them, before settling on him—but onl
y for a moment before I force myself to look away. I can’t afford to allow my gaze to linger.
“Wow. I would’ve expected them to be on your side.” Her eyes dart between them and me. “Do they even know about your breakup?”
“Probably not,” I mumble. “Seeing as how I didn’t go to school yesterday.” My voice fading as I watch some new girl, someone I’ve never seen before, with a wild mane of dark spiral curls, cautiously approach them.
“Well, clearly he’s not about to tell them what a jerk he is. So make sure you do it.” Jennika huffs under her breath, looking like she’s considering marching right over there and telling them for me.
But all I can do is stare at that slim, beautiful, exotic-looking girl with the halo of hair, the long almond-shaped eyes that tilt up at the sides, the dainty nose, and the generous full lips.
She looks like a dancer—sinewy, fluid—the very manifestation of grace.
She looks like several nationalities got together and decided to donate their most celebrated physical traits to one person, and she’s the result.
“Who’s that with them?” Jennika nudges my arm. “The one standing next to Jacy?”
I continue to stare, wondering why they all seem to know her—why she keeps looking at Dace. And why Dace can hardly bring himself to return the look.
