She raises her brows and nods. "Chichi."
"How would you know?" I peer at her, wondering if she's been. I mean, it's not like she ever tells me where she spends her free time.
"I know lots of things." She laughs. "Way more than you."
She jumps onto my bed and rearranges the pillows before she leans back.
"Yeah, well, not much I can do about that, huh?" I say, annoyed to see how she's wearing the exact same dress and shoes as I am. Only since she's four years younger and quite a bit shorter, she looks like she's playing dress-up.
"Seriously though, you should dress like that more often. Because I hate to say it, but your usual look is so not working for you. I mean, you think Brandon ever woul.d've gone for you if you'd dressed like that?" She crosses her ankles and gazes at me, her posture as relaxed as a person, living or dead, could ever be. "Speaking of, did you know he's dating Rachel now? Yep, they've been together five months. That's like, even longer than you guys, huh?",
I press my lips and tap my foot against the floor, repeating my usual mantra: Don't let her get to you. Don't let her
"And omigod, you're never gonna believe this but they almost went all the way!
Seriously, they left the homecoming dance early, they had it all planned out, but then-well "
She pauses long enough to laugh. "I know I probably shoulan't repeat this, but let's just say that Brandon did something very regrettable and extremely embarrassing that turned out to be a major mood breaker. You probably had to be there, but I'm telling you, it was hilarious. I mean, don't get me wrong, he misses you and all, even accidentally called her by your name once or twice, but as they say, life goes on, right?"
I take a deep breath and narrow my eyes, watching as she lounges on my bed like Cleopatra on her litter, critiquing my life, my look, virtually everything about me, giving me updates on former friends I never even asked for, like some kind of prepubescent authority.
Must be nice to just drop in whenever you feel like it, to not have to get down herein the trenches and do all the dirty work like the rest of us!
And suddenly I feel so annoyed with her little pop-in visits that are really just glorified sneak attacks, wishing she'd just leave me m peace and let me live whatever's left of my crumm life without her constant stream of bratty commentary; that I look her right in the eye and say; "So when are you scheduled for angel school? Or have they banned you because you're so evil?"
She glares at me, her eyes squeezing into angry little slits as Sabine taps on my door and calls, "Ready?"
I stare at Riley; daring her with my eyes to do something stupid, something that will alert Sabine to all the truly strange goings on around here.
But she just smiles sweetly and says, "Mom and Dad send their love," seconds before disappearing.
Seven
On the ride to the restaurant all I can think about is Riley; her snide remark, and how completely rude it was to just let it slip and then disappear. I mean, I've been begging her to tell me about our parents, pleading for just one smi~gen of info this whole entire time. But instead of filling me in and telling me what I need to know; she gets all fidgety, acts all cagey; and refuses to explain why they've yet to appear.
You'd think being dead would make a person act a little nicer, a little kinder. But not Riley.
She's just as bratty; spoiled, and awful as she was when she was alive.
Sabine leaves the car with the valet and we head inside. And the moment I see the huge marble foyer, the outsized flower arrangements, and the amazing ocean view, I regret everything I just thought. Riley was right. This place really is chichi. Big-time, major chichi. Like the kind of place you bring a date-and not your sullen niece.
The hostess leads us to a cloth-covered table adorned with flickering candles and salt and pepper shakers that resemble small silver stones, and when I take my seat and gaze around the room,
I can hardy believe how glamorous it is. Especially compared to the kind of restaurants I'm used to.
But just as soon as I think it, I make myself stop. There's no use examining the before and after photos, of reviewing the how things used to be clip stored in my brain. Though sometimes being around Sabine makes it hard not to compare. Her being my dad's twin is like a constant reminder.
She orders red wine for herself and a soda for me, then we look over our menus and decide on our meals. And the moment our waitress is gone, Sabine tucks her chin-length blond hair back behind her ear, smiles politely, and says, "So, how's everything? School? Your friends?
All good?"
I love my aunt, don't get me wrong, and I'm grateful for everything that she's done. But just because she can handle a twelveman jury doesn't mean she's any good at the small talk. Still, I just look at her and say, "Yep, it's all good." Okay, maybe I suck at the small talk too.
She places her hand on my arm to say something more, but before she can even get to the words, I'm already up and out of my seat.
"I'll be right back," I mumble, nearly knocking over my chair as I dart back the way we came, not bothering to stop for directions since the waitress I just brushed against took one look at me and doubted I'd make it out the door and down the long hallway in time.
I head in the direction she unknowingly sent me, passing through a hall of mirrors-gigantic gilt-framed mirrors, all lined up in a row: And since it's Friday, the hotel is filled with guests for a wedding that, from what I can see, should never take place.
A group of people brush past me, their auras swirling with alcohol-fueled energy that's so out of whack it's affecting me too, leaving me dizzy, nauseous, and so light-headed that when I glance in the mirrors, I see a long chain of Damens staring right back.
I stumble into the bathroom, grip the marble counter, and fight to catch my breath. Forcing myself to focus on the potted orchids, the scented lotions, and the stack of plush towels resting on a large porcelain tray, I begin to feel calmer, more centered, contained.
I guess I've grown so used to all of the random energy I encounter wherever I go, I've forgotten how overwhelming it can be when my defenses are down and my iPod's at home. But the jolt I received when Sabine placed her hand on mine was filled with such overwhelming loneliness, such quiet sadness, it felt like a punch in the gut.
Especially when I realized I was to blame.
Sabine is lonely in a way I've tried to ignore. Because even though we live together it's not like we see each other all that often. She's usually at work, I'm usually at school, and nights and weekends I spend holed up in my room, or out with my friends. I guess I sometimes forget that I'm not the only one with people to miss, that even though she's taken me in and tried to help, she still feels just as alone and empty as the day it all happened.
But as much as I'd like to reach out, as much as I'd like to ease her pain, I just can't. I'm too damaged, too weird. I'm a freak who hears thoughts and talks to the dead. And I can't risk getting found out, can't risk getting too close, to anyone, not even her. The best I can do is just get through high school, so I can go away to college, and she can get back to her life. Maybe then she can get together with that guy who works in her building. The one she doesn't even know yet. The one whose face I saw the moment her hand touched mine.
I run my hands through my hair, reapply some lip gloss, and head back to the table, determined to try a little harder and make her feel better, all without risking my secrets. And as I slip back. onto my seat, I sip from my drink, and smile when I say, I'm fine. Really."
Nodding so that she'll believe it, before adding, "So tell me, any interesting cases at work? Any cute guys in the building?"
After dinner, I wait outside while Sabine gets in line to pay the valet. And I'm so caught up in the drama unfolding before me, between tomorrow's bride-to-be and her so-called maid of "honor," that I actually jump when I feel a hand on my sleeve.
"Oh, hey," I say, my body flooding with heat and tingling the second my eyes meet his.
"You look amazing," Damen says, his gaze traveling all the way down my dress to my shoes, before working their way back to mine. "I almost didn't recognize you without the hood." He smiles. "Did you enjoy your dinner?"
I nod, feeling so on edge I'm amazed I could even do that.
"I saw you in the hall. I would've said hello, but you seemed in such a rush."
I gaze at him, wondering what he's doing here, all alone, at this swanky hotel on a Friday night. Dressed in a dark wool blazer, a black open-neck shirt, designer jeans, and those boots - an outfit that seems far too slick for a guy his age, yet somehow looks just right.
"Out-of-town visitor," he says, answering the question I hadn't yet asked.
Andjust as I'm wondering what to say next, Sabine appears.
And while they're shaking hands I say,,"Um, Damen and I go to school together."
Damen's the one who makes my palms sweat, my stomach spin, and he's pretty much all I can think about!
"He just moved here from New Mexico," I add, hoping that'll suffice until the car arrives.
"Where in New Mexico?" Sabine asks. And when she smiles I can't help but wonder if she's flooded with that same wonderful feeling as me.
"Santa Fe." He smiles.
"Oh, I hear it's lovely. I've always wanted to go there."
"Sabine's an attorney, she works a lot," I mumble, focusing in the direction that the car will be coming from in just ten, nine, eight, sev"
We're headed back home, but you're more than welcome to join us," she offers..
I gape at her, panicked, wondering how I failed to see that coming. Then I glance at Damen, praying he'll decline as he says, "Thanks, but I have to head back"
He hooks his thumb over his shoulder, and my eyes follow in that direction, stopping on an incredibly gorgeous redhead, dressed in the slinkiest black dress and strappy high heels.
She smiles at me, but it's not at all kind. Just pink glossy lips slightly lifting and curving, while her eyes are too far, too distant to read. Though there's something about her expression, the tilt of her chin, that's so visibly mocking, as though the sight of us standing together could be nothing short of amusing.
I turn back to face him, startled to find him looming so close, his lips moist and parted, mere inches from mine. Then he brushes his fingers along the side of my cheek, and retrieves a red tulip from behind my ear.
Then the next thing I know, I'm standing alone as he heads back inside with his date.
And I gaze at the tulip, touching its waxy red petals, wondering where it could've possibly come from-especially two seasons past spring.
Though it's not until later, when I'm alone in my room, that I realize the redhead was auraless too.
I must've been in a really deep sleep because the moment I hear someone moving around in my room, my head feels so groggy and murky I don't even open my eyes.
"Riley?" I mumble. "Is that you?" But when she doesn't answer, I know she's up to her usual pranks. And since I'm too tired to play, I grab my other pillow and plop it over my head.
But when I hear her again, I say, "Listen Riley, I'm exhausted, okay? I'm sorry if I was mean to you, and I'm sorry if I upset you, but I really don't feel like doing this now at-" I lift the pillow and open one eye to peer at my alarm clock. ''At three fortyfive in the morning. So why don't you just go back to wherever it is that you go and save it for a normal hour, okay? You can even show upin,that dress I wore to the eighth grade graduation and I won't say a word, scout's honor."
Only, the thing is, now that I've said all of that, I'm awake. So I toss the pillow aside and glare at her shadowy form lounging on the chair by my desk, wondering what could possibly be so important it can't keep until morning.
"I said I'm sorry, okay? What more do you want?"
"You can see me?" she asks, pushing away from the desk. "Of course I can see-" Then I stop in midsentence when I realize the voice isn't hers.
Eight
I see dead people. All the time. On the street, at the beach, in the malls, in restaurants, wandering the hallways at school, standing in line at the post office, waiting in the doctor's office, though never at the dentist. But unlike the ghosts you see on TV and in movies, they don't bother me, they don't want my help, they don't stop and chat. The most they ever do is smile and wave when they realize they've been seen. Like most people, they like being seen.
But the voice in my room definitely wasn't a ghost. It also wasn't Riley. The voice in my room belonged to Damen.
And that's how I know I was dreaming.
"Hey." He smiles, slipping into his seat seconds after the bell rings, but since this is Mr.
Robins's class it's the same as being early.
I nod, hoping to appear casual, neutral, not the least bit interested. Hoping to hide the fact that I'm so far gone I'm now dreaming of him.
"Your aunt seems nice." He looks at me, tapping the end of his pen on his desk, making this continuous click click click sound that really sets me on edge.
"Yeah, she's great," I mumble, mentally cursing Mr. Robins for lingering in the faculty bathroom, wishing he'd just stow the flask and come do his job already.
"I don't live with my family either," Damen says, his voice quieting the room, quieting my thoughts, as he spins the pen on the tip of his finger, twirling it around and around without faltering.
I press my lips together and fumble with the iPod in my secret compartment, wondering how rude it would seem if I turned it on and blocked him out too.
"I'm emancipated," he adds.
"Seriously?" I ask, even though I was firmly committed to keeping our conversations to an absolute minimum. It's just, I've never met anyone who was emancipated, and I always thought it sounded so lonely and sad. Though from the looks of his car, his clothes, and his glamorous Friday nights at the St. Regis hotel, he.doesn't seem to be doing so badly.
"Seriously." He nods. And the moment he stops talking I hear the heightened whispers of Stacia and Honor, calling me a freak, and a few other things much worse than that. Then I watch as he tosses his pen in the air, smiling as it forms a series of slow lazy eights before landing right back on his finger. "So where's your family?" he asks.
And it's so weird how all the noise just stops and starts, starts and stops, like some messed up game of musical chairs. One where I'm always left standing. One where I'm always it.
"What?" I squint, distracted by the sight of Damen's magic pen now hovering between us, as Honor makes fun of my clothes, and her boyfriend pretends to agree even though he's secretly wondering why she never dresses like me. And it makes me want to lift my hood, crank my iPod, and drown it all out. Everything. Including Damen.
Especially Damen.
"Where does your family live?" he asks.
I close my eyes when he speaks-silence, sweet silence, for those fleeting few seconds. Then I open them again and gaze right into his. "They're dead," I say, as Mr. Robins walks in.
''I'm sorry."
Damen gazes at me from across the lunch table as I scan the area, eager for Haven and Miles to show. I just opened my lunch pack to find a single red tulip lying smack between my sandwich. and chips-a tulip! Just like the one from Friday night. And even though I've no idea how he did it, I'm sure Damen's responsible. But it's not so much the strange magic tricks that bother me, it's more the way he looks at me, the way he speaks to me, the way he makes me feel
"About your family. I didn't realize "
I gaze down at my juice, twisting the cap back and forth, forth and back, wishing he'd just let it go. "I don't like to talk about it." I shrug.
"I know what it's like to lose the people you love," he whispers, reaching across the table and placing his hand over mine, infusing me with a feeling so good, so warm, so calm, and so safe-I close my eyes and allow it. Allow myself to enjoy the peace of it. Grateful to hear what he says and not what he thinks. Like an average girl-with a much better than average boy.
"Um, excuse me."
I open my eyes to find Haven leaning against the edge of the table, her yellow eyes narrowed and fixed on our hands. "So sorry to interrupt."
I pull away, shoving my hand in my pocket like it's something shameful, something no one should have to see. Wanting to explain how what she saw was nothing, how it meant nothing, even though I know better. "Where's Miles?" I finally say, not knowing what else to say.
She rolls her eyes and sits beside Damen, her hostile thoughts transforming her aura from bright yellow to a very dark red. "Miles is texting his latest Internet crush, hornyyoungdingdong307," she says, avoiding my eyes as she as she busies herself with her cupcake. Then gazing at Damen, she adds, "So, how was everyone's weekend?"
I shrug, knowing she wasn't really addressing me, watching as she taps the frosting with the tip of her tongue, performing her usual test lick, even though I've yet to see her reject one. And when I glance at Damen, I'm shocked to see him shrug too, because from what I saw, he was poised for a much better weekend than me.
"Well, as you can probably guess, my Friday night sucked. Big-time. I spent most of it cleaning up Austin's vomit, since the housekeeper was in Vegas and my parents couldn't be bothered to come home from wherever the hell they were. But Saturday totally made up for it. I mean, it rocked! Like, seriously, it was probably the best night of my entire life. And I totally would've invited you guys if it hadn't been so last minute." She nods, deigning to look at me again.
"Where'd you go?" I ask, trying to sound casual even though I just envisioned a dark scary place.
"This totally awesome club that some girl from my group took me to."
"Which group?" I sip from my water.
"Saturday is for codependents." She smiles. "Anyway, this girl, Evangeline? She's like a hardcore case. She's what they call a donor."
"What who calls a donor?" Miles asks, placing his Sidekick on thetabk and sitting down beside me.
"The codependents," I say, bringing him up' to speed.
Haven rolls her eyes. "No, not them, the vampires. A donor is a person who allows other vamps to feed off them. You know, like suck their blood and stuff, whereas I'm what they call a puppy, because I just like to follow them around. I don't let any-. one feed. Well, not yet." She laughs.
"Follow who around?" Miles asks, lifting his Sidekick and flipping through his messages.
"Vampires! jeez, try to keep up. Anyway, what I was saying is this codependent donor chick, Evangeline, which, by the way, is her vampire name, not her real name-"
"People have vampire names?" Miles asks, setting his phone on the table where he can still peek at it.
"Totally." She nods, poking her finger deep into the frosting, then licking the tip.
"Is that like a stripper name? You know, like your first childhood pet plus your mom's maiden name? Because that makes me Princess Slavin, thank you very much." He smiles.
Haven sighs, striving for patience. "Uh, no. It's nothing like that. You see, a vampire name is serious. And unlike most people, I don't even have to change mine, because Haven is like an organic vamp name, one hundred percent natural, no additives or preservatives." She laughs. "I told you I'm a dark princess! Anyway, we went to this really cool club somewhere up in L.A. called Nocturnal; or something like that."
"Nocturne," Damen says, gripping his drink as his eyes focus on hers.
Haven sets down her cupcake and claps. "Yay! Finally, someone cool at this table," she says.
"And did you run into any immortals?" he asks, still gazing at her.
"Tons! The place was packed. There was even a VIP coven room, which I totally snuck into and hung out at the blood bar."
"Did they card you?" Miles asks, his fingers racing over his Sidekick as he partakes in two conversations at once.
"Laugh all you want, but I'm telling you it was way cool. Even after Evangeline sort of ditched me for some guy she met, I ended up meeting this other girl, who was even cooler, and who also, by the way, just moved here. So we'll probably start hanging out and stuff."
"Are you breaking up with us?" Miles gapes at her in mock alarm.
Haven rolls her eyes. "Whatever. All I know is that it was better than your guys' Saturday night-well, maybe not yours, Damen, since you seem to be up on these things, but definitely those two," she says, pointing at Miles and me.
"So how was the game?" I elbow Miles, trying to get his attention back on us and away from his electronic boyfriend.
''All I know is there was way too much team spirit, somebody won, somebody lost, and I spent most of it in the bathroom textmessaging this guy who's apparently a bigfat liar!" He shakes his head and shows us the screen. "Look, right there!" He stabs it with his finger. "I've been asking for a picture all weekend because no way am I meeting up without getting a solid visual. And this is what he sends. Stupid phony poseur!"
I squint at the thumbnail, not quite getting what he's so angry about. "How do you know it's not him?" I ask, glancing at Miles.
And then Damen says, "Because it's me."
Nine
Apparently Damen modeled for a short time, back when he lived in New York, which is why his image is out there, floating around cyberspace, just waiting for someone to download and claim that it's them.
And even though we passed it around and had a good solid laugh at the whole weird coincidence, there's still one thing I can't quite get past: If Damenjust moved here from New Mexico and not New York, well, doesn't it seem like he should've looked a little bit younger in that picture? Because I can't think of anyone who looks exactly the same at seventeen as they did at fourteen, or even fifteen, and yet, that thumbnail on Miles's Sidekick showed Damen looking exactly the same as he does right now
And it just doesn't make any sense.
When I get to art, I beeline for the supply closet, grab all my stuff, and head for my easel, refusing to react when I notice how Damen IS set up right next to mine. I just take a deep breath and go about the business of buttoning my smock and selecting a brush, stealing the occasional glance at his canvas and trying not to gawk at his masterpiece in the making-a seriously perfect rendition of Picasso's Woman with Yellow Hair.
Our assignment is to emulate one of the great masters, to choose one of those iconic paintings and attempt to re-create it. And somehow I got the idea that those simple Van Gogh swirls would be a sure thing, a cinch to reproduce, an easy A. But from the looks of my chaotic, hectic strokes, I completely misjudged it. And now it's so far gone, I can't possibly save it. And I've no idea what to do.
Ever since I became psychic, I'm no longer required to study.
I'm not even required to read. All I have to do is place my hands on a book, and the story appears in my head. And as far as tests go? Well, let's just say there's no more "pop'; in the quiz. I just brush my fingers over the questions and the answers are instantly revealed.
But art is totally different. Because talent cannot be faked.
Which is why my painting is pretty much the exact opposite of Damen's.
"Starry Night?" Damen asks, nodding at my drippy, pathetic, blue mottled canvas, as I cringe in embarrassment, wondering how he could've made such an accurate guess from such a poorly realized mess.
Then just to torture myself even further, I take another glance at his effortless, curving brushstrokes, and add it to the never-ending list of things he's amazingly good at.
Seriously, like in English, he can answer all of Mr. Robins's questions, which is kind of weird since he only had one night to skim all three hundred and some odd pages of Wuthering Heights.
Not to mention how he usually goes on to include all manner of random historical facts, talking about those long-ago days as though he was actually there. He's ambidextrous too, which might not sound like all that big a deal, until you watch him write with one hand and paint with the other, with neither project seeming to suffer. And don't even get me started on the spontaneous tulips and magic pen.
'Just like Pablo himself. Wonderful!" Ms. Machado says, smoothing her long glossy braid as she stares at his canvas, her aura vibrating a beautiful cobalt blue, as her mind performs cartwheels and somersaults, jumping in glee, racing through her mental roster of talented former students, realizing she's never had one with such innate, natural ability-until now;
'And Ever?" On the outside she's still smiling, but inside she's thinking: What on eqrth could it possibly be?
"Oh, um, it's supposed to be Van Gogh. You know, Starry Night?" I cringe in shame, my worst suspicions confirmed by her thoughts.
"Well-it's an honorable start." She nods, struggling to keep her face neutral, relaxed. ''Van Gogh's style is much more difficult than it seems. Just don't forget the golds, and the yellows! It is a starry, starry night after all!"
I watch her walk away, her aura expanding and glowing, knowing she dislikes my painting, but appreciating her effort to hide it. Then without even thinking I dip my brush in yellow, before wiping off the blue, and when I press it to my canvas it leaves a big blob of green.
"How do you do it?" I ask, shaking my head in frustration, gazing from Damen's amazingly good painting to my amazingly bad one, comparing, contrasting, and feeling my confidence plummet.
He smiles, his eyes finding mine. "Who do you think taught Picasso?" he says.
I drop my brush to the floor, sending mushy globs of green paint splattering across my shoes, my smock, and my face, holding my breath as he leans down to retrieve it, before placing it back in my hand.
"Everyone has to start somewhere," he says, his eyes dark and smoldering, his fingers seeking the scar on my face.
The one on my forehead.
The one that's hidden under my bangs. The one he has no way of knowing about.
"Even Picasso had a teacher." He smiles, withdrawing his hand and the warmth that came with it, returning to his painting, as I remind myself to breathe.
Ten
The next morning as I'm getting ready for school, I make the mistake of asking Riley's lielp in choosing a sweatshirt.
"What do you think?" I hold up a blue one, before replacing it with a green.
"Do the pink one again," she says, perched on my dresser, head cocked to the side as she considers the options.
"There is no pink one." I scowl, wishing she could just be serious for a change, stop making everything into such a big game. "Come on, help me out, clock's ticking."
She rubs her chin and squints. "Would you say that's more of a cerulean blue or a cornflower blue?"
"That's it." I toss the blue one and start yanking the green over my head.
"Go with the blue."
I stop, eyes visible, nose, mouth, and chin sheltered in fleece.
"Seriously. It brings out your eyes." I squint at her for a moment, then I toss the green one and do as· she says. Rummaging for lip gloss and stopping just short of applying it when she goes,
"Okay, what gives? I mean, the sweatshirt crises, the sweaty palms, the makeup, what's going on?"
'Tm not wearing makeup," I say, cringing as my voice nears a shout.
"Not to fault you on a technicality, Ever, but lip gloss counts.
It definitely qualifies as makeup. And you, dear sister, were just about to apply it."
I drop it back in the drawer and reach for my usual ChapStick instead, smearing it across my lips in a waxy dull line.
"Urn, hello? Still waiting for an answer over here!"
I press my lips, heading out the door and down the stairs. "Fine, play that way. But don't think you can stop me from gueSSing," she says, trailing behind me.
"Whatever," I mumble, going into the garage.