Элисон Ноэль - Blue Moon

"Sorry, I thought I told you, but I guess I got busy.

But you don't need to come by anymore, I've got it all covered," he says, dismissing our friendship with a shrug, as though it bore no more importance than a ride to school.

I swallow hard, resisting the urge to grab him by the shoulders and demand to know what happened —why he's acting like this —why everyone is acting like this —and why they've all unanimously decided against me.

But I don't. Somehow, I manage to restrain myself.

Mostly because I have a terrible suspicion I might already know. And if it turns out that I'm right, then it's not like Miles is responsible anyway.

"Okay, well, good to know." I nod, forcing a smile I definitely don't feel. "I guess I'll just see you around then," I say, my fingers drumming against the gearshift, waiting for a response that's not coming anytime soon, and backing out of his drive only when Craig pulls up behind me, honks his horn twice, and motions for me to move.

In English, it's even worse than I anticipated. And I'm not even halfway down the aisle before I notice that Damen is now sitting by Stacia.

And I'm talking hand-holding, note-passing, whispering distance from Stacia.

While I remain alone in the back like a complete and total reject.

I press my lips together as I make my way toward my desk, listening to all of my classmates hiss:

" Spaz! Watch out, Spaz! Don't fall, Spaz!"

The same words I've been hearing since the moment I got out of my car.

And even though I've no idea what it means, I can't say I'm all that bothered by it —until Damen joins in.

Because the moment he starts laughing and sneering along with the rest, all I want to do is go back. Back to my car, back home where it's safe —

But I don't. I can't. I need to stay put. Assuring myself that it's temporary —that I'll soon get to the bottom of it —that there's no possible way I've lost Damen for good.

And somehow, this helps me get through it. Well, that, and Mr. Robins telling everyone to shush So when the bell finally rings, and everyone's filed out, I'm almost out the door when I hear:

"Ever? Can I speak to you for a moment?"

I grip the door handle, my fingers closed and ready to twist.

"I won't keep you long."

And I take a deep breath and surrender, my fingers cranking the sound on my iPod the second I see his face.

Mr. Robins never keeps me after class. He's just not the stop and chat type. And all of this time I was sure that completing my homework and acing my tests insured me against this exact kind of tiling.

'I'm not sure how to say this, and I don't want to overstep my bounds here —but I really feel I must say something. It's about —"

Damen.

It's about my one true soul mate. My eternal love. My biggest fan for the last four hundred years, who is now completely repulsed by me.

And how just this morning he asked to change seats. Because he thinks I'm a stalker. And now, Mr. Robins, my recently separated, well-meaning English teacher who hasn't a clue, about me, about Damen, about much of anything outside of musty old novels written by long-dead authors, wants to explain how relationships work. How young love is intense. How it all feels so urgent, like it's the most important thing in the world while it's happening —only it's not. There will be plenty of other loves, if I just allow myself to move on. And I have to move on. It's imperative. Mostly because: "Because stalking is not the answer," he says. "It's a crime. A very serious crime, with serious consequences." He frowns, hoping to relay the seriousness of all this.

"I'm not stalking him," I say, realizing too late that defending myself against the 5 word before going through all the usual steps of: He said what? Why would he do that? What could he mean? like a normal, more clueless person would, makes me appear suspiciously guilty. So I swallow hard when I add, "Listen, Mr. Robins, with all due respect, I know you mean well, and I don't know what Damen told you, but —"

I look in his eyes, seeing exactly what Damen told him: that I'm obsessed with him, that I'm crazy, that I drive by his house day and night, that I call him over and over again, leaving creepy, obsessive, pathetic messages — which may be partially true, but still . But Mr. Robins isn't about to let me finish, he just shakes his head and says, "Ever, the last thing I want to do is choose sides or get between you and Damen, because frankly, it's just none of my business and it's something you're ultimately going to have to work out on your own. And despite your recent expulsion, despite the fact that you rarely pay attention in class, and leave your iPod on long after I've asked you to turn it off—you're still one of my best and brightest students. And I'd hate to see you jeopardize what could turn out to be a very bright future — over a boy."

I close my eyes and swallow hard. Feeling so humiliated I wish I could just vanish into thin air —disappear.

No, actually it's much worse than that —I feel mortified, disgraced, horrified, dishonored, and everything else that defines wanting to slink off in shame.

"It's not what you think," I say, meeting his gaze and silently urging him to believe it. "Despite whatever stories Damen might've told you, it's not at all what it appears to be," I add, hearing Mr. Robins sigh along with the thoughts in his head. How he wishes he could share how lost he felt when his wife and daughter walked out, how he never thought he'd make it through another day —but fearing it's inappropriate, which it is.

"If you just give yourself some time, focus your attention on something else," he says, sincerely wanting to help me, and yet afraid of overstepping his bounds. "You'll soon find that —"

The bell rings.

I shift my backpack onto my shoulder, press my lips together, and look at him.

Watching as he shakes his head and says, "Fine. I'll write you a tardy pass. You're free to go."

CHAPTER 21

I'm a YouTube star. Apparently the footage of me untangling myself from a seemingly never-ending string of Victoria's Secret bras, thongs, and garter belts has not only earned me the oh so clever nickname of Spaz but has also been viewed 2323 times. Which just happens to be the number of students enrolled here at Bay View. Well, with a few of the faculty members tossed in. It's Haven who tells me. Finding her at her locker after barely making it through a gauntlet of people shouting, "Hey, Spaz! Don't fall, Spaz!" she's kind enough not only to fill me in on the origin of my newfound celebrity but to lead me to the video so I can watch the spectacle of myself spazzing out right there on my iPhone.

"Oh, that's just great," I say, shaking my head, knowing it's the least of my problems, but still. "It's pretty fuggin' bad," she agrees, closing her locker and looking at me with an expression that could only be read as pity —well, pity on a time crunch with only a few seconds to spare for a spaz like me. "So—anything else? 'Cause I need to get going, I promised Honor I'd—"

I look at her, I mean, really look at her. Seeing how the flamered stripe in her hair is now pink, and how her usual pale-skinned, darkly clad, Emo look has been swapped for the spray-tanned, sparkle-dress, fluffy-haired ensemble of those same cliquey clones she always made fun of. But despite her new dress code, despite her new A-list membership, despite all the evidence presented before me, I still don't believe she's responsible for anything she wears, says, or does at this point. Because even though Haven has a tendency to latch on to others and mimic their ways —she still has her standards. And I know for a fact that the Stacia and Honor brigade is one group she never aspired to join.