Элисон Ноэль - Blue Moon

He glances at me. "Yeah. So. What's your point? The play's Friday, which, for your information, happens to be tomorrow. This will never be gone by then." "Maybe." I shrug. "But what I meant was, can't you use the makeup to cover it?"

Miles rolls his eyes and scowls. "Oh, so I can sport a huge flesh-colored beacon instead? Would you look at this thing? There's no disguising it. It's got its own DNA! It's casting shadows!"

I pull into the school parking lot, claiming my usual space, the one right next to Damen's shiny black BMW. And when I look at Miles again, for some reason I feel compelled to touch his lace. As though my index finger is inexplicably drawn to the zit on his chin.

"What're you doing?" he asks, cringing and pulling away.

"Just —just be still," I whisper, having no idea what I'm doing, or why I'm even doing it. All I know is my finger has a definite destination in mind.

"Well don't — touch it!" he shouts, the exact moment I make contact. "Great, that's just great. Now it'll probably double in size." He shakes his head and climbs out of the car, and I can't help but feel disappointed to see the pimple still there.

I guess I was hoping I'd developed some kind of enhanced healing ability. Ever since Damen told me, right after I'd decided to accept my fate and start drinking the immortal juice, that I could expect to go through some changes, anything from super-enhanced psychic abilities (which I was not looking forward to), to super-enhanced physical abilities (which could certainly have its benefits in P.E.), or something else altogether (like the ability to heal others, which has my vote since it would be totally cool), I've been on the lookout for something extraordinary. But so far, all I got is an extra inch of leg, which really doesn't do much for me besides requiring a new pair of jeans.

And that probably would've happened eventually anyway.

I grab my bag and climb out of my car, my lips meeting Damen's the instant he comes around to my side.

"Okay, seriously. How much longer can this possibly last?"

We both pull away and look at Miles.

"Yeah, I'm talking to you." He wags his finger. "All of the kissing, and hugging, and let us not forget the constant whispering of sweet little nothings." He shakes his head and narrows his eyes. "Seriously. I was hoping you guys would be over it by now. I mean, don't get me wrong, we're all very happy that Damen's back in school, that you've found each other again, and will most likely live happily ever after. But really, don't you think it's time to maybe try and tone it down a little? Because some of us aren't quite as happy as you. Some of us are a little bit love deprived."

" You're love deprived?" I laugh, not at all offended by anything he just said, knowing it has far more to do with his anxiety about the play than anything to do with Damen and me. "What happened to Holt?" "Holt?" He balks. "Don't even talk about Holt! Do not even go there, Ever!" He shakes his head and turns on his heel, heading toward Haven who's waiting by the gate.

"What's his problem?" Damen asks, reaching for my hand and entwining my fingers with his, gazing at me with eyes that still love me, despite yesterday. "Tomorrow's opening night." I shrug. "So he's freaking out, has a zit on his chin, and naturally he's decided to hold us responsible," I say, watching as Miles links arms with Haven as he leads her toward class.

"We're not talking to them," he says, glancing over his shoulder and frowning at us. "We're on strike until they stop acting so love struck or this zit goes away, whichever comes first." He nods, only half joking. Haven laughs and skips alongside him, as Damen and I head into English. Going right past Stacia Miller who smiles sweetly at him and then tries to trip me. But just as she drops her small bag in my path, hoping to incite a nice, humiliating face plant, I see it lifting, and I feel it smacking —right into her knee. And even though I feel the pain too, I'm still glad I did it. "Owww!" she wails, rubbing her knee and glaring at me, even though she has no tangible proof that I'm in any way responsible.

But I just ignore her and take my seat. I've gotten better at ignoring her. Ever since she got me suspended for drinking on campus, I've done my best to stay out of her way. But sometimes —sometimes I just can't help myself.

"You shouldn't have done that," Damen whispers, attempting a stern look as he leans toward me. "Please. You're the one who wants me to practice manifesting." I shrug. "Looks like those lessons are finally starting to pay off."

He looks at me, shaking his head as he says, "You see, it's even worse than I thought, because for your information that was psychokinesis you just did, not manifesting. See how much there is to learn?" "Psycho-what?" I squint, unfamiliar with the term, though the act itself was sure fun. He takes my hand, a smile playing at the corner of his lips as he says, "I've been thinking ..." I glance at the clock, seeing it's already five minutes past nine and knowing Mr. Robins is just now leaving the teachers' lounge.

"Friday night. What do you say we go somewhere…special?" He smiles.

"Like Summerland?" I look at Damen, my eyes growing wide as my pulse quickens. I've been dying to get back to that magical, mystical place. The dimension between the dimensions, where I can manifest oceans and elephants, and move things far greater than projectile Prada bags —only I need Damen to get there.

But he just laughs and shakes his head. "No, not Summerland. Though we will return there, I promise. But I was thinking more like, I don't know, maybe the Montage, or the Ritz, perhaps?" He raises his brows. "But Miles's play is Friday and I promised we'd be there!" I say, realizing just after I've said it that I'd conveniently forgotten all about Miles's Hairspray debut when I thought I was going to Summerland. But now that Damen wants to check into one of the area's most swanky hotels —my memory is somehow restored.

"Okay, then, how about after the play?" he offers. But when he looks at me, when he sees how I hesitate, how I press my lips together and search for a polite way to decline, he adds, "Or not. It was just a thought."

I gaze at him, knowing I need to accept, that I want to accept. Hearing the voice in my head shouting: Say yes! Say yes! You promised yourself you'd leap forward, without once looking back, and now's your chance — so just go ahead and do it! JUST! SAY!

YES!

But even though I'm convinced that it's time to move on, even though I love Damen with all of my heart and am determined to get over his past and take the next step, what comes out of my mouth is entirely different.

"We'll see," I say, averting my gaze and focusing on the door, just as Mr. Robins walks in.

CHAPTER 4

When the fourth-period bell finally rings, I get up from my desk and approach Mr. Munoz.

"Are you sure you're finished?" he asks, looking up from a pile of papers. "If you need another minute, that's perfectly okay."

I glance over my test sheet, then shake my head.

Wondering what he'd do if he ever found out that I'd finished approximately forty-five seconds after he first handed it to me, then spent the next fifty minutes only pretending to struggle.

"I'm good," I tell him, knowing it's true. One of the perks of being psychic is that I no longer have to study, instead I just sort of know all the answers. And even though it's sometimes tempting to show off and ace all of my tests in a long steady stream of perfect scores, I usually try to hold back and get a few wrong since it's important to not overdo it.

Or at least that's what Damen says. Always reminding me how imperative it is to keep a low profile, to at least give the appearance of being normal —even though we're anything but. Though the first time he said it, I couldn't help but remind him of how there seemed to be an awful lot of tulip manifesting going on back when we first met. But he just said that certain allowances had to be made in his efforts to woo me, and that it took longer than necessary since I didn't bother to look up their true meaning of undying love, until it was almost too late. I hand the paper to Mr. Munoz, cringing when the tips of our fingers make contact. And even though our skin just barely brushed, it was still enough to show me far more than I ever needed to know, allowing for a pretty clear visual of his entire morning so far. Everything from his incredibly messy apartment with the kitchen table that's littered with takeout containers and multiple versions of the manuscript he's been working on for the past seven years, to him singing "Born to Run" at the top of his lungs as he tried to find a clean shirt before heading over to Starbucks where he bumped into a petite blonde who spilled her iced venti chai latte all down the front of it —resulting in a cold, wet, annoying stain that one flash of her beautiful smile seemed to erase. A glorious smile he can't seem to forget —a glorious smile that — belongs to my aunt!