Элисон Ноэль - Blue Moon

He extends his hand, waiting for me to return the salve so he can get back to class.

Only I'm not willing to hand it over just yet. I'm looking for some kind of needle hole or puncture mark, something to prove it's been tampered with, that it's not what it seems.

"I mean, today at lunch when I saw how you and Damen toned down the whole smoochy business, I was ready to high-five you, but now it's like you've replaced it with something way worse. I mean, seriously, Ever. Either unscrew the cap and use it, or give it back already."

But I don't give it back. Instead, I close my fingers around it and try to read its energy. But it's just some stupid zit cream. The kind that actually works.

"Are we done here?" He frowns at me.

I shrug and give the tube back. To say I'm embarrassed would be putting it mildly. But when Miles shoves it into his pocket and heads for the door, I can't help but say, "So you noticed?" The words feel hot and sticky in my throat.

"Noticed what?" He stops, clearly annoyed.

"The, um, the absence of the whole smoochy business?”

Miles turns, performing an exaggerated eye roll before leveling his gaze right on mine. "Yeah, I noticed. I figured you guys were just taking my threat seriously."

I look at him.

"This morning —when I said Haven and I were on strike until you guys stopped with all of your —" He shakes his head. "Whatever. Can I please get to class?"

"Sorry." I nod. "Sorry about all the —"

But before I can finish, he's already gone, the door closed firmly between us.

CHAPTER 6

When I get to sixth period art, I'm relieved to see Damen's already there. Since Mr. Robins kept us so busy in English and we barely spoke at lunch, I'm looking forward to a little alone time with him. Or at least as alone as you can be in a classroom with thirty other students.

But after slipping on my smock and gathering my supplies from the closet, my heart sinks when I see that, once again, Roman has taken my place.

"Oh, hey, Ever." He nods, placing his brand-new blank canvas on my easel while I stand there, cradling my stuff in my arms and staring at Damen who's so immersed in his painting he's completely oblivious to me.

And I'm just about to tell Roman to scram when I remember Haven's words, how she said I hate new people. And fearing she might be right, I force a smile onto my face and place my canvas on the easel on Damen's other side, promising myself to get here much earlier tomorrow so I can reclaim my space. "So tell me. Wot are we doin' 'ere, mate?" Roman asks, lodging a paintbrush between his front teeth and glancing between Damen and me. And that's another thing. Normally, I find British accents really appealing, but with this guy, it just grates. But that's probably because it's totally bogus. I mean, it's so obvious with the way he only slips it in when he wants to seem cool.

But as soon as I think it, I feel guilty again. Everyone knows that trying too hard to look cool is just another sign of insecurity. And who wouldn't feel a little insecure on their first day at this school? "We're studying the isms,” I say, determined to play nice despite the nagging ping in my gut. "Last month we got to pick our own, but this month, we're all doing photorealism since nobody picked that last time." Roman looks at me, starting with my growing-out bangs and working his way all the way down to my gold Haviana flip-flops —a slow leisurely cruise along my body that makes my stomach go all jumpy and twisted —and not in a good way.

"Right. So you make it look real then, like a photograph," he says, his eyes on mine.

I meet his gaze, a gaze he insists on holding for several seconds too long. But I refuse to squirm or look away first. I'm determined to stay in the game for as long as it takes. And even though it may seem totally benign on the surface, something about it feels dark, threatening, like some kind of dare.

Or maybe not.

Because right after I think that, he says, "These American schools are amazing! Back home, in soggy old London —" he winks, "it was always theory over practice."

And I'm instantly ashamed for all of my judgmental thoughts. Because apparently, not only is he from London, which means his accent is real, but Damen, whose psychic powers are way more refined than mine, doesn't seem the least bit alarmed.

If anything, he seems to like him. Which is even worse for me, because it pretty much proves that Haven is right.

I really am jealous.

And possessive.

And paranoid.

And apparently I hale new people too.

I take a deep breath and try again, talking past the lump in my throat and the knot in my stomach, determined to come off as friendly, even if it means I have to fake it at first. "You can paint anything you want," I say, using my upbeat friendly voice, which in my old life, before my whole family died in the accident and Damen saved me by making me immortal, was pretty much the only voice I ever used.

"You just have to make it look real, like a photograph.

Actually, we're supposed to use an actual photograph to show our inspiration, and, of course, for grading purposes too. You know, so we can prove that we accomplished what we set out to."

I glance at Damen, wondering if he's heard any of this and feeling annoyed that he's chosen his painting over communicating with me.

"And what's he painting?" Roman asks, nodding at Damen's canvas, a perfect depiction of the blooming fields of Summerland. Every blade of grass, every drop of water, every flower petal, so luminous, so textured, so tangible —it's like being there. "Looks like paradise." He nods.

"It is," I whisper, so awed by the painting I answered too quickly, without time to think about what I just said. Summerland is not just a sacred place —it's our secret place. One of the many secrets I've promised to keep.

Roman looks at me, brows raised. "So it's a real place then?"

But before I can answer, Damen shakes his head and says, "She wishes. But I made it up, it only exists in my head." Then he shoots me a look, tacking on a telepathic message of — careful.

"So how do you ace the assignment, then? If you don't have a photo to prove it exists?" Roman asks, but Damen just shrugs and gets back to painting.

But with Roman still glancing between us, his eyes all squinty and questioning, I know I can't leave it like that. So I look at him and say, "Darnell's not so big on following the rules. He prefers to make his own."

Remembering all the times he convinced me to ditch school, bet at the track, and worse. And when Roman nods and turns toward his canvas, and Damen sends me a telepathic bouquet of red tulips, I know that it worked —our secret is safe and all is okay. So I dip my brush in some paint and get back to work. Eager for the bell to ring so we can head back to my house, and let the real lesson begin.

After class, we pack up our stuff and head for the parking lot. And despite my bid to be nice to the new guy, I can't help but smile when I see he's parked clear on the other side.

"See you tomorrow," I call, relieved to put some distance between us, because despite everyone's instant infatuation with him, I'm just not feeling it, no matter how hard I try.

I unlock my car and toss my bag on the floor, starting to slide onto my seat as I say to Damen, "Miles has rehearsal and I'm heading straight home. Want to follow?"

I turn, surprised to find him standing before me, swaying ever so slightly from side to side with a strained look on his face. "You okay?" I lift my palm to his cheek, feeling for heat or clamminess, some sign of unease, even though I really don't expect to find any. And when Damen shakes his head and looks at me, for a split second all the color drains right away. But then it's over as soon as I blink. "Sorry, I just —my head feels a bit strange," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. "But I thought you never get sick, that we don't get sick?" I say, unable to hide my alarm as I reach for my backpack. Thinking a sip of immortal juice might make him feel better since he requires so much more than I. And even though we're not exactly sure why, Damen figures that six centuries of chugging it have resulted in some kind of dependency, requiring him to consume more and more with each passing year. Which probably means I'll eventually require more too. And even though it seems like a long way off, I just hope he shows me how to make it by then so I won't have to bug him for refills all the time.