Alyson Noël - Night Star

But Stacia’s the only one who seems shocked by my choice. Honor just takes it in stride. Sitting up a little straighter as she lifts her brow and looks me over, her gaze so guarded, so conflicted it’s nearly impossible to decipher.

Nearly.

Though I’m far less focused on her expression than the thoughts that stream through her head. Thoughts she purposely directs right at me, correctly assuming I’m listening when she thinks:

I know you can hear me. I know all about you. And I know that you know what I plan to do to Stacia. How I plan to make her pay for every crappy thing she’s ever done to me or anyone else unfortunate enough to get in her way. What I don’t know is if you’re planning to help me or stop me. But just in case you’re planning to stop me, you really need to rethink it. For one thing, she’s been a total bitch to you from the start, and for another, well, even if you do try to stop me, you can’t. No one can. Not you, not Jude, and especially not Stacia, so it’s best to not even go there —

And even though she’s looking right at me, eager for some kind of reaction, some kind of acknowledgment that I’ve received her message loud and clear, I’ve no intention of giving her the satisfaction. No intention of listening to any more than I already have.

Between her pathetic, revenge-driven manifesto, Stacia’s usual mean-spirited inner commentary, Mr. Borden’s silent lament how yet again, another year of his life will be wasted on a fresh supply of ungrateful, incurious students—an embarrassing collection of bad haircuts and worse clothing, completely indistinguishable from those who came and went before—between all of that and everyone else’s private dramas and angst—the din is too great.

Too depressing.

And totally depleting.

So I tune it all out in favor of a little cross-campus telepathy with Damen.

Sixth-period physics and so far so good , you? I think, preparing to raise my hand when my name is called for roll, used to being one of the first on the alphabetical list with a last name like Bloom.

Art. Great way to end the day—gives me something to look forward to. Wish the whole day could be one long art class. Oh, and Ms. Machado is thrilled to have me back. Told me so herself. Never before has she seen such talent, such a natural gift in someone so young. She even wants to set aside a time to speak to me about my future and which art schools I’m applying to.

What about me? Did she pass on a greeting to the most untalented, ungifted student she’s ever seen? Or has she purposely blocked me from memory?

Don’t be so hard on yourself—your replica of van Gogh was incredibly unique.

If by unique you mean gawd awful, then yep, so true! Just make sure you tell her that I won’t be back for round two. I need to keep my confidence up, to stay strong both mentally and physically, which means I can’t take the risk of what another semester of horribly gloppy stick figures will do to my psyche. So, what’s your first project? Another Picasso—your own rendition of van Gogh?

He scoffs. Impressionism is so last year. I thought I’d go really ambitious and maybe do a mural of some sort. Re-create the Sistine Chapel. You know, cover the walls and the ceiling and really spruce up the classroom a bit—what do you think?

I think that’s a great way to keep that low profile you’re always going on about! I laugh, unaware that I actually laughed out loud until Stacia Miller peers at me, rolls her eyes, and sings, “ Looo—ser! ” under her breath.

And I immediately sign off. Knowing that if Mr. Borden’s frowning face is any indication, I’ve just unwittingly put myself on his watch list. Having been pegged within the first five minutes on the first day of class as one of the more particularly ungrateful troublemakers.

“Something funny, Miss—” He bows his head to peer at the seating chart he’s in the process of making. “— Bloom ? Something you’d like to share with the rest of the class?”

I steal a quick intake of breath and shake my head. Avoiding Stacia’s baleful glare, the amused quirk of Honor’s brow, and the bored sighs from the rest of my classmates who’ve grown all too used to the always embarrassing display that is me.

Opening my new textbook, and reaching into my bag for some paper and a pen only to find it chock full of tulips instead. Like a love letter from Damen, those red, waxy petals serving as a reminder to hang in there, promising that no matter what happens, our undying love is the real deal—the only thing that matters in the midst of everything else.

I trace my finger along the stem, taking a moment to send him a silent thanks , before manifesting the supplies that I need. Closing my bag, confident that nobody saw, until I catch Honor studying me closely, intently, just like she did that day on the beach.

A deeply knowing kind of stare that leaves me wondering just how much she knows about me.

And I’m just about to delve further, to peer into her mind and get to the bottom of it, when she turns away, Mr. Borden calls on me to read, and I slip into the role of ambitious student trying to get my bearings on my very first day.

“Hey, Ever, wait up!”

The sound comes from behind me, but I just keep going, following my first instinct to ignore it.

But when she calls out again, I decide to stop and turn. Not the least bit surprised to find Honor running to catch up, though it’s always odd to see her on her own without Stacia. Like she’s suddenly missing an arm or a leg or some other essential part of herself.

“She’s in the bathroom,” she says, her brown eyes searching my face, answering the question she finds in my gaze. “Either reapplying her makeup, purging the fruit smoothie she slurped down at lunch, or thinking up new ways to blackmail the cheerleading squad—or heck, who knows, maybe all three.” She shrugs, cradling a stack of books in her arms, calmly looking me over from my long blond hair to my pink polished toes.

“Which makes me wonder why you even bother?” I ask, doing the same. Taking in her long dark hair with the recent addition of red streaks, her black denim leggings, knee-high flat black boots, and the sheer knit cardigan that clings to the tank top beneath. “I mean, if you hate her so much, why go to all the planning and bother? Why not just let it go and move on with your life?”

“So you can read my mind.” She smiles, keeping her voice so soft and low, it’s almost as though she’s speaking to herself instead of me. “Maybe someday you’ll teach me how to do that.”

“Doubtful.” I sigh, veering this close to peering into her mind to see what this is really about, then reminding myself that it’s wrong, that I need to be patient and let it unfold on its own.

“Then maybe Jude will.” She lifts a brow, gazing at me as though it’s a test—or maybe even some kind of thinly veiled threat.

But I just press my lips together and peer toward my locker, eager to dump all of the books I’ve already “read” and make my way toward Damen, who’s waiting for me in his car. “Don’t count on it,” I say, preferring not to think about Jude in any way, shape, or form. Other than the odd text message here and there, just to check in and make sure he’s still okay, still alive, and that Haven still hasn’t gotten to him, we haven’t really spoken since the night he killed Roman.

Since the night I was put in the awkward position of having no choice but to protect the one person I’m so angry with, I’m tempted to kill him myself.

“Last I checked, that wasn’t really one of his gifts ,” I add, shifting my bag to my other shoulder and shooting her a look that says: I’m not sure what your point is here, but if in fact you have one, then you really need to get to it!