"Oh God, I mean, you really didn't. You didn't get a chance to, since he ..." He looks at me. "Oh Ever, I'm so sorry."
I shrug, seeing the devastation I feel so clearly displayed on his face.
"Listen," he says, reaching for my arm as I stop at a light, then pulling away when he remembers how I don't like to be touched by anyone other than Damen, not blowing that it's only because I go out of my way to avoid any and all unsolicited energy exchange.
"Ever, you're gorgeous, seriously. I mean, especially now that you stopped wearing those dumpy hoodies and baggy —" He shakes his head. "Anyway, I think it's safe to say that there's no way Damen would have willingly walked out on you. I mean, let's face it, the guy's totally in love, anyone can see it. And believe me, with the way you two are constantly going at it, everyone has seen it. There's just no possible way he could've bailed!"
I glance at him, wanting to remind him of what Roman said about Damen speeding away, and how I have this terrible feeling he's somehow connected, maybe even responsible —but just as I'm about to, I realize I can't. I've no evidence to go on, nothing to prove it.
"You call the police?" he asks, his expression suddenly serious.
I press my lips together and squint at the light straight ahead, hating the fact that I did indeed call the cops.
Knowing that if everything turns out to be fine, and Damen shows up unscathed, he's going to be pretty unhappy about my drawing that kind of attention his way.
But what was I supposed to do? I mean, if there was an accident or something, I figured they'd be the first to know. So Sunday morning, I went down to the station and filed a report, answering all of the usual questions like: mule, Caucasian, brown eyes, brown hair . . . Until we got to his age and I nearly choked when I almost said: um . . . he's approximately six hundred and seventeen years old... "Yeah, I filed a report," I finally say, pressing hard on the gas the second the light turns green and watching the speedometer rise. "They took down the info and said they'd look into it."
"That's it? Are you kidding? He's underage, he's not even an adult!"
"Yeah, but he's also emancipated. Which is like a whole other set of circumstances, making him legally responsible for himself, and other things I don't quite understand. Anyway, it's not like I'm privy to their investigation techniques, it's not like they filled me in on the big plan," I say, slowing to a more normal speed, now that we've entered the school zone. "Do you think we should pass out flyers? Or hold a candlelight vigil like you see on the news?"
My stomach curls when he says it, even though I know he's just being his usual overly dramatic, though well-meaning self. But up until now, I hadn't imagined it ever coming to that. I mean, surely Damen will show up soon. He's got to. He's immortal! What could possibly happen to him?
But no sooner do I think it than I pull into the parking lot and see him climbing out of his car. Looking so sleek, so sexy, so gorgeous —you'd think everything was perfectly normal. That the last few days had never occurred.
I slam on the brakes, my car lurching forward then back, causing the driver behind me to slam on their brakes too. My heart racing, my hands shaking, as I watch my completely gorgeous, up until now MIA boyfriend, run a hand through his hair so deliberately, so insistently, and with such focused concentration you'd think it was his most pressing concern. This is not what I expected.
"What the hell?" Miles shrieks, gaping at Damen as a whole slew of cars honk behind us. "And what's he doing parked all the way over there ? Why isn't he in the second-best spot, saving the best one for us?" And since I don't know the answers to any of those questions, I pull up beside Damen, thinking he might. I lower my window, feeling inexplicably shy and awkward when he merely glances at me before looking away. "Urn, is everything okay?" I ask, wincing when he just barely nods, which is pretty much the most imperceptible acknowledgment of my presence he could possibly give. He reaches into his car and grabs his bag, taking the opportunity to admire himself in the driver's side window as I swallow hard and say, "Because you sort of took off Friday night. . . and I couldn't find you or reach you all weekend . .. and I got kinda worried . . . I even left you some messages ... did you get them?" I press my lips together and cringe at my pathetic, ineffective, wuss-laden inquiry. You sort of took off? I got Mods worried? When what I really want to scream is: HEY YOU IN THE SUPER-SLICK ALL-BLACK ENSEMBLE WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?
Watching as he slips his bag onto his shoulder and gazes at me, his quick powerful stride closing the distance between us in a handful of seconds. But only the physical distance, not the emotional one, because when I look into his eyes they seem miles away.
And just when I realize I've been holding my breath, he leans into the window, his face close to mine when he says, "Yeah. I got your messages. All fifty-nine of them."
I can feel his warm breath on my cheek as my mouth drops open and my eyes search his, seeking the heat his gaze always provides, and shivering when I come away cold, dark, and empty. Though it's nothing like the lack of recognition I glimpsed the other day. No, this is far worse.
Because now when I look in his eyes —it's clear that he knows me —he just wishes he didn't.
"Damen, I —" My voice cracks as a car honks behind me and Miles mutters something unintelligible under his breath.
And before I've had a chance to clear my throat and start over, Damen's shaking his head and walking away.
CHAPTER 17
"Are you all right?" Miles asks, his face displaying all of the heartbreak and pain I'm too numb to feel. I shrug, knowing I'm not. I mean, how can I be all right when I'm not even sure what's all wrong ? "Damen's an asshole," he says, a hard edge to his voice.
But I just sigh. Even though I can't explain it, and even though I don't understand it, I just know in my gut that things are far more complicated than they might seem.
"No he's not," I mumble, climbing out of the car and closing the door much harder than necessary. "Ever, please ... I mean, I'm sorry to be the one to point it out, but you did just see what I saw, right?" I head toward Haven who's waiting by the gate. "Trust me, I saw everything, " I say. Replaying the scene in my mind, each time pausing on his distant eyes, his tepid energy, his complete lack of interest in me —
"So you agree? That he's an asshole?" Miles watches me carefully, assuring himself I'm not the kind of girl who would ever allow a guy to treat her like that. "Who's an asshole?" Haven asks, glancing between us.
Miles looks at me, his eyes asking permission, and after seeing me shrug, he looks at Haven and says, "Damen."
Haven squints, her mind swimming with questions. But I've got my own set of questions, questions with no probable answer. Such as: What the hell just happened back there? And:
Since when does Damen have an aura? "Miles can fill you in," I say, glancing between them before walking away. Wishing more than ever that I could be normal, that I could lean on them and cry on their shoulders like a regular girl. But there just happens to be more to this situation than meets their mortal eyes. And even though I can't yet prove it —if I want answers, I'll have to go straight to the source.
When I get to class, instead of hesitating at the door, like I thought I would, I surprise myself by bursting right in. And when I see Damen leaning against the edge of Stacia's desk, smiling and joking and flirting with her —I feel like I've stepped into a major case of deja vu.
You can handle this, I think. You've been here before .
Remembering the time, not so long ago, when Damen pretended to be interested in Stacia, but only to get to me.
But the closer I get, the more I realize that this is nothing at all like the last time. Back then all I had to do was look into his eyes to find the smallest glimmer of compassion, a sliver of regret he just couldn't hide. But now, watching as Stacia outdoes herself with her hair-tossing, cleavage-flaunting, eyelash-batting routine —it's like I'm invisible.
"Um, excuse me," I say, causing them to look up, clearly annoyed by the interruption. "Damen, could I, um, could I talk to you for a sec?" I shove my hands in my pockets so he can't see them shake, forcing myself to breathe like a normal, relaxed person would —in and out, slow and steady, with no gasping or wheezing. Watching as he and Stacia glance at each other, then burst out laughing at the exact same time. And just as Damen's about to speak, Mr. Robins walks in and says, "Seats, everyone! I want to see you all in your seats!"
So I motion to our desks, and say, "Please, after you." I follow behind, resisting the urge to grab him by the shoulder, spin him around, and force him to look me in the eye as I scream:
Why did you leave me? What on earth happened to you? How could you do that —on that night—of all nights?
Knowing that sort of direct, confrontational approach will only work against me. That if I want to get anywhere at all, then I'll have to act cool, calm, and easy.
I toss my bag to the floor, stacking my book, notebook, and pen on my desk. Smiling as though I'm no more than a casual friend interested in a little Monday morning chat when I say, "So, what'd you do this weekend?"
He shrugs, his eyes grazing over me before resting on mine. And it's a moment before I realize the horrible thoughts that I hear are coming straight from his head.
Well, if I'm gonna have a stalker, at least she's hot, he thinks, his brows merging together as I instinctively reach for my iPod, wanting to tune him out, yet knowing I can't risk missing something important, no matter how much it might hurt. Besides, I've never had access to Damen's mind before, never been able to hear what he's thinking. But now that I can, I'm not sure that I want to.
And when he twists his lips to the side and narrows his eyes, thinking: Too bad she's totally psycho —definitely not worth risking a tap. The bite of his words is like a stake in my chest. And I'm so taken aback by his casual cruelty, I forget they weren't spoken out loud when I shriek, "Excuse me? What did you just say?" Causing all of my classmates to turn and stare, their sympathies lying with Damen for having to sit next to me.
"Is something wrong?" Mr. Robins asks, glancing between us.
I sit there, totally speechless. My heart caving when Damen looks at Mr. Robins and says, "I'm fine. She's the freak."
CHAPTER 18
I followed him. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I had to. He left me no choice. I mean, if Damen's going to insist on avoiding me, then surveillance is my only option.
So I followed him out of English, waited for him after second period —third and fourth too. Staying in the background and observing from afar, wishing I'd agreed to let him transfer to all of my classes like he originally wanted, but thinking it was too creepy, too codependent, I wouldn't let him. So now I'm forced to linger outside his door, eavesdropping on his conversations along with the thoughts in his head—thoughts that, I'm horrified to report, are depressingly vain, narcissistic, and shallow. But that's not the real Damen. Of this I'm convinced. Not that I think he's a manifest Damen because those never last more than a few minutes. What I mean is, something's happened to him. Something serious that's making him act and think like —well, like most of the guys in this school. Because even though I never had access to his mind until now, I know he didn't think like that before. He didn't act like that either. No, this new Damen is like an entirely new creature, where only the outside is familiar—while the inside is something else altogether. I head toward the lunch table, steeling myself for what I might find, though it's not until I've unzipped my lunch pack and shined my apple on my sleeve, that I realize that the real reason I'm alone isn't because I'm early.
It's because everyone else has abandoned me too. I look up, hearing Damen's familiar laugh, only to find him surrounded by Stacia, Honor, and Craig, along with the rest of the A-list crew. Which wouldn't be all that surprising with the way things are going, except for the fact that Miles and Haven are there too. And as my eyes sweep the length of the table, I drop my apple and my mouth runs dry when I see that all of the tables are now pushed together. The lions are now lunching with lambs.
Which means Roman's prediction came true.
Bay View High School's lunch time caste system has come to an end.