“I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself last time we met—I’m Xavier.”
So he hadn’t forgotten.
His hand was broad and warm. He held mine a fraction too long. I remembered what
Gabriel had said about steering clear of risky human interaction. Warning bells sounded in my head as I frowned and pulled my hand away. It wouldn’t exactly be the wisest move befriending this boy with his ridiculous good looks and hundred-watt smile. The flutter in my chest when I looked at him told me I was already in hot water. I was learning to read the signals given out by my body and knew that this boy was making me nervous. But there was a hint of another feeling, one that I couldn’t identify. I backed away from him, toward the classroom door, where
I could see the lights had just come on. I knew I was being rude, but I was too unsettled to care.
Xavier didn’t look offended, just bemused by my behavior.
“I’m Bethany,” I managed to say, already halfway through the door.
“See you around, Bethany,” he said.
My face felt beet red as I came back into the chem lab, and Mr. Velt threw me an accusatory look for having taken so long in the bathroom.
By lunchtime I’d realized that Bryce Hamilton was a minefield of projector slides and other traps designed to ferret out undercover angels like me. In gym class I had a mild panic attack when I realized I was expected to change in front of all the other girls. They peeled off their clothes without a second thought and tossed them into lockers or onto the floor. Molly got her bra straps tangled and asked for my help, which I gave nervously, hoping she wouldn’t notice the unnaturally soft touch of my hands.
“Wow, you must moisturize like mad,” she said.
“Every night,” I replied lightly.
“So what do you think of the Bryce Hamilton crowd so far? Boys hot enough for you?”
“I wouldn’t say hot,” I said, puzzled. “Most of them seem to have a normal body temperature.”
Molly stared at me. She looked like she was about to snicker, but my expression convinced her I wasn’t trying to be funny. “Hot means good-looking,” she said. “Have you seriously never heard that before? Where was your last school—Mars?”
I blushed as soon as I understood the meaning of her original question. “I haven’t really met any boys yet,” I said, shrugging. “I did run into someone called Xavier.” Speaking his name aloud was strange. There was a cadence to it that made it sound special. I was glad the boy with the intense eyes and the floppy hair wasn’t a Peter or Rob. I’d hoped to sound casual bringing him up, but his name exploded into the conversation like a firework.
“Which Xavier?” Molly quizzed, all ears now. “Is he blond? Xavier Laro’s blond and plays on the lacrosse team. He’s pretty hot. I wouldn’t blame you for liking him, but I think he might already have a girlfriend. Or did they break up? I’m not sure; I could try and find out.”
“This one had light brown hair,” I interrupted her, “and blue eyes.”
“Oh.” Molly’s expression changed. “That would be Xavier Woods. He’s the school captain.”
“Well, he seemed nice.”
“I wouldn’t go for him if I were you,” she counseled. Her expression was all concern, but I got the feeling she expected me to take her advice no matter what. Maybe that was one of the rules in the world of teenage girls: “Friends are always right.”
“I’m not really going for anyone, Molly,” I said, but was unable to resist asking, “Why, what’s wrong with him?” It didn’t seem possible that the boy I’d met could be anything other than perfect.
“Oh, he’s nice enough,” Molly replied, “but let’s just say he’s got baggage.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, a whole heap of girls have been trying to get his attention for ages, but he’s emotionally unavailable.”
“You mean he’s already got a girlfriend?”
“He did have. Her name was Emily. But no one’s been able to comfort him since . . .” She trailed off.
“They broke up?” I prompted.
“No.” Molly’s voice dropped and she twisted her fingers uncomfortably. “She died in a house fire almost two years ago. Before it happened they were inseparable, people even talked about them getting married and everything. No one’s been able to measure up to her. I don’t think he’s ever really gotten over it.”
“How awful,” I said. “He would have been only . . .”
“Sixteen,” Molly finished. “He was pretty close with Henry Taylor as well—he spoke at the funeral. He was just getting over Emily when it happened. Everyone kinda expected him to break down, but he just shut off emotionally and kept going.”
I didn’t know what else to say. Looking at Xavier’s face, you would never have guessed the pain he must have endured, although now I remembered there was a slightly guarded look about his eyes.
“He’s all right now,” Molly said. “He’s still friends with everyone, still plays on the rugby team, and coaches the junior swimmers. It’s not like he can’t crack a smile, it’s just that relationships are sort of off-limits. I don’t think he wants to get involved again after the crappy luck he’s had.”
“I guess you can’t blame him,” I said.
Molly suddenly noticed that I was still in my uniform and her serious tone lifted. “Hurry up and get changed,” she urged. “What are you, shy?”
“Just a bit.” I smiled at her and disappeared into a shower cubicle.
My thoughts about Xavier Woods were cut off as soon as I saw the sports uniform I was expected to wear. I even contemplated crawling out the window to make my escape. It was completely unflattering; the shorts were too short, and the top rode up so much that I could hardly move without flashing my midriff. That was going to be a problem during games seeing as we angels didn’t have a navel—just smooth white skin, freckle and indentation free. Luckily my wings (feathered but paper thin) folded flat across my back, so I didn’t have to worry about them showing, but they were starting to cramp from lack of exercise. I couldn’t wait until the predawn flight in the mountains that Gabriel had promised us soon.
I tugged the top down as far as I could and joined Molly, who was at the mirror applying a liberal coating of lip gloss. I wasn’t sure why she needed lip gloss for gym class, but when she offered me the brush, I accepted, not wanting to appear ungracious. I wasn’t exactly sure how to use the applicator but managed to apply a fairly uneven coating. I assumed it was something that took practice. Unlike the other girls, I hadn’t been experimenting with my mom’s cosmetics since I was five. I hadn’t even known what my human face looked like until recently.
“Rub your lips together,” said Molly. “Like this . . .”
I mimicked her and found that the motion smoothed out the gloss, making me look less clownlike.
“That’s better,” she said approvingly.
“Thanks.”
“I guess you don’t wear makeup very often.”
I shook my head.
“Well, it’s not like you need it. That color suits you though.”
“It smells amazing.”
“It’s called Melon Sorbet.” Molly looked pleased with herself, then became distracted by something and began sniffing the air.
“Can you smell that?” she asked.
I stiffened, gripped by a sudden rush of insecurity. Was it me? Was it possible that we smelled terrible to people on earth? Had Ivy sprayed my clothes with some sort of perfume that was socially unacceptable in Molly’s world?