But he just shrugs. "I'm emancipated. I do what I want."
"Yeah, but-" I stop, realizing his phone number's not the only thing missing. I barely even know this guy. And I can't help but wonder how he can possibly make me feel so good, so normal, when everything about him is so abnormal. Though it's not until I've turned away that I realize he's yet to explain what happened on the freeway last night.
But before I can ask he's right there beside me, taking my hand as he says, "My neighbor called. My sprinklers failed and my yard was flooding. I tried to get your attention but you were on the phone, and I didn't want to bother you."
I gaze down at our hands, bronze and pale, strong and frail, such an unlikely pair.
"Now go. I'll see you after school, I promise." He smiles, plucking a Single red tulip from the back of my ear.
Usually, I try not to dwell on my old life. I try not to think about my old house, my old friends, my old family, my old self. And even though I've gotten pretty good at heading off that particular storm, recognizing the signs--'the stinging eyes, the shortness of breath, the overwhelming feeling of hollowness and despair-before they can take hold, sometimes it just hits, without warning, without time to prepare. And all I can do when that happens is curl up in a ball and wait for it to pass..
Which is pretty hard to do in the middle of history class.
So while Mr. Munoz is going on and on about Napoleon, my throat closes, my stomach clenches, and my eyes start to sear so abruptly, I bolt from my seat and race for the door, oblivious to the sound of my teacher calling me back, immune to my classmates' derisive laugh.
I turn the corner, blinded by tears, gasping for air, my insides feeling empty, cleaned out, a hollow shell folding in on itself. And by the time I see Stacia it's way too late, and I knock her with such speed and force she crashes to the ground and rips a hole in her dress.
"What the-" She gapes at her splayed limbs and torn dress, before leveling her gaze right on me. "You fucking ripped it, you freak!" She pokes her fist through the tear, displaying the damage.
And even though I feel bad for what happened, there's no time to help. The grief is about to consume me and I can't let her see.
I start to brush past her just as she grabs hold of my arm and struggles to stand, the touch of he
r skin infusing me with such dark dismal energy it robs me of breath.
"For your information, this dress is designer. Which means you are going to replace it," she says, fingers squeezing so tight, I fear I might faint. "And trust me, it doesn't stop there." She shakes her head and glares. "You are gonna be so fucking sorry you ran into me, you're gonna wish you never came to this school."
"Like Kendra?" I say, my stance suddenly steady, my stomach settling into a much calmer state.
She loosens her grip but doesn't let go.
"You planted those drugs in her locker. You got her expelled, destroyed her credibility so they'd believe you and not her," I say, transcribing the scene in my head.
She drops my arm and takes a step back, the color draining from her face as she says, "Who told you that? You didn't even go here when that happened."
I shrug, knowing that's true, though it's hardly the point.
"Oh, and there's more," I say, advancing on her, my own personal storm having passed, my overwhelming grief miraculously cured by the fear in her eyes. "I know you cheat on tests, steal from your parents, clothing stores, your friends-it's all fair game as far as you're concerned. I know you record Honor's phone calls and keep a file of her e-mails and text messages in case she ever decides to turn on you. I know that you flirt with her stepdad, which, by the way, is totally disgusting, but unfortunately it gets much worse than that. I know all about Mr. Barnes-Barnum?
Whatever, you know who I mean, your ninth grade history teacher? The one you tried to seduce? And when he wouldn't bite you tried to blackmail him instead, threatening to tell the school principal and his poor pregnant wife… " I shake my head in disgust, her behavior so squalid, so self-serving, it hardly seems real.
And yet, there she is, standing before me, eyes wide, lips trembling, stunned to have all of her dirty little secrets revealed. And instead of feeling bad or guilty for exposing her, for using my gift in this way, seeing this despicable person, this awful selfish bully who's taunted me since my very first day, reduced to a shaky, sweaty mess, is more gratifying than I ever would've imagined. And with my nausea and grief now merely a memory, I figure, what the heck, I may as well continue.
"Should I go on?" I ask. "Because believe me, I can. There's plenty more, but you already know that, don't you?"
I go after her, me walking forward, her stumbling backward, eager to put as much distance between us as she possibly can.
"What are you? Some kind of witch?" she whispers, eyes scanning the corridor, looking for help, an exit, anything to get away from me.
I laugh. Not admitting, not denying, just wanting her to think twice before she messes with me again.
But just as quickly she stops, finds her footing, and looks me in the eye when she says, "Then again, it's your word against mine." Her lips curve into a grin. "And who do you think people will believe? Me, the most popular girl in the junior class? Or you, the biggest fucking freak that ever came to this school?"
She has a point.
She fingers the hole in her dress, then shakes her head, and says, "Stay away from me, freak. Because if you don't, I swear to God you'll regret it."
And when she steps forward, she slams into my shoulder so hard, I've no doubt she means it.