Evermore - Alyson Noel [11]
I can feel Damen’s gaze—heavy, warm, and inviting—and it makes me so nervous my palms start to sweat and my water bottle slips from my grip. Falling so fast, I can’t even stop it, all I can do is wait for the splash.
But before it can even hit the table, Damen’s already caught it and returned it to me. And I sit there, staring at the bottle and avoiding his gaze, wondering if I’m the only one who noticed how he moved so fast he actually blurred.
Then Miles asks about New York, and Haven scoots so close she’s practically sitting on Damen’s lap, and I take a deep breath, finish my lunch, and convince myself I imagined it.
When the bell finally rings, we all grab our stuff and head toward class, and the second Damen’s out of earshot I turn to my friends and say, “How did he end up at our table?” Then I cringe at how my voice sounded so shrill and accusing.
“He wanted to sit in the shade, so we offered him a spot.” Miles shrugs, depositing his bottle in the recycling bin and leading us toward the building. “Nothing sinister, no evil plot to embarrass you.”
“Well, I could’ve done without the staring comment,” I say, knowing I sound ridiculous and overly sensitive. I’m unwilling to express what I’m really thinking, not wanting to upset my friends with the very valid, yet unkind question: Why is a guy like Damen hanging with us?
Seriously. Out of all the kids in this school, out of all the cool cliques he could join, why on earth would he chose to sit with us—the three biggest misfits?
“Relax, he thought it was funny.” Miles shrugs. “Besides, he’s coming by your house tonight. I told him to stop by around eight.”
“You what?” I gape at him, suddenly remembering how all through lunch Haven was thinking about what she was going to wear, while Miles wondered if he had time for a spray tan, and now it all makes sense.
“Well, apparently Damen hates football as much as we do, which we happened to learn during Haven’s little Q and A that took place just moments before you arrived.” Haven smiles and curtseys, her fishnet-covered knees bowing out to either side. “And since he’s new, and doesn’t really know anyone else, we figured we’d hog him all to ourselves and not give him the chance to make other friends.”
“But—” I stop, unsure how to continue. All I know is that I don’t want Damen coming over, not tonight, not ever.
“I’ll swing by sometime after eight,” Haven says. “My meeting’s over by seven, which gives me just enough time to go home and change. And, by the way, I call dibs on sitting next to Damen in the Jacuzzi!”
“You can’t do that!” Miles says, shaking his head in outrage. “I won’t allow it!”
But she just waves over her shoulder as she skips toward class, and I turn to Miles and ask, “Which meeting is it today?”
He opens the classroom door and smiles. “Friday is for overeaters.”
Haven is what you’d call an anonymous-group addict. In the short time I’ve known her, she’s attended twelve-step meetings for alcoholics, narcotics, codependents, debtors, gamblers, cyber addicts, nicotine junkies, social phobics, pack rats, and vulgarity lovers. Though as far as I know, today is her first one for overeaters. But then again, at five foot one with the slim, lithe body of a music box ballerina, Haven is definitely not an overeater. She’s also not an alcoholic, a debtor, a gambler, or any of those other things. She’s just terminally ignored by her self-involved parents, which makes her seek love and approval from just about anywhere she can get it.
Like with the whole goth thing. It’s not that she’s really all that into it, which is pretty obvious by the way she always skips instead of skulks, and how her Joy Division posters hang on the pastel pink walls of her not-so-long-ago ballerina phase (that came shortly after her J. Crew catalog preppy phase).
Haven’s just learned that the quickest way to stand out in a town full of Juicy-clad blondes is to dress like the Princess of Darkness.