Evermore - Alyson Noel [22]
“Pass it yourself,” I finally said, tapping it with the tip of my pencil and sending it off the edge of my desk. Hating the way my heart slammed against my chest as he laughed and bent down to retrieve it.
Hating myself for the flood of relief when he slid it into his pocket instead of passing it to her.
“Um, hel-lo, earth to Ever!”
I shake my head and squint at Miles.
“I asked what happened? I mean, not to point fingers or anything, but you are the last one who saw him today . . .”
I gaze at Miles, wishing I knew. Remembering yesterday in art, the way Damen’s eyes sought mine, the way his touch warmed my skin, so sure we’d shared something personal—magical even. But then I remember the girl before Stacia, the gorgeous haughty redhead at the St. Regis, the one I conveniently managed to forget. And I feel like a fool, for being so naïve, for thinking he just might’ve liked me. Because the truth is, that’s just Damen. He’s a player. And he does this all the time.
I gaze across the lunch tables, just in time to see Damen compile an entire bouquet of white rosebuds from Stacia’s ear, sleeve, cleavage, and purse. Then I press my lips and avert my gaze, sparing myself the gratuitous hug that soon follows.
“I didn’t do anything,” I finally say, as confused by Damen’s erratic behavior as Miles and Haven, only far less willing to admit it.
I can hear Miles’s thoughts, weighing my words, trying to decide if he should believe me. Then he sighs and says, “Do you feel as dejected, jilted, and heartbroken as me?”
I look at him, wanting to confide, wishing I could tell him everything, the whole sordid jumble of feelings. How just yesterday I was sure something significant had passed between us, only to wake up today and be presented with this. But instead I just shake my head, gather my things, and head off to class, long before the bell even rings.
All through fifth-period French, I think of ways to get out of art. Seriously. Even as I’m participating in the usual drills, lips moving, foreign words forming, my mind is completely obsessed with faking a stomachache, nausea, fever, a dizzy spell, the flu, whatever. Any excuse will do.
And it’s not just because of Damen. Because the truth is, I don’t even know why I signed up for that class in the first place. I have no artistic ability, my project’s a mess, and it’s not like I’m going to be an artist anyway. And yeah, I guess if you throw Damen into that already full mix, you end up not only with a seriously compromised GPA, but fifty-seven minutes of awkwardness.
But in the end, I go. Mostly because it’s the right thing to do. And I’m so focused on gathering my supplies and donning my smock, that at first I don’t realize he’s not even there. And as the minutes tick by with still no sign of him, I grab my paints and head for my easel.
Only to find that stupid triangle note balanced on the edge.
I stare at it, focusing so intensely that everything around me grows dark and out of focus. The entire classroom reduced to one single point. My entire world consisting of a triangle-shaped letter resting on a thin wooden ledge, the name Stacia scrawled on its front. And even though I’ve no idea how it got there, even though a quick survey of the room reaffirms Damen’s not there, I don’t want it anywhere near me. I refuse to participate in this sick little game.
I grab a paintbrush and flick it as hard as I can, watching as it soars through the air before tumbling to the ground, knowing I’m acting childish, ridiculous, especially when Ms. Machado comes by and swoops it up in her hand.
“Looks like you dropped something!” she sings, her smile bright and expectant, having no idea that I put it there on purpose.
“It’s not mine,” I mumble, rearranging my paints, figuring she can get it to Stacia herself, or better yet, throw it away.
“So there’s another Ever I’m not aware of?” She smiles.
What?