Читать книгу Spirit - Brigid Kemmerer - Страница 11

CHAPTER 4

Calla was sitting in the cushioned chair in the guidance office, sniffling, cradling her arm. She wouldn’t look at Hunter.

He glared at her and tried to hang on to his temper as the guidance counselor droned on.

“I asked you a question, Hunter,” said Ms. Vickers. “Did you leave those bruises on Calla’s wrist?”

Right this second, he wanted to leave a lot more than bruises. Calla had pretty much just guaranteed he’d have to leave her alone—in school and out. He gritted his teeth and lied right through them. “No.”

Calla sniffed again. “Ms. Vickers, I really don’t feel comfortable being in the room with him.”

“Hunter, we had a talk on your first day here. I said that we wouldn’t be tolerant of any physical altercations with other students. Do you remember this conversation?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice tight.

“And while I understand that the police found you unarmed during last week’s fire, I do not like the rumors that you have access to a gun.”

“He does,” Calla whispered with a catch in her voice. “He showed it to me. When we were fighting, he said if I didn’t go out with him, he’d—”

“Cut the act,” he snapped.

Calla flinched. She deserved an Academy Award.

Hunter kept his voice even. “I have never threatened you.”

She looked up. There were tears in her eyes. “I liked you, Hunter. I really did. But—”

“Stop it.” He wanted to list everything she’d done. The fires, the break-in, her mission to kill people. But he’d sound like a raving lunatic.

When she was the one who was nuts.

Ms. Vickers rocked back in her chair. She had to be in her forties, with that many gray streaks in her brown hair. Her eyes were tired over sagging cheeks, but she still had a steely gaze. “I’ve asked Calla to come see me every morning,” she said. “I’m going to ask you to give her some space, Hunter.”

“Gladly.”

“We take harassment very seriously.”

“Fine. Whatever. I won’t harass her. I won’t even talk to her. Can I go?”

“No. I’d like Calla to go. I think you and I should talk for a few minutes.”

Calla sniffed a final time and picked up her backpack, grabbing a few tissues from the box on Ms. Vickers’s desk.

Hunter couldn’t look at her when she edged past him. The door closed behind her with a soft click.

He didn’t want to look at Vickers, either.

“Do you want to tell me your side of the story?” she asked.

“There is no story.”

Vickers didn’t say anything.

Hunter could feel her waiting, and he finally looked up. “There’s no story,” he emphasized. “I will completely avoid her.”

“You sound like you feel you’re being victimized.”

Victimized. There was no safe answer to that, so Hunter just looked away again.

“How would your mother feel,” said Vickers, “if she knew why I called you down here today?”

He snorted. “She’d say, ‘Hunter who?’ ”

Ms. Vickers seemed to freeze, and he realized it was the wrong thing to say.

“Should we talk about your mother?” she said quietly.

This was just great. “What, you think I’m not getting attention at home, so I’m roughing up girls?”

“Are you?” said Vickers.

“No. God. No.” Hunter leaned forward and put his hand on the edge of the desk. “I don’t want to have this conversation.” He grabbed his bag and stood to leave.

“Hunter,” she called after him.

He paused in the doorway.

“I want you to steer clear of Calla Dean, do you understand me?”

“Yes.” He grabbed the doorknob.

“No contact.”

“Got it.”

“And I’d like to have a conversation in a few days to see how things are going.”

He rolled his eyes. “Can’t wait.”

As he stepped out of the main office, he considered that there’d once been a time when he wouldn’t even have thought of walking out on a teacher—much less acting like that in her presence. Then again, there’d once been a time when he’d had expectations to live up to.

He wondered if Becca would talk to him. He’d sent her a text during the week school had been closed, and he’d been surprised to get an immediate response.

Then he’d read it: No offense, but no one trusts you, Hunter.

But here, at school, she might be more receptive. Especially if he told her what Calla had said.

In fourth-period World History, Becca was sitting with Chris, as usual, her dark hair hanging down over one shoulder. She looked up as soon as Hunter walked into the room, and the intensity in her gray eyes almost pinned him against the doorjamb.

When he’d first moved here, he’d sensed that Becca was a Fifth, like he was, but he’d known right away that she wasn’t a Guide. Becca was too trusting. Too kind. He’d liked her right away—but he’d come here to finish his father’s task of destroying the Merricks, and she was an easy link through her friendship with Chris. So Hunter had used her.

And he’d lost any chance he’d had with her.

She stared at him for a long moment, then turned her head to whisper something to Chris.

Hunter felt a flicker of . . . something. Not quite regret—and not quite longing, either. He begged the air to carry her words to him, but it refused.

Maddening, especially when Chris laughed under his breath and gave Hunter a look.

Hunter wanted to stride across the room and hit Chris Merrick in the face. He pictured it happening, aiming his punch through his target like his father had taught him, imagining the way bones would give way under his hand.

“Excuse me.”

He was blocking the door. Hunter shifted to the side to let the girl pass. He forced his hand to unclench.

Then he caught the aroma of cinnamon and apples, the sheen of light on blond hair. The new girl from this morning was frowning at a blue paper. “Is this World History?”

“Yes.” He racked his brain for something intelligent to say, but then her eyes lifted from the paper and stole every coherent thought from his head.

Like what you see?

Inexplicably, he wanted to touch her, to feel her heartbeat under his fingertips, to catch some of that scent on his palm.

Now he was glad he couldn’t speak. He’d probably sound like a psycho.

She shifted the bag higher on her shoulder. “You’re big on staring, huh?”

He jerked his eyes away, feeling heat course up his neck. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just don’t blame me for staring back.”

He swung his gaze back. Again, he had no idea whether she was flirting. Her tone was so . . . direct.

“I have a theory about piercings,” she said.

“I’d like to hear it.” He could be direct back.

Mr. Beamis, the ancient History teacher, cleared his throat behind them. “Perhaps we could all take our seats?”

The girl didn’t move, so Hunter didn’t, either.

Three empty seats were available in the classroom. One immediately to their left, the desk almost touching the teacher’s. One at the back, directly behind Becca. And one in the third row, two seats over from Hunter.

“Where do you sit?” the girl said.

He nodded toward his seat in the third row. The desks were arranged two-by-two, and he’d been paired with Monica Lawrence for the semester project.

Monica appeared to be examining her hair for split ends.

And a few rows past that, Becca was watching his interaction with the new girl a little too carefully.

Mr. Beamis cleared his throat again, a bit more emphatically. “Sometime today, if you don’t mind.”

The girl turned and surveyed the room as if the teacher’s impatience didn’t matter one bit. Then, without another glance at Hunter, she slipped between the desks and dropped into the chair two rows over.

He made his way into his own seat and refused to look her way.

Beamis turned toward the board and immediately started droning. Hunter could totally sleep through this class—he’d taken World History last year, at his old school, and even though he’d told them that at registration, they’d still dumped him in here. Monica wasn’t the type to care whether he paid attention or not, so he usually used this class to catch up on homework from his other teachers.

Today, he was keenly aware of the new girl sitting a few rows over.

He should be plotting a way to stop Calla. He should be figuring the best angle to approach the Merricks to get their help.

He just couldn’t think past cinnamon and apples and blond hair.

Then he slammed a door on those thoughts. He’d been burned twice now—once by Clare, a girl who’d been using him for his father’s weapons. And once by Calla, a girl who was using him for his father’s connections.

Before their final trip, Hunter’s father had imparted one last lesson, and death had made it stick: Use them before they use you.

He pulled out his essay for Honors French and pretended the new girl didn’t exist.

A folded triangle of paper landed in the center of his notebook.

Normally he’d unfold it discreetly, but Beamis was so clueless that the note could have hit him in the head and he wouldn’t notice.

Loopy script in purple pen. The paper smelled like her.

What’s your #?

Wow.

Hunter clicked his pen and wrote below her words.

I have a theory about girls who ask for your number before asking for your name.

Then he folded it up and flicked it back.

It took every ounce of self-control to not watch her unfold it.

The paper landed back on his desk in record time.

I have a theory about boys who prefer writing to texting.

He put his pen against the paper.

I have a theory about girls with theories.

Then he waited, not looking, fighting the small smile that wanted to play on his lips.

The paper didn’t reappear.

After a minute, he sighed and went back to his French essay.

When the folded triangle smacked him in the temple, he jumped a mile. His chair scraped the floor, and Beamis paused in his lecture, turning from the board. “Is there a problem?”

“No.” Hunter coughed, covering the note with his hand. “Sorry.”

When the coast was clear, he unfolded the triangle.

It was a new piece of paper.

My name is Kate.

Kate. Hunter almost said the name out loud.

What was wrong with him?

It fit her perfectly, though. Short and blunt and somehow indescribably hot.

Another piece of paper landed on his notebook, a small strip rolled up tiny.

This time, there was only a phone number.

Hunter felt like someone had punched him in the stomach and he couldn’t remember how to breathe.

Then he pulled out his cell phone and typed under the desk.

Come here often?

Her response appeared almost immediately.

First timer.

Beamis was facing the classroom now, so Hunter kept his gaze up until it was safe. When he looked back, Kate had written again.

I bet I could strip naked and this guy wouldn’t even notice.

Hunter’s pulse jumped. But this was easier, looking at the phone instead of into her eyes.

I would notice.

There was a long pause, during which he wondered if he’d said the wrong thing. Then a new text appeared.

I have a theory about boys who picture you naked before sharing their name.

He smiled.

My name is Hunter. Where you from?

This time, her response appeared immediately.

Just transferred from St. Mary’s in Annapolis.

Now he was imagining her in a little plaid skirt and knee-high socks.

Another text appeared.

Stop imagining me in the outfit.

He grinned.

How did you know?

You’re a boy.

I’m still waiting to hear your theory on piercings.

Right. IMO, you have to be crazy hot to pull off either piercings or tattoos. Otherwise you’re just enhancing the ugly.

Hunter stared at the phone, wondering if she was hitting on him—or insulting him. Before he could figure it out, another message appeared.

What does the tattoo on your arm say?

He slid his fingers across the keys.

It says “ask me about this tattoo.”

Liar.

Mission accomplished, I’d say.

He heard a small sound from her direction and peeked over. She was still staring at her phone, but she had a smile on her face, like she was trying to stifle a giggle.

Mission accomplished, he’d say.