Читать книгу Spellbound - Cara Shultz Lynn - Страница 9

The next two and a half weeks kind of plodded on—although crossing them off in the back of my notebook as if I were serving a prison sentence sure didn’t help the time fly. Jenn, I assumed, was afraid of losing favor with Kristin, since some days she was warm and friendly—and others, she just kept her head down and ignored me. Cisco and I were becoming fast friends, and at least, I always had someone who talked to me at lunch. (Well, Austin did, but he was just trying to get me on the winter dance committee.) Angelique, my chemistry partner, refused to eat in the cafeteria, so on sunny days we’d just grab something to go and walk around the neighborhood.

I could tell that my friendship with her was not going over well with some of my classmates, who were put off by her quirky ways. (Once, she blamed her missing homework on the moon.) Angelique was also on scholarship, so of course the snobs at the school treated her like she lived in a mental hospital, not in an apartment building on Tenth Avenue. I, personally, thought she was a trip. Besides, these were people who had yet to even say three words to me, and Angelique—one of the best students in the class—had generously offered me all her notes to copy. Finally, Angelique admitted to me one day that she did play up her beliefs to get a rise out of everyone.

“They don’t understand anything that doesn’t conform to what they believe, or what they think, so of course I do whatever I can to make them uncomfortable,” she confessed to me over knishes on a bench in Central Park. “I, truly, am a witch. My mom’s a witch, too.

“It’s not like you see in the movies. Sure, there are some bad witches, those with evil intentions—my mom’s met a few,” Angelique whispered conspiratorially, flipping her jet-black hair back. “But not all are bad. And truly, I do see auras, and I really can see and sense people’s energy. But I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t the best feeling to make these look-alike sheep so uncomfortable. I make stuff up sometimes just to annoy them.”

That afternoon, she expertly completed an experiment in acid/base properties, and loudly announced that the chemicals spoke to her, winking at me out of the corner of her eye.

Thanks to Angelique, I caught up on schoolwork pretty quickly. But things weren’t necessarily hard at this new school…just competitive. Still, I threw myself into my studies, telling myself that I was trying to get on the Principal’s List, to make my aunt happy. I hated to admit the truth: I was trying to distract myself from a growing, nagging interest in Brendan. (A regular name on the honor roll? Brendan Alexander Salinger. So much for being a dumb jock.)

He strode into English class on my second day, and all I could think was, “Damn.” He put the hot in “hot mess.” And the mess. His black hair was sticking out like it had exploded, his shirt was untucked and his tie barely knotted. But the disheveled look worked on him, like he had just rolled out of bed and onto the set of a jeans commercial.

Brendan turned his vibrant green eyes on my light brown ones, and I took that as my cue to say, “Hi.” He gave me a curt nod, then flopped down in his desk without so much as a polite “Hey” in response. I felt like I had been slapped. After that, when he came into class (always late, and always going un-scolded by the teacher), I would, invariably, look up at the wrong moment and catch his eye briefly. My eyes would dart back down to my Shakespeare text, reading the same line over and over again, toying with my necklace—a nervous habit that had gotten a lot worse. It was like a whole new level of Hell, one that Dante had forgotten about.

I didn’t know why I was so drawn to him. But fortunately, apart from English class, it was easy to avoid Brendan. I begged off watching the pickup games in the quad after school, telling Ashley that I was thinking about joining the track team after all and needed to get my stamina up by jogging in the park.

“It’s not a team. They don’t compete,” she drawled. “It’s a club. The Running Club. Seriously. They just go to the park and, like, run around.”

“Are you kidding me?” I asked, incredulous. I pictured the glossy girls at the school, teetering about the park in heels. Okay girls, there’s a Louis Vuitton bag in here somewhere. Go find it! And they’d scatter, fluffy Pomeranians clutched in their arms, as their little club scurried around.

So I was a running club of one, leaving the school through the gym exit so I could avoid Brendan and his friends in the quad. Well, I was avoiding Brendan and Anthony, for different reasons. I was afraid I’d lose control: I’d throw myself on Brendan—or throw up on Anthony.

After two and a half weeks of “Lookin’ good, newbie,” and “When are you gonna give me your number?” Anthony finally cornered me in the doorway of English class.

“What’s a hot piece like you doing hanging out with a freak like Angela?” Anthony’s frosty blue eyes looked me up and down, and he rested his hand on the polished wooden frame of the doorway, blocking me in the hallway.

“Angelique,” I corrected, recoiling at being called a “piece.” “And she’s not a freak.”

“I know who your aunt is, Emily. You need to associate with people on your level,” he purred. “She is on my level,” I snapped. “At least she knows my name.”

“Come on, you’re really not going to pass up a chance at all this, are you?” he asked, running his hand down his muscular chest before brushing my bangs out of my face. I smacked his meaty hand away.

Anthony’s smile quickly turned into a sneer. “You better keep your hands to yourself if you know what’s good for you. Just remember—I’m not the one whose parents dumped me at my aunt’s house so they could go out of town. You should consider yourself lucky that I’m even talking to you.”

Then—to my absolute shock and horror—Anthony winked at me. “Let me know when you’ve come to your senses.”

Before I could even respond, he strode away and flopped into his seat—even his walk was arrogant.

I heard Mr. Emerson coming up the stairs behind me, so I ducked into the English classroom—catching Cisco’s eye and trying to avoid Brendan’s. Great. The one time he actually shows up to class on time, he sees you get into a confrontation with his buddy.

“What was that about?” Cisco asked. I leaned over to tell him, but Mr. Emerson shuffled in, coughing with the tenacious remains of a nasty cold. He attempted to read a few lines of Shakespeare before launching into a fit of hacking and wheezing. I felt bad for Mr. Emerson, but truthfully, it was kind of gross. Finally, he gave up, forcing the class to read aloud instead.

“You.” He pointed at Austin before blowing his nose. “Read. Page seventy-three.” (Although with his cold, it sounded like “Debendy-dwee.”)

Austin beamed—anything for school spirit—and turned the pages to Shakespeare’s Sonnet 2, taking his task seriously.

“When forty winters besiege thy brow…” he began, and I darted my eyes around. I locked eyes with Anthony—who licked his lips at me. Oh, puke. I quickly broke eye contact.

“Gross,” I whispered to myself, staring down at my text book. Stare out the window, Emma. Yep, that’s a safe place. I twisted my head away from Anthony to face the eastern window, at the sun that was beaming in, and considered skipping my afternoon classes—I had to get out of that school. Besides, it was great running weather.

I sighed, losing myself in an extensive examination of my split ends. I was so overdue for a trim. My ends looked like tree branches. Why Anthony had any interest in me—I was hardly as polished as my classmates—I had no idea.

When Austin was done, Mr. Emerson asked for a volunteer to read the next sonnet, and Kristin raised her hand. Shocker! Eager to show off, her hand was raised so high that she only had one butt cheek left on her seat. Mr. Emerson flapped his hand in her direction, and she smiled primly.

Kristin stood up—Austin had stayed in his desk—and flipped her hair, overacting and putting a ridiculous amount of emotion behind every word. I sat there, bored, my head propped up by my hand, my eyes rolling so far back in my head I could practically see my own brain.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” She was emphasizing the wrong words. I smirked to myself, listening to her emote. Cisco pretended to shoot himself in the head and I stifled a giggle fit. Then I went back to my split ends. Wow, I really needed a haircut.

“Emma.”

My head snapped to attention. Mr. Emerson was looking at me, and I’d been caught staring at my hair.

“Huh? I mean, what did you say, sir?”

“Please read Sonnet 29. And—” he broke into another coughing fit “—stand up.”

I flipped to the sonnet—oh, great. No matter what it meant to Shakespeare, it was going to take on a whole new meaning for me. Just try not to let your voice crack on the word outcast, Emma.

I took a deep breath and stood, holding my textbook in front of me. I put my fist to my mouth and exaggeratedly cleared my throat, an icebreaker which elicited a few laughs from the room. I started reading, in a clear, strong voice:

“When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,

I all alone beweep my outcast state

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries

And look upon myself and curse my fate…”

I paused, looking up at Mr. Emerson, and saw Brendan shifting in his seat. He turned sideways, folding his arms on the back of his chair and resting his cheek on his crossed arms. He looked up through those long black lashes. I bet if I touched them, they’d be velvet-soft. As his eyes found mine, I glanced back down at the words in my hands, holding the textbook in front of me like armor. I could still feel his eyes on me, but all I allowed myself to see was the black-on-white text I was gripping in my palms as I continued to read. Bravery—or stupidity, I couldn’t tell which—prompted me to meet Brendan’s eyes for the last two lines:

“For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”

I smoothed my plaid skirt underneath me as I sat down, and Brendan was still turned around, looking at me. I kept my eyes on the sonnet, daring myself to meet his gaze and say, “What? What the hell do you want?”

Instead, wordlessly, I raised my eyes and, as if they were some kind of heat-seeking missiles, they locked with his. He slowly blinked—really, it was more like he’d closed his eyes for a full three seconds—then opened them again, still keeping my gaze. His face—frozen for the past two and a half weeks in still, unfeeling concrete whenever our eyes met—softened a bit, and I could have sworn I saw the corner of his mouth turn up in a smile.

Mr. Emerson finished his hacking cough, then called on another student. I broke the stare. Brendan turned away.

That afternoon in Central Park, Blink-182’s “Carousel” was at the top of my playlist as I ran faster, letting the crisp fall air fill my lungs with the familiar scent of grass and dirt and the newly familiar scents of hot dogs and pretzels warming on the carts that lined the pathways in the park.

I sang along, racing faster and listening to the track on repeat. “Go to your happy place,” I told myself, thinking of Cisco and Angelique—legitimate new friends, I considered them. And Jenn was cool enough to me, even though some days, she just didn’t talk to anyone. I daydreamed about Kristin getting an allergic reaction to a tanning session. Maybe she’d actually turn into an orange.

I closed my eyes, thinking of English class, how I’d identified with that sonnet. Feeling like an outcast, a loser but comforted by a great love. I longed to know what it felt like to have one person eclipse everything bad in your life—be a place of pure joy.

I stopped short, pausing for breath, and surveyed my surroundings. I was all the way over by the Bethesda Fountain. It was one of my favorite areas of the park—gorgeous, palatial. And still, all I could see was his face, and those eyes—which didn’t look like they hated me in spite of how he acted.

“Why can’t I get you out of my head?” I whispered, stopping in my tracks. “Brendan, I wish I just knew what your deal was.”

I leaned against a lamppost, trying to steady my breath and my thoughts. The light above me flickered, catching my attention. My back leaning against the post, I looked straight up into the light. It burned very brightly for a moment—as if it were on a dimmer switch that was suddenly put on full blast. I heard a crackling noise, and nervously stepped away from the lamppost—just as the light inside burst, shards of glass clinking against the frosted case. The smell of something bitter hit my nose, and I winced. It was suddenly very dark all around me—reminding me that it was getting too late—and I should go back home.