For Ever (6 page)

The rest of the week passes without incident.
No episodes with haunted mirrors. No hallucinating, speaking in
tongues, or blacking out. The only downside is that with my mom
back at work, I get stuck taking the bus after school.

The next week, life begins to feel almost
normal again. I get an A on my English paper. Math picks up right
where it left off at Pali, meaning I hate Algebra. And lunch in the
cafeteria with Ashley and the others starts to feel comfortable,
even fun. The only kink is that Josh keeps asking if I need a ride
home after school. He’s like a telemarketer who won’t stop calling.
I decide to renew my Internet search for used vehicles, because
based on almost every teen movie in existence, when a girl gets
rejected by a guy, she usually blames another girl instead of the
guy. Taylor, Ashley’s friend who has a thing for Josh, has barely
said a word to me. And I’m starting to like Josh—as a
friend
. The last thing I need is to end up in a fight over
some guy.

On my fourth official Monday at Springview,
I’m convinced that the seat next to mine in Art will remain empty
indefinitely, which wouldn’t bother me so much if the timing of my
classmate’s disappearance didn’t make me feel weirdly responsible.
I keep trying with very little success to get a read on him from
other people. This is what I know: reactions to this guy fall into
two distinct categories. The first category is awestruck. The
second is hostile. It doesn’t surprise me that most of the girls
are in the first category, and the guys firmly in the second.
Either way, nobody seems to know, or care, why he just disappeared.
I find this more than a little weird, since just about everyone is
hyperaware of him on some level. Ashley and I are hanging out at
her easel when I decide there’s no harm in just asking.

“So, is it normal for the guy next to
me—”

“Ever, you mean?” Ashley corrects.

I look down and try to keep from
blushing.

“Yeah. I mean, I was just wondering—when
people are going to start putting up missing posters. Or does he
always disappear like this?”

When I look up, Ashley appears
thoughtful.

“Huh, well never for this long—”

“But he does disappear, then?”

When she looks at me strangely, I realize how
anxious I sound. But ignoring my better judgment, I press her.

“Is he sick or something?”

I imagine hospital beds and medical tests,
but that doesn’t correspond well with the form in the doorway that
I can barely remember now. Each day my memory of that second
morning gets fuzzier and fuzzier, like someone’s slowly erasing a
chalkboard.

“Yeah, right.” Ashley laughs like I’ve said
something absurd. “Ever doesn’t get sick. And nobody cares if he
misses class. Supposedly he has perfect grades. Plus, I heard that
his dad runs some international corporation. He probably has tutors
or something.”

“Then what’s he doing
here
?” I ask
automatically.

The expression on Ashley’s face makes me
wince.
Oops
. That came out wrong. I didn’t mean to imply
that the Portland suburbs were the middle of nowhere.

“Uh … oh,” she whispers dramatically.

I frown and shrug when Ashley doesn’t say
anything else. Reluctantly, I tune into her thoughts.

Wren, please shut up. Like right
now
.

“What’s wrong?”

My heart slams in my chest, and I feel sick.
Please no
. Please don’t let him be standing in the door
listening to my interrogation. I glance over my shoulder toward the
front of the room, trying to appear casual. Then I breathe out.

The doorway is empty.

But that’s when I notice it—that the
classroom is almost full, but strangely quiet apart from the
classical music. I turn slowly toward my easel. The seat to the
left of mine, which had remained vacant since my second day at
Springview High School, isn’t empty any more.

The floor is tilting beneath me, like a black
hole of embarrassment is about to swallow me. With all my effort
trained on not tripping or doing something stupid, I manage to
cross the room. When I get to my seat, I keep my eyes on the front
of the classroom.

All I can hope for now is that the person
sitting to my left didn’t hear my borderline obsessive conversation
with Ashley—about him, someone I’ve never met.

Digging my fingers into my jeans, I bite my
lip. During the past few weeks I had gotten too comfortable with
the empty space next to me. Now, with someone suddenly there, my
eyes keep drifting like they’ve come unmoored. Even worse, on top
of my embarrassment, I am
terrified
, insanely and
irrationally terrified, that looking at my newly returned classmate
is somehow going to trigger another episode of pure craziness. It
doesn’t make any sense, but my reptilian brain doesn’t agree with
my prefrontal cortex.

Some primordial part of me keeps screaming
that I’m in trouble. Bad trouble. The voice in my head won’t shut
up.

My ears are ringing, and when I blink, my
eyes water from the effort of sitting so still. Finally Mr. Gideon
returns with a refilled coffee mug and an enormous art history
book. With something else to focus my attention on, I exhale. Mr.
Gideon starts talking, and it takes about two minutes for the
rational side of my brain to reboot itself. What was I thinking?
Everything is fine. The classroom didn’t erupt into flames; I
didn’t freak out. Relaxing my grip on my pen, I take a deep breath
and look to the left out of the corner of my eye.

Oh.
Wow
.

The profile of the boy next to me is—not even
beautiful, really. More like perfect. And not in that androgynous
boy-band
like he’s totally hot
way, either. His features are
flawless. I can tell that much, even though his face is mostly
obscured by the unkempt honey-colored hair falling to his chin. His
bone structure is not soft or boyish. Actually, he reminds me of
one of the sculptures from Mr. Gideon’s art history books. But
unlike cool Italian marble, his bronzed complexion defies our
location in northern Oregon. I look down at my own pale hands.
I
blend in here. Whoever this guy is, I doubt he would fade
into the background anywhere.

Suddenly, like a light bulb just turned on in
my head, I totally understand people’s reactions to him. His
appearance alone really does justify the fascination. I blink when
I realize that I’m staring like a zombie. It takes an embarrassing
amount of effort for me to turn my attention back to Mr. Gideon.
The heat of the classroom feels more oppressive than usual, and
every time I shift in my seat the movement feels exaggerated and
awkward. It bothers me that the source of my sudden anxiety is the
complete stranger to my left, especially since, based on my brief
glimpse of him, it’s likely he’s an egomaniacal jerk like Jeff
Summers. Okay, it’s not nice to assume. But is it even possible to
look like that and
not
have an ego about it?

“All right, I’ve talked longer than I wanted
to,” Mr. Gideon says, clapping his hands together. “Get to
work.”

I had been taking notes, but not actually
paying much attention to what Mr. Gideon was saying. Now, looking
down, I see two pages of my notebook are filled with messy scrawl.
When I reach to grab my backpack from the floor, my bag clips the
box of charcoal on my tray, sending art supplies clattering to the
floor. This is not the first time I’ve done this, but I definitely
feel more self-conscious now.

After I gather everything and sit down again,
I notice that the person to my left is turned in my direction.
Okay, don’t look like a superstitious nutcase
, I command my
brain. I glance in his direction, and my throat tightens.

The emerald-green color of his eyes is
extraordinary, unnerving, and impossibly bright. When he holds out
the pen I dropped, I stare at him. Then, after another second of
idiocy, I reach out and take the pen from him, cursing internally.
Ridiculously beautiful or not, this guy could be an axe murderer,
android, or blood-sucking fiend, for all I know. Wait. Scratch the
vampire theory. I look down at the bronzed hand resting on his
knee. Nope, not a vampire.

“Th-thanks.”

He doesn’t nod or smile. He just turns back
to his easel. And that’s when I notice that something’s wrong. With
him—or me. I didn’t get a single image from him. Not a passing
thought. Nothing. All I remember is his vividly green eyes staring
back at me. Beautiful and deep, but empty.

The girl to my right sighs theatrically. I
turn and see her glaring. If looks could kill, I would be struck
dead. I turn and stare back at her, hoping she’ll lose her
nerve.

Unbelievable! I should have had a freaking
breakdown! Then maybe he would notice me for once. Lucky—

I turn back to my canvas and try to pretend
that she doesn’t exist. Yeah, this is going to be a fun semester.
Trapped between a Greek god who thinks I’m a psycho and a psycho
who thinks I stole her imaginary boyfriend.

Finally, when she—I think her name is Mandy
or Mindy—doesn’t stop staring, I look back, almost mad enough to
say something and expose myself as a mind-reading freak. Would she
be this nasty, I wonder, if she knew I could hear her? Probably.
Abruptly my neighbor’s silent monologue stops short, as though
someone pressed the mute button on a remote.

Turning back to my easel, I steal a quick
look to the left and flinch at the expression on my newly returned
classmate’s face, which is twisted in distaste. I’m just grateful
it’s not me he’s glaring at. I guess Mandy/Mindy finally got what
she wanted: his attention. His gaze sweeps back toward his own
easel, and I stop breathing when our eyes meet. The stunning green
is gone from his irises. All that’s left is blackness. An abyss. My
skin crawls, and I freeze in place as he turns in his seat and
faces me.

Blinking at the sound of the bell, I stand up
and return my supplies before walking to Algebra. Halfway there, I
remember that Monday is “pop” quiz day in Mr. Bellarmine’s class. I
groan. I’m barely holding my head above water as it is, even though
I spend ten times the amount of energy on math as I do in any of my
other classes. And, of course, after the quiz is over, Mr.
Bellarmine begins calling people to the board to put up the
homework problems.

“Wren? Number fifteen.”

A second ago, I had been staring fervently at
my textbook in hopes of going unnoticed, which is the only time
people actually do notice me—when I don’t want them to. I scan my
homework to see if fifteen is one of the problems I think I got
right. Then, resigned, I trudge to the board. I really hate math.
Most of the kids in my class are sophomores since nearly all the
juniors in my other classes will take Calculus next year. Being a
year behind in math is an indignity I’ve accepted, but I’m still
not overjoyed about it. Mr. Bellarmine stares at me as I walk by
him.

Doubt she gets this one.

His passing thought causes me to grind my
teeth. I wonder if he thinks I don’t notice that he has
consistently given me the harder problems from the homework, trying
to satisfy his preconceived notion that I’m an idiot. So far at
least, he’s been the only teacher who has willingly adopted Mr.
Chernoff’s theory that I’m academically deficient. But he’s a math
teacher, so it makes sense. Teachers tend to like the students who
automatically “get” it. Those of us who require actual instruction
are never the pets, which is why I try to avoid Mr. Bellarmine’s
scrutiny whenever possible. After copying my problem onto the
board, I hurry back to my seat.

“That looks right,” he says as I sit down.
His tone is tinged with surprise, maybe even disappointment.

Sadist, I think. For the rest of the class
period I try to avoid staring at the clock while simultaneously
praying for the bell to ring. Somewhere in the back of my head I
feel something I’ve forgotten scratching around the edges of my
brain. It’s not a quiz or anything school-related. It’s something
exciting. Something unusual. Every time I’m on the verge of
remembering, whatever it is crawls further into my unconscious.

The nutrition bell rings, and my entire body
goes slack with relief. I’m almost to my locker when I see Ashley
and Lindsay rushing toward me, their eyes glowing with excitement.
Before I can say a word, they each grab me by an elbow and start
tugging me toward the nearest exit. We come out at the side of the
school under an awning.

I squint at the sky. It’s not raining as much
as misting, but everything is still wet. It’s also so cold that my
breath is coming out in white puffs. I’m zipping up my jacket when
Lindsay shakes me.

“
What
happened?” she demands.

My eyebrows scrunch together.

“What do you mean?”

“You
are
kidding, right?” Lindsay
hisses like it’s a matter of national security.
“
Ever-freaking-Casey
!”

My heart jumps in my chest. How did I forget
that
, or rather
him
? With my pulse still pounding, I
shrug casually.

“Nothing happened. I dropped my pen, and he
picked it up.”

“That’s it? Did he say anything?” she
prods.

I frown at the fuzzy memories from only two
hours ago.

“Nope. Not a word,” I shrug.

“Really?” Lindsay practically wilts with
disappointment.

Reaching into my bag, I groan, remembering
that I forgot my lunch on the counter at home. And all I had for
breakfast was a piece of toast and a handful of grapes. I look up
at the clock on the wall above the lockers. I can’t make it to the
cafeteria in time to buy something before the bell. Not good.

When the bell rings, I walk to third with a
growling stomach. Mrs. Gilbert calls on me twice, and both times I
can’t seem to wrap my head around the subjunctive tense. Then,
during Chemistry, Mr. Van Houten passes back our tests. The
A-
scrawled on my test is a huge relief. And even better,
the teacher doesn’t call on me once.