Immortal Mine (3 page)

I bristle at his words.

“Out of my oven,” I tell him, annoyed by his
assumption that I could not have made such a thing myself.

His eyebrows shoot up, lost behind the
copper hair, and I have an overwhelming urge to brush the hair
back. Then I remember that he’s offending my pie, and the urge
vanishes.

“Really? You made this?”

“Don’t sound so incredulous. I’m not a
complete imbecile.”

My tone finally registers with him, and he
glances at me sideways, frozen in the act of reaching for the pie
in question.

“I’m sorry,” he sounds perplexed. “Did I
offend you?”

“Of course not. Who would be offended over a
pie?” My voice is dripping with affront.

“I just meant it looks too beautiful to
eat.”

“So don’t eat it,” I say, crossly.

His grin disarms me. “Oh, but now I must try
it,” he purrs. I almost fall for his charm, until he dips two
fingers into the pie, pulling a large bite up to his mouth. My
mouth drops open in shock.

He closes his eyes in ecstasy. “Delicious,”
he mumbles around the large bite of pie shoved in his mouth,
looking at me with hooded eyes.

I stamp my foot—yes, I mean that literally.
Immediately I glean the childishness of the act, but can’t take it
back. I can’t even pretend he didn’t notice, since his eyes widen
and he freezes in the motion of licking his fingers. I’m
embarrassed, but jut my chin up, daring him to say anything.

“You must be Samuel.” A feminine hand
extends past me. I turn to see Stacy next to me, trying to signal
that I should introduce her.

“Uh, yeah, I am. Just Sam, though.” He wipes
his fingers clean on his jeans, reaching for her hand and enclosing
it in his.

“Oh... Sam, then. I thought it was Sam, but
your uncle was calling you Samuel, so I thought maybe you preferred
that. Or maybe, that we had just heard wrong.” Stacy is babbling,
trying to fill the obviously awkward silence.

“Yeah, well, he’s a little formal. I prefer
Sam.”

“Hm.” Stacy glances at me again, but my
mouth is clamped. I can feel my temper just below the surface,
experience has taught me that the best way to control it is to
pretend my mouth is made of stone and can’t be opened.

“You are…?” he asks, withdrawing his hand
from hers. She seems to realize she’d been holding on for longer
than was necessary, and she smiles.

“Oh, um, yeah, my name is Stacy. Stacy
Bowen.” She glances at me again in concern. “Vee, are you
okay?”

“I’m afraid she and I may have gotten off on
the wrong foot,” Sam informs her, pointing to the destroyed pie. I
feel my ire rise to flaming heights at his words.
The wrong
foot?
I want to scream.

Stacy looks at the pie, at my face that I
can feel heating up—which I’m all too aware is visible—and then at
Sam. Understanding dawns, and she links her arm firmly through
mine, and drags me away from a stunned Sam.

“Okay, well, it was nice to meet you Sam. We
have to be going now. Welcome, and I guess we’ll see you at
school.”

Her words shock me out of my self-imposed
stupor.

“
School?
” I screech, and Stacy tugs
me even harder, until we’re actually running for her car. “I have
to go to
school
with that arrogant, insensitive, unfeeling…”
I’m searching for the proper adjective as she shoves me in and
slams the door.

“…Jerk!” I explode as she climbs in her
side.

Stacy drives silently, letting me vent, not
even attempting to stop me.

“The nerve! Seriously, who does he think he
is? He thinks he can offend me; insinuate that my pie is
store
bought
,” I spit the offensive words. “Thinks he can just sidle
up to me, ooze charm and I’ll just let him drive his fingers into
it, as if it’s of no consequence, as if I can just churn them out
in minutes—”

“You kind of can,” Stacy interjects
quietly.

“
He
doesn’t know that! Does he think
he can do anything he wants just because he’s…” I trail off, a
thousand adjectives running through my head.

“Cute? Gorgeous? Stunning? Good-looking?
Beautiful?”

My head snaps toward Stacy when she uses the
very word I had been thinking of him earlier.

“No excuse!” I fume.

After a few minutes of silence, Stacy looks
my way.

“Done, now?”

I fold my arms petulantly.

“Yes,” I grumble.

“The Coleman’s are new, Vee. He doesn’t know
you or your pies, right?”

“So?” I grouse.

“
So
, give him a break. Seriously,
girl, you need to relax a little. It’s just—”

She cuts herself off, and I shoot her a
sharp glance.

“Don’t you dare say it, Stace. Don’t you
dare say it’s
just
a pie.”

“Okay, I won’t.” Silence. Then, “But it is,
Vee.”

I blow out a heavy breath.

“Yeah, I know.” I look at her and smile,
embarrassment lighting my cheeks. “I really lost it, didn’t I?”

Stacy shrugs. “Could have been worse.” We
burst out laughing.

“I’m such an idiot,” I moan.

“I’m almost afraid to ask; what did you say
to him? Was it bad?”

I don’t answer for a few long minutes, while
Stacy fiddles with the radio—kind of pointless since we are only
able to receive about five different stations with any kind of
clarity.

“Nothing he didn’t deserve,” I finally say.
Stacy, true friend that she is, groans, punches me, then bursts out
laughing again.

Someone should do something about the
lukewarm, stale water that spouts from the water fountains in the
school, I muse, as I fill my mouth with the less-than-appealing
liquid.

“Niahm?” I hear my name from nearby, the
tone questioning and almost... disbelieving.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it—” I turn,
snapping my mouth closed as I see a coppery head turning my way,
from where he’d been reading the names of the school officers off
the information board, astonishment in every line of his face.

“
You?
You’re Niahm?” he questions,
incredulity coloring his words.

“I suppose a girl who can’t bake pies can’t
have a name either?” I turn and walk away, rolling my eyes at my
inane response. I’m usually better at returning insults than
that.

“Wait,” Sam calls, jogging to catch up with
me. “I just... I thought your name was Evie. That’s what Stacy
called you yesterday.”

I stop and his momentum carries him past me.
He swings back, moving to stand in front of me, forcing me to look
up. I decide he must be more like six-two. I glance away, not
liking this weird...
pull...
I feel when I look at him.

“Not Evie; she called me Vee. It’s her
nickname for me, short for Niahm. Want to insult that also?”

He opens and closes his mouth twice, then
blows out a breath.

“I didn’t mean to insult you again. I was
just surprised, that’s all. It’s an unusual name. I’ll bet there’s
not another person in America who has that name—spelled that way,
anyway. At least, I’ve never heard it.”

“And I suppose you’re some big world
traveler?”

“I get around,” he says, an odd look on his
face. “I’m just saying, it’s very unique.”

“And someone as
common
as me is
hardly worthy of such a
unique
name, right?”

“I’m… no… that’s not—” he stammers.

“Wait a minute—how did you know how to
pronounce it?” I interrupt, swinging my eyes back up to his face.
I’m awed and a little suspicious. No one ever knows how to say it
when they see it.

“Um, I…” he trails off, looking distinctly
nervous, suddenly interested is something over my shoulder.

“Sam! There you are,” the double-H come
around the corner, immediately honing in on Sam. “You know Niamh?”
Hilary asks.

“I… we—”

“No,” I interrupt, “he doesn’t know anything
about me.”

I stalk away, feeling as if he’s staring
after me—though that’s probably my egotistical imagination. Or
rather, I try to stalk away. I’m trying to maintain my angry walk,
but it’s difficult. I curse Stacy for convincing me to wear her
high-heeled red shoes just because they match my red shirt
perfectly. I’m not really a high-heels kind of girl under the best
of circumstances. After a slight stumble, I glance back and see Sam
watching me. With a grimace in his direction, I kick the shoes off,
scooping them up in my hand. Now I can stalk.

“I better get to class,” I hear Sam tell
them.

“We’ll walk with you,” Heather tells
him.

“Small school; most of us share most of our
classes,” Hilary confirms.

I groan as I realize the truth of their
words. There are a total of ninety-three kids in our school—and
that’s grades K-12. In our senior class we have eight.

Nine, now.

We share classes with kids of a variety of
ages and abilities. Our teachers have to be extremely flexible in
their teaching methods. Sam, Hilary and Heather follow me into the
English classroom.

“Sit here, by us,” Heather tells Sam,
scooting an empty desk a little closer to her own.

“Thanks,” he says, sliding in and sliding a
smile over her at the same time.

I roll my eyes in disgust and turn back
toward Stacy, who’s idly doodling in her notebook.

“What a jerk,” I mutter. No response. I lean
toward her, reaching out to tap her arm, get her attention so she
can listen to me complain. But my hand never quite reaches its
destination; my close proximity brings her doodling into view.

“Are you crazy?” I murmur fiercely under my
breath, snatching her notebook from under her pen, slamming it
closed.

“What?” She’s all innocence.

“You can
not
write Shane Coleman’s
name, all decorated with hearts!”

“Why not? He’s so—”

“Stace! Stop.” She grins at me, unrepentant.
I sigh, giving up. I throw a glance over my shoulder at the nephew
of Stacy’s obsession, and see him completely engaged in
conversation with the double-H, as well as a couple of the
juniors.

Show off.



“Guys, we really need to decide what play we
want to do,” I interrupt… well, pretty much everyone at the table.
We’re sitting at lunch, at our definitely more crowded than usual
table. Kids here tend to sit with their age group. Usually we have
eight at our table. Today we have fifteen.

The reason isn’t hard to divine. In fact,
that particular reason is leaning his coppery head toward two
giggling juniors, who are interlopers at our table. I sigh in
disgust, earning me a warning look from Stacy.

“What?” I demand. “If we don’t get going on
it, we won’t be prepared.”

“You’re right,” Hilary pipes up. “That means
anyone who’s not a senior needs to leave the table.” Not only is
Hilary probably the most pumped up about the production, she
doesn’t look too happy about the attention the other girls are
getting from Sam.

The two juniors throw her a regretful look,
but that’s another great thing about my great little town; no need
to explain the importance of our discussion, or why they need to
make themselves scarce. The only one who looks confused is a
certain beautiful jerk—and he’s staring right at me, like the whole
thing is my fault.

“It’s tradition,” I fairly growl towards
him, refusing to meet his gaze. “Which you would know about if you
were from here.”

Stunned silence greets my words, and I’m
horrified at my tone. Seriously, I’m
never
like this—or at
least, not much. I also can’t back down with him looking at me like
that.

“What she means,” Stacy tells him, looking
at me like I’ve grown an extra head, before turning her attention
to Sam, “is that this is a big deal for us. Every year we put on a
big production. As seniors, we get to decide what show to do, and
we run the whole thing. It’s a pretty big deal; if we can’t out-do
last year’s show, well, we might get flogged or something, I
guess.”

I shoot her a baleful look.

“Huh,” Sam sounds astonished; apparently I’m
the only one who takes offense to it. “So, what kind of show are
you talking?”

“I think we should do
Cats
,” Heather
pronounces enthusiastically. A chorus of groans just as
enthusiastic greets her.

“Ugh! Boring!” This is Stacy, which is
somewhat ironic since she will choose to have as small a part of
the production as possible. For someone so dramatic, she really
isn’t into theater.

“Seriously,” Hilary says, “who wants to
watch a bunch of cats prance around the stage? I think we should do
Oklahoma
.”

“Too old fashioned,” Jon, who will probably
play the part of the male lead, looks pained at her suggestion.

“
Mama Mia.
”