Wuthering high: a bard academy novel (14 page)

“Cathy…” he calls to me, just as Guardians rush into the store.

“But, I’m not…” I start, as Heathcliff runs out and the Guardians run after him. “Cathy,” I finish.

I glance down at the floor and realize that Heathcliff has dropped his silver lighter near the backpacks. I reach down and snatch it up from the ground.

I have a sudden thought: Is Heathcliff the one who set the fire? This one and the one in my dorm? But then, I remember I heard a girl’s laughter before I smelled the smoke in both cases. That’s certainly not him.

“Wow, that was close,” Hana says to me outside the bookstore. “You almost got hit.”

“I know, but Heathcliff saved me,” I say, slipping the lighter into my pocket. I fiddle with it in my pocket. It’s cold and hard.

“Who’s Heathcliff?” Hana asks.

“The guy who was late to assembly the first day? You remember him?”

“Vaguely,” Hana says. “What’s his story?”

“I wish I knew,” I say. “I think he’s obsessed with
Wuthering Heights
. I know it sounds crazy, but I think he’s trying to be Heathcliff from the book. He says he’s from
Wuthering Heights,
and that he’s an orphan.”

“A thug at this school is obsessed with classic lit?”

“I know. It sounds insane.”

“Sounds more than insane. Sounds impossible.”

“Yeah, I know. I can’t figure it out,” I say. “But he saved me from dish duty on the first day of classes, and just now he rescued me from the backpack fireball.”

“Sounds like he tends to be in the right place at the right time,” Hana says.

“Or the wrong place at the wrong time, depending on how you look at it,” I say. “What if he’s the one who set the fire?”

“You think this guy is a pyromaniac?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I really don’t.”

After the bookstore fire, there are two more fires on campus — one in the boys’ dorm, and one in Hana’s classroom. A rumor starts that the campus has an arsonist on the loose. Soon after, the Guardians sweep through the dorms, confiscating anything that might be used to cause a fire. It shows how not-thorough the first pat-downs were, because they gather up tons of lighters, matches, candles, and other contraband. Even Blade has to give up her skull candle. I, for one, am not sad to see it go.

And as if this isn’t bad enough, a girl faints in our dorm, and she is carried out of the dorm on a stretcher, which is a bit unnerving. Her roommate says she hasn’t been eating, but Blade thinks she’s been attacked by the vampire she’s obsessed with.

“It’s Dracula for sure,” Blade says. “I know because he does the green mist thing. I’ve seen it.”

“You’ve
seen
it?” I ask, skeptical.

“Okay, well,
I
didn’t see it, but the girl who fainted said she saw green mist.”

“Maybe that’s because she hasn’t eaten in a week,” I say.

“Or because she got drained by Dracula,” Blade says.

“And just why do you think the baddest vampire in the world is hanging out at a boarding school?”

“What can I say? He likes young chicks. I guess their blood tastes better.”

“You are deeply disturbed,” I say.

“Funny. That’s what my ex-boyfriend said,” Blade says as she grabs her backpack and heads out of our room. “I’m going to the library. If Dracula stops by, I’ve left some holy water on the desk.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say.

Eighteen

I decide not to let
Blade’s vampire obsession distract me from more important issues — namely, what I’m going to wear to meet Ryan tonight. Since Parker Rodham rejected my offer of a boy truce, then I can go on the date guilt-free. And I refuse to let Parker, or ghosts, or vampires, ruin this date.

I start trying on outfits and go through everything I brought with me.

“Satan, what do you think?” I ask Blade’s poster, doing a little fashion catwalk wearing my minidress. I glance at him and then down at my dress. “You’re right. Trying too hard.”

I change into jeans — which are clearly not trying hard enough — and quickly run through all my outfits. Eventually, I just settle on the Bard uniform. It has the benefit of a) not trying too hard, and b) preventing me from getting detention should I be caught by a Guardian. Not wearing your uniform on campus is a detention-worthy offense.

I take special care with my makeup and decide on a chunky necklace instead of my tie, my knee-high black boots instead of my socks and sneakers.

Blade is out at the library, so I’m alone in the room. It’s only me and Satan.

“So, Satan, how do I look?” I ask the poster. He just grins at me with his devilish grin. I take that as a good sign. Lucifer approves.

The bell outside tolls. It’s six! I’m late.

Even as I sprint out of the dorm (and by sprint, I mean walk really fast. I don’t run unless someone is chasing me), I pray that I look okay, given the fact that the dorm light is terrible and I didn’t have any hair-spray (all flammable items were confiscated during the Bard arsonist-related sweeps of the dorms).

I glance up at the big clock tower above the chapel, some distance away, and it says five past. I’m late! I’m walking as fast as possible, given that my heart is about to explode. I suspect I look like Mom when she tries to powerwalk around the neighborhood. It was one of her workout fads. Mom bought special fast-walk jogging suits and shorts, as well as funky-looking neon green-and-pink tennis shoes. She even had a fanny pack for a water bottle. But like all her previous workout endeavors (Pilates, yoga, tennis, spinning, and rebounding), it lasted for all of about a week and a half before she grew bored with it and quit. And she says I’m the one who has no patience.

My pace slows as the chapel looms in front of me. I hesitate. Is it worse to stand Ryan up, or show up looking and/or smelling like I’ve not showered in days? Before I can decide, Ryan steps out from the shadows, a smile on his face.

“I thought you weren’t going to show,” he says, looking relieved. He was actually
worried.
Wow. He might really be human after all. “You look great-tastic,” he says, making me smile.

“Come on. I’ve got a surprise for you,” he says and grabs my hand. I’m too shocked by the contact of my skin on his to do anything but follow him. I keep staring at his hand covering mind, thinking, Ryan Kent is holding my hand. Someone call CNN, because I want the whole world to know.

Ryan’s hand is warm and strong, and I want him to hold mine forever. I try to act like this isn’t a big deal, even though my heart is beating a hundred times a minute. I want to scream, “Ryan Kent is holding my hand! He’s holding it! ON PURPOSE!” at the top of my lungs, but I know that this won’t help my cause and would probably just summon a bunch of Guardians, who would lock us up in our respective dorm rooms.

Granted, we’re not technically in violation of curfew — yet. I’ve got another hour and Ryan (as an upperclassman) has two. Ryan takes me around the chapel to the back entrance and pulls me through the back door.

Once inside, I expect him to drop my hand, but he doesn’t. He’s holding it tightly as he takes me back to the staircase behind the altar. It’s too cold out for our palms to start sweating. I keep wondering if I’m holding on to him too tightly or not tightly enough. There is a gentle compromise with hand holding. Granted, it’s a lot simpler than kissing, but there’s still an art to it.

Of all the weirdness of this school — Heathcliff, Kate Shaw, the séance-gone-bad, or Parker and her bullies — I have to say that Ryan Kent holding my hand for — going on ten minutes — is by far the strangest. A year ago, if you’d told me that I’d be holding hands with Ryan Kent in the back of a dark church in a place called Shipwreck Island, I would’ve told you to check yourself into a mental institution.

We walk up the winding enclosed staircase, with the large bell swaying slightly above our heads and the white light of the clock tower casting a glow on the stairs. It’s cozy up here and not scary like you’d think, although it would probably have a serious creep factor if Ryan weren’t here. But with him, I feel like nothing bad could ever happen to me.

Ryan drops my hand and shrugs off his backpack. I try not to be disappointed by the feel of the cool air on my palm. It’s not like we could eat and hold hands at the same time. Well, not comfortably anyway. Ryan opens up his backpack and takes out a towel and a brown bag, and then he produces a three-course meal: Fritos, Pop-Tarts, and two Snickers bars.

“Where did you get all this?” I ask him, as if he’s just produced a Thanksgiving turkey dinner.

“Contraband,” Ryan says. “There are some kids on campus selling food and electronics.”

He pulls out his iPod next, along with a special stand to sit it on with minispeakers.

“I wasn’t sure about what mood music goes with Pop-Tarts,” he says. “But I figure everything goes with Death Cab for Cutie.”

“I LOVE Death Cab for Cutie,” I exclaim, giving him a playful shove. I like the excuse to make physical contact with him.

“You’re not just saying that, are you?” he asks me.

“Are you kidding? If you’re about to play ‘Soul Meets Body,’ then we are soul mates.”

I suck in my breath for a second after the sentence is out of my mouth. Did I go too far? It’s practically a step away from declaring my undying love for Ryan Kent
to his face.
But Ryan doesn’t seem to be put off. He quirks an eyebrow at me, just as the first chords of “Soul Meets Body” start.

I smile and he smiles back. I definitely feel a date vibe. Not, of course, that I’d
know
what a date vibe was, exactly. My mom has this rule that I can’t go out on dates until I’m sixteen. Group dates — the sort where you, your beloved, and about fifteen of your closest friends pile into a movie theater or a mall (or both, in most cases) — are fine. But one-on-one dates are off-limits until I’m driving age.

I don’t feel bad about violating Mom’s Cardinal Dating Rule (which is “You can’t kiss a boy in a car until you’re old enough to drive one around”) because, after all, she sent me off to this place. I’ve had to grow up fast. I’m sure in mental years, with my parents’ divorce, wrecking my dad’s car, a near rape, and the Bard Academy exile, I’m probably hovering somewhere at thirty-two.

I never thought I’d be so glad to see Pop-Tarts or Fritos, but I devour them.

“Oh my God, I have died and gone to heaven,” I say, grabbing chips and launching them into my mouth at speeds better suited for NASCAR. It occurs to me mid-bite that shoving chips into my mouth by the handful probably isn’t very ladylike or attractive. But I can’t help it, I’m starved.

“Wow, you’re eating this stuff,” he says, looking like he’s never seen a girl eat before. Then again, given Parker and her anorexic groupies, maybe he’s not used to seeing girls eat.

“Igh dat a problem?” I mumble, mouth full.

“No, no, not at all. I like girls who eat. I feel less like the pig I am,” he says, taking a huge bite of cherry Pop-Tart.

“Okay, is it just me, or were Pop-Tarts always the best food on earth and I just never knew it?”

“Best food ever,” Ryan agrees, nodding.

We eat and talk as if we’re the best of friends and I’m immediately at ease. Of course, if I look too long at Ryan’s face I find myself compelled to stare. It’s hard not to do. He’s that good looking.

I don’t know if I’m feeling brave because of the carbs now gushing through my system, wrecking more havoc I’m sure than Everclear, but I feel calm, almost even
comfortable
with Ryan Kent.

“By the way, how much did this dinner cost you?” I ask him.

“You don’t want to know.”

“’Fess up.”

“Forty bucks,” he says.

“You can’t be serious! This whole thing probably didn’t cost ten.”

Ryan shrugs. “I never skimp on dates,” he says.

“Wow, you used the D word,” I say. “I thought guys didn’t use the D word anymore.” It’s true. Most guys will go to any length not to refer to an outing as a “date.” It’s “hanging out” or “going to a movie” or “chilling,” but it’s
never
a date. “I thought the D word makes things too serious.”

“I don’t mind serious,” Ryan says. My stomach goes all warm and gooey. And that, I’m pretty sure, has nothing to do with the Pop-Tarts.

When we reach for, and grab, the same Frito, it has the feeling of
Lady and the Tramp.
I don’t let go and neither does he. A sly smile crosses his face.

“Should we wrestle for it?” he asks me, and I laugh. He pulls on the Frito a little, causing me to move forward. I realize suddenly that I’m very close to Ryan Kent, and that he has stopped smiling and he’s looking at me seriously.

“Miranda…” he starts, and it’s at this moment that I’m completely sucked into Ryan’s brown puppy dog eyes. I want to swim in them, they’re so warm and luscious. They seem to be moving closer and then I realize
they are
moving closer.

It hits me like a bolt of lightning: Ryan Kent is going to
kiss
me.

Nineteen

A word about my
kissing experience.

This is embarrassing, since some of my friends (Cass and Liz) have claimed with pride to be kissing hos (and in Liz’s case, just plain ho), I have only had one legitimate kiss on the lips my whole life (not counting the drunken smear that Tyler tried to land — unsuccessfully — on me in his Toyota Forerunner).