You still up for homecoming?
Homecoming? I glance at the date Mr. Lloyd has written in the corner of the blackboard. September twenty-fifth. I recall the homecoming posters—A Midsummer Knight’s Dream—plastered all over the school. Homecoming is less than two weeks away. A few weeks ago this was the most important thing in my life, and I’ve completely forgotten about it. Guess evil sorcerers killing your mom has that effect.
I stare at the note for a long minute, trying to decide what to say. It’s not fair that I chewed out Bianca, while meanwhile, here I am making small talk with Devon—I won’t let him gloss over what he did to me either. Finally, I simply write: Why?
I’m fully aware of how immature it is to hash this out via note, grade-school-style, but I didn’t want to talk about it before now. And who knows if I might ever want to again? I slip him the note.
Another one tumbles onto my desk a moment later. Don’t mean to be pushy. I asked around, but everyone good already has a date now.
I roll my eyes.
No, I meant why did you do it, I reply in angry bold writing, then chuck the note at him so hard it almost flies off his desk.
He takes an inordinate amount of time to reply, and I can hear his pen scratching out reply after reply. I wring my hands under my desk and realize that I’m praying he comes up with something so satisfying it makes the whole cheating scandal go away and life return to normal. It’d make everything so much easier.
Finally, another note tumbles across my desk. I’m sorry. Don’t ruin homecoming for us both because of a stupid mistake.
You’d think he’d at least wait until my second day at school to remind me that he’s an ass. I spin around and give him a heavy-lidded stare. After thirty seconds have elapsed and he’s sufficiently uncomfortable, I say, “Just in case you didn’t get that, the answer is no.”
I face the front of the class. Everyone is staring at me, Mr. Lloyd included. He doesn’t reprimand me, though. That’s the thing about pity: you can get away with a lot.
In all, my first day back at school is a success.
Aunt Penny’s still not back from her business course when I get home from school. And since Paige is at her violin lesson, I’m left watching episodes of Days of Our Lives that Mom DVR’d, while I listen to her voice-mail message over and over, because it turns out I like to torture myself.
Someone knocks on the door. I guiltily stow my phone away before peering through the keyhole.
Bishop.
“You going to let me in or what?” he says.
I chew my lip.
“Hello? Burning midday sun? You know how I hate being exposed to the elements for long periods of—”
I open the door, and Bishop’s face cracks into a smile.
“How’d you know it was me answering the door?” I ask. “Some kind of reverse keyhole magic?” I glare at him. I don’t even know why I’m mad, but it seems like the thing to do lately, so I just go with it.
“Actually, I knew it was you because you’re the only person who wouldn’t answer the door right away. And I heard your footsteps.”
I huff. “Look, can you just tell me what you want so I can—”
“What?” He cocks his head. “Go back to listening to that damn voice-mail message on repeat?”
My mouth drops open. “Have you been spying on me again?”
He rolls his eyes. “Please. Paige told me.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” He walks around me into the living room and spins around in front of the couch. “Is there anything else you’d like to accuse me of? Ring on the coffee table? Doormat slightly askew?”
I rake my hair back with a shaky hand.
“I’m kidding,” he says. “I understand.”
I look up and meet his eyes, but for some reason I can’t hold his stare, and drop my focus. He shines his ring on his slim black pants.
“So where’s your leather, anyway?”
He looks down at the light gray T-shirt he sports, tattoo-covered arms held out in front of him, and shrugs. “Didn’t feel like wearing leather today.”
“But you wear leather when it’s eighty degrees outside.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So if it’s not practicality, what is it?”
His eyebrows knit, as if trying to decide what’s come over me.
“Never mind.” I shake my head, turning away.
“Because we’re going to try out your magic today, and I wanted to be comfortable.” Before I can even think about a reply, he takes two long strides up to me, so he’s blocking the sun slanting in through the venetian blinds. “You have to practice to protect yourself. I can’t do it forever.”
I glance up quickly.
“What? You thought it was just pure luck there haven’t been any attacks since that night? Jez and I have been watching the house.”
“So you have been watching me,” I say, my arms tensing at my sides.
“Not inside your house. I’m not a pervert, as much as you and the State of California would like to think I am.”