She felt her enthusiasm wilt a little before the day had even started. Who wants to have PE so early in the day? She’d be a sweaty mop and would never factor into any thoughts anyway.
Delilah successfully negotiated her locker combination, stowed some books, and headed to English. The only empty seat in the room—Room 104, Mr. Harrington, highlighted in yellow, thank you, Mother—was of course in the middle, up front. Delilah was a bull’s-eye for the teacher and for the fellow students. But even if she sat in the back of the room, it wouldn’t have made a difference: She was a target anyway.
Delilah Blue was back from the fancy East Coast boarding school.
Delilah Blue had come home to go slumming.
Although she spent some of each summer back in Morton, being at school here was different. Delilah had forgotten how many teenagers could come out of the woodwork, and all around her they were yelling, throwing notes, whispering across aisles. Was this how they always behaved while waiting for the teacher? When your time is yours, use it to create something, Father John had always told them. A picture, some words, anything. Don’t rot your brain with gossip.
Having seen only her best friend, Dhaval, with any sort of regularity—and maybe a handful of her classmates around town during breaks—Delilah’s memories were an old stack of pictures of her eleven-year-old peers. She struggled to place the faces she remembered from six years ago with the reality of the faces now.
Rebecca Lewis, her best friend from kindergarten. Kelsey Stiles, her archnemesis in third grade. Both were looking at Delilah as if she’d kicked a puppy before class. Rebecca probably glared at her because Delilah had left Morton so successfully. Kelsey probably glared at Delilah for having the gall to come back.
Not everyone had been hostile when they recognized Delilah; some girls had greeted her in front of the school with hugs and high-pitched welcomes, and Delilah knew that she had a completely blank slate there. She could be anyone she wanted to be. She didn’t have to be the girl whose nervous parents sent her away when she was only eleven for getting into a fistfight defending her unrequited first crush.
Delilah took her seat next to Tanner Jones, the only person to ever have beaten her at tetherball in sixth grade, her last year of public school.
“Hi, Delilah,” he said, eyes on her legs and then chest and then mouth. Six years ago he’d been looking at her pigtails and skinned knees.
She smiled to hide her surprise. Delilah hadn’t expected the first boy to speak to her to also have thoughts. “Hi, Tanner.”
“I heard you had to move back because your dad lost his job at the plant.”
She kept her smile and stayed quiet, thinking of her mother’s innocent-at-best, naive-at-worst hope that people would assume Delilah came home for a single semester for educational purposes, and not because Nonna’s well of money had dried up. Clearly the town knew better.
Your business is only yours until you share it, Father John had always told them.
Just as Mr. Harrington was closing the classroom door, a boy slipped in, mumbling an apology and staring with determination at the floor.
Delilah’s breath grew trapped in her throat, and the old protective fire flickered to life between her ribs.
He was the same, but not. His shirt was black, jeans were black, and shaggy black hair fell into his eyes. He was so tall he must have been pulled like taffy. When he looked up at Delilah as he passed, the same eyes she remembered from all those years ago—dark and stormy and shadowed with bluish circles—seemed to flicker to life for a moment.
Just long enough for her to lose her breath.
He looked like he knew every one of her secrets. Who would have guessed that after six years Gavin Timothy would still seem so perfectly dangerous?
Apparently, Delilah was still smitten.
Chapter Two