Even as we study, I can feel the eyes of Tate’s impromptu fan club, curiously watching. But I don’t even look in their direction. I don’t think about Tate—at least I try not to. But it’s useless. I tell Carlos I’ll be right back and head to the bathroom.
It’s empty when I enter. But when I step out from the stall, a girl is standing at a sink—water gushing into the bowl—but instead of washing her hands she’s just staring at herself in the mirror. At first I think she’s one of the girls that followed Tate, but then I realize I haven’t seen her before. Her eyes lift and she turns around to face me. She’s wearing a black sweatshirt and black jeans—very Goth, I think—and her hair is dark and severe, cut in a harsh line just below her chin. She’s pretty though, pale with a few freckles across her nose that make me wonder if she’s a natural redhead, her hair only dyed black for effect.
Her eyes flicker just barely and I smile politely, moving past her to the sinks. But she follows my movement, her gaze fluttering over me like she knows me. The faucet automatically turns on when I stick my hands underneath it and the water is cool, streaming between my fingers.
“You should stay away from him,” she mutters suddenly, her reflection staring at me through the mirror.
“Excuse me?”
Her lips turn down. “Consider this a friendly piece of advice.”
My eyes flick to the door. Voices pass by outside but no one comes in. “What are you talking about?” I ask. But I have a sinking feeling I already know.
She takes a step toward me, as if she’s trying to gauge something, size me up. I back against the bathroom counter, palms tightening around the edge.
“For your own good, stay away from Tate Collins,” she whispers, eyes unblinking.
She looks as though she’s going to say something else, but then the bathroom door swings open and the two Tate fangirls walk in, chatting loudly. The Goth girl flinches at the sight of them, her body stiffening. My mouth starts to open, to say something, when she darts for the exit, slipping out before the door swings shut.
What the hell was that? I gulp in a deep breath and sag back against the counter. One of the groupies glances over at me, looking like she wants to ask me something, but I’ve had enough of unsolicited bathroom chats. I head for the door and push it open a crack, peering out into the noisy coffee shop. The girl is gone.
Outside, Carlos is reclining in his chair, chin tilted to the sunlight streaming through the trees. “Fall in much?” he asks, peeling open one eye to stare up at me. Thankfully, he doesn’t appear to have overheard any chatter from nearby tables about the recent Tate Collins sighting while I was gone. I sink back down into my chair.
I should tell him about Goth girl. But then I’d have to admit I went out with Tate Collins, and I’m not ready to revisit the humiliation. And really, there’s no problem with heeding her “friendly advice”—I plan on staying far, far away from Tate, regardless. I just want to put it all behind me.
I want to forget last week ever happened.
SIX
I CAN’T FIND A PARKING spot close to the flower shop, so I have to jog five blocks with my book bag thumping against my ribs. I know Holly won’t be mad that I’m late—it almost never happens—but I still feel bad for making her wait nearly half an hour. I was already rattled from Goth girl, and then got stuck on a verb conjugation and lost track of time. After we walked back to school, my run-down old Volvo—a piece of crap I purchased last year for six hundred dollars with money I saved from working at the Bloom Room—wouldn’t start. We were there for twenty minutes in the student parking lot, the engine wheezing each time I turned the key, until it finally groaned and chugged to life. Clearly, it hasn’t been my day.
I grab the handle on the front door and swing it open, out of breath and sweating. “Sorry,” I say quickly as I step inside, but then I stop abruptly, shocked by the scene before me.
“Can you believe it?” Holly asks. She’s seated behind the counter, her heart-shaped face lit a soft blue by the computer screen, her dirty-blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. I don’t respond—I can’t. My eyes are scanning the store, the empty displays and racks where bouquets usually sit. Every flower, every bouquet and plant arrangement is gone. Completely gone. Only a few petals and broken leaves are left, scattered across the floor.
“Did we get robbed?” I ask, stunned.
“No, it’s even weirder! He bought the entire store,” she chirps. “Every last flower.”
I let the door swing shut behind me, the bell dinging overhead.