“Do me a favor and don’t say anything to Camilla about what happened tonight.” Xander looks at me with an expression that’s a cross between pleading and demanding. “I don’t know if I can deal with her having a meltdown right now.”
“Yeah, sure. I don’t want to cause any problems for anyone. Besides, it really wasn’t a big deal at all. I figured it was just Christian being Christian.”
“Thanks, Evie,” Xander says, and I finally get a smile from him. “But he really needs to learn some manners.”
“True.” I shrug. “Speaking of manners, what was that little gesture about when we left?” He looks at me with a confused expression. “You know, the universal sign for I love you—not?”
“Oh,” Xander says, shaking his head. “That.”
“Yeah, that. What was that about?”
“I don’t think I should say anything.” Xander says, tightening his grip on the steering wheel of the Land Rover with both hands.
“You don’t have to,” I say, and look out the car window. “What were you guys talking about with all the who-owes-who stuff?”
Xander hesitates as if he’s contemplating what to say next. “Well, we usually go on some type of summer get-away together. By we, I mean all of us: Jude, Christian, Camilla, whoever Jude’s dating, basically the whole group. And invariably, some crazy crap goes down that requires favors to be made. Honestly, the favors usually involve pulling strings to get people out of jail. And by people, I mean Camilla and Christian. Those two on a trip together is a total buzz-kill.”
“Why?”
“Because they fight like crazy.”
“Really? Seems like they get along great to me.”
“That’s because they’re not together for long periods of time here. On trips, they’re stuck together in the same hotel room, airplane, train—you get the idea. They are both insanely jealous of each other, so if they aren’t fighting each other, they’re usually fighting complete strangers on the other’s behalf. It’s really annoying. As a matter of fact, next trip, I think we’re leaving them at home.” Xander laughs, but his eyes don’t. I’m having a hard time understanding why he even hangs out with them, if they’re such a pain in his ass, other than the obvious fact that he seems to be constantly on body-guard duty for Camilla.
“We’re lucky we know people in government in a few countries, or they’d have a record a mile long. They’d probably still be in jail in London if it weren’t for Jude calling their uncle, who’s in the parliament, to get them out of that mess. They trashed an entire pub. I called in a favor to my cousin to get them out of trouble in Ibiza. Of course, we enjoy diplomatic immunity here in the States.”
“You do?” I am amazed by this, but then I remember that their parents are diplomats and ambassadors from England, Colombia, and Italy. “So that’s why you got to walk into Club Trinity with no questions asked.”
“Well, that and Camilla knows the bouncers.”
“Of course she does,” I say, trying to keep my voice even.
“Anyway, we’re definitely going on one last trip next summer before college. I guess it’ll be our last hurrah,” Xander says, turning to me. “Maybe you could go with us. We’re either going to Greece or the Costa del Sol in—”
“Spain.” I finish his sentence with a sigh. I close my eyes against the tightening in my chest and take a deep breath, which lessens the pain—for now. “Yeah, maybe I’ll go.”
I know I won’t though, because as soon as my last day of school is done, I’m on the first plane back to Spain, back to my Javier. I’m picturing him now as he was on the deck of the Falcon, hair shiny and black, skin dark and smooth, white shirt billowing out around him in the wind exposing the grooves of his chiseled waist. And that devastating smile! No one can even come close to him in the looks department, but his sweet demeanor is what keeps me rapt.
When I feel the car slow down and take a sharp turn, I open my eyes and see that we’ve arrived at my house. Xander pulls the Land Rover to the top of the driveway and cuts the engine. We sit in silence for a few moments, and then Xander turns to me.
“Evie, I had a great time hanging out with you tonight. I hope what happened doesn’t keep you from going out with us again.”
“No way. I had a great time, too. It’s nice that I’ve met people with connections,” I say with a secretive whisper, “you know, who can get me into cool clubs without ID. God only knows what other illegal activities we might enjoy together.”
Xander laughs. “Yeah, I guess we should’ve warned you before taking you there.”
“It’s okay, really.” I smile at him. He’s staring back at me with an oddly familiar expression. There’s a wealth of emotions behind that expression, but I’m unable to decipher a single one. “Well, guess I’d better get inside and let you go home.”
I start to open the car door with my right hand, but Xander grabs my left arm and pulls me back. Caught off guard, I turn to him and he’s leaning toward me. I know he’s going to plant a kiss on my lips. But before he can, I snap my head to the right and his kiss lands on my cheek, where his mouth lingers for a moment. To my utter dismay, my entire body goes warm with the touch of those soft lips. When he sits upright again, I turn back to him.
“Xander, I think you should know that I already have a boyfriend.”
“Of course you do,” he says with a weak smile. “I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Thanks for the ride,” I say as I exit the Land Rover.
***
I’m having a difficult time falling asleep because my mind is racing with what happened tonight—the incident with Christian at the club, and my final awkward interaction with Xander. I’m completely overwhelmed by feelings that I shouldn’t be having. If I’m in love with Javier, why did I find Christian so irresistible? Why does Xander’s touch make me melt? Perhaps out of guilt, I continue obsessively checking my cell phone for messages from Javier. There are none, which is making my anxiety level worse. I’m starting to fear that something has happened to him. These thoughts follow me as I finally drift off to sleep. I force my eyes open to look at the clock one last time before sleep overpowers me. It’s three a.m.
I’m relieved when I begin to dream, and it’s not my mother’s face I see, but Javier’s. Finally, a night without my mother attacking me in my dreams. I am back in Spain, just outside my house, and the sky is the brilliant, clear blue that only Andalusia knows. The wind is furious, despite the absence of clouds above. I’m standing on the path leading to the beach that I’ve taken so many times to meet Javier, my hair whipping around me in the wind. I head down the path, brushing the swaying sea grass with my palms as I go. Javier’s sitting there in our usual spot in the sand, facing the ocean. Something out of the corner of my eye catches my attention, and I turn my gaze to the left. There’s a wall of water at least fifty-feet high rushing toward us. I scream for Javi to run, but he doesn’t. I close my eyes just before the tidal wave hits him, but when I open them again, he’s still sitting there, and the water is calmly lapping at his feet. I take a step in the sand, but as I try to cross the beach to him, my feet become heavy, as if weighted down in quicksand. I fight harder to reach him, but my legs won’t cooperate. I’m yelling now for him to help me, but he doesn’t even turn to look at me. I reach him finally and collapse down on the sand, heaving as if I’ve been struck by an asthma attack.
“Javi!” I scream around the breaths I’m trying to suck in. “Why didn’t you help me?”
“I can’t help you, Eva,” he says, keeping his eyes trained on the water. “I can’t help you at all. I never could.”
“What are you talking about, Javi?” I say, moving closer to him. He slowly turns toward me and puts his hands to his lovely face. I look up, and his eyes are hollow, black orbs sunken back into his skull.
“I’m talking about this,” he says and proceeds to rip the flesh from his cheeks. It falls off in bloody chunks to the sand between us. I watch as he continues pulling at his
face—now a twisted mess of exposed muscles, teeth, and bone—and I scream louder than I think I ever have in my life.
“Wake up!” I tell myself and pinch my arm hard, but I have to do it several times before my mind complies. When I finally wake up, I find myself in a sweaty, balled-up mess, gasping for air. The blankets are tangled around me, and as I reach for my cell phone on the nightstand, I nearly fall out of the bed. Still no phone calls or text messages from Javier. What is going on with him? I have to figure something out, or this anxiety is going to kill me.
CHAPTER 9
The first day of school is dark and rainy. I find myself longing for the warmth of the Spanish sun—and Javier’s arms. Camilla and I drive together to the Holy Cross Preparatory Academy in Georgetown. When we pass the building, my skin crawls. It’s an imposing, gothic, grey-stone structure surrounded by a driveway of red bricks. I hold my breath as Camilla slams her BMW into a tiny open spot between two Mercedes near front of the student parking lot. So close! We exit the car, umbrellas deployed, and as we approach the ancient mahogany doors, I get the eerie sensation that someone is watching me from the front windows. Camilla shouts a quick hello to some kids standing outside passing a cigarette between them. They eye me curiously, but then they turn back to their conversation without greeting me. Their noses are firmly affixed in the air.
The interior is not any friendlier than the façade. The hallways are dimly lit by hanging fluorescent lights, and it’s unbelievably cold and damp, despite the fact it’s the third week of August. Also, the distinguishable odor of mildew, thick and heavy, permeates the air. What is all the fuss about this school that makes everyone want to go here? It’s nasty and creepy—but what do you expect from a school that’s been here since the mid-nineteenth century? I say goodbye to Camilla and head to my first class in Room A102.
The first two periods, AP Psych and Finite Math, are uneventful, but then I walk into English Lit, and there’s Xander sitting at one of the desks in the back of the room, looking adorable in the school uniform: khakis, white shirt, navy blazer, and a maroon-navy-yellow-striped necktie. Our eyes meet, and he waves me over to the open desk next to him. I hesitate for a moment. I actually consider turning around and walking out, but I go ahead over to him and take the seat. For some reason, my heart is racing. I don’t like the way he makes me feel—all jittery, excited, and hyper-aware. Because of my unexpected reaction to him, I don’t trust myself at all with Xander. There’s only one person who’s ever made me feel like this, and I’m disturbed, and shocked, that someone else can have the same effect on me as my Javier.
“So, you lucked out,” says Xander with a broad smile, oblivious to the storm of emotions going on inside me.
“How’s that?” I ask, fumbling through my bag for a pen. But really I’m just buying time to calm myself before I dare look into his golden eyes.
“You have a class with me, of course.” Xander leans over and hands me a pen. I catch a whiff of him—his cologne, or deodorant, or something—and he smells absolutely amazing.
“Of course.” I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant, but inside I’m a nervous wreck. I snatch the pen from him, and he gives me a sheepish grin; but I flit my eyes away before they can lock on his.
I finally start to calm down once the teacher, Mr. Connor, begins lecturing on “The Summoner’s Tale” from The Canterbury Tales, which could lower anyone’s pulse rate and lull them into a sleep-trance, thanks to Connor’s monotone voice and the rhythmic meter of the poem. Once I feel the blush draining from my skin, I sneak a couple of glances over at Xander. He’s nodding off, with his chin propped in the palm of his hand. I cough out a little laugh, and my hand goes quickly to my mouth. A couple of kids turn around to glare at me. (Well, excuse me. Did I personally offend Chaucer or something?) But Xander doesn’t notice. I think he’s snoring over there and looking pretty darn cute doing it.
After English Lit, I tease Xander for dozing in class, then I say goodbye and walk alone to Econ. I’m not sure why, but as I’m meandering to the next class, my thoughts are on Spain and Javier. When I close my eyes, I see the sunset painted sky, streaked purple and pink, hanging over the ocean. I hear the melodic strains of Javier’s guitar. It was my last night with him in Marbella, and the bittersweet scene plays over again in my mind. I’m so focused on the memory that I’m completely oblivious to the students rushing past me in the hall, until one runs into me and nearly knocks me on my back. When I look up, Laurel’s glaring at me.
“Watch where you’re going, newbie,” she growls. “Christ, they should screen for stupidity before allowing people into this school.” She and her friends laugh as if they’ve just heard the most delightful thing ever. Without so much as a second glance at me, they turn and continue on down the hall. Guess I just met the Holy Cross mean-girls.
I pop into the ladies room to check myself in the mirror after my collision with Laurel, so I have to double-time it in order to arrive on time to class. I beat the tardy bell by only seconds. I hurry to an empty desk next to Camilla just as the bell sounds.
“Why are you late?” Camilla whispers and teeters over in her seat toward me.
“I’m not.”
“Ladies, may I have your attention please?” Ms. Lawrence interrupts us with a disapproving glare. The entire class turns to stare. Public humiliation is one means of effectively silencing a teen girl, and it always works on me—I bite my bottom lip and sink down in my seat as blood burns in my cheeks. Thanks a lot! I mouth at Camilla.
“Thank you, ladies. Now, I am going to divide you up into groups, and I want you to brainstorm ideas for cutting government spending.”
A loud, collective groan rises up in the classroom, followed by a few scattered giggles. I know what all the fuss is about. Group projects are never a favorite assignment. They simply take too much time outside of class to complete, and coordinating after school schedules for meetings is almost always impossible.
“Come on, it won’t be that bad,” the teacher counters. “You’ll get to design your very own economic stimulus plan.” Ms. Lawrence sounds excited, but her words draw more mumbled protests, boos, and hisses from the students.
The teacher can barely hold back her laugh. She places a manicured hand up to her mouth to hide the smile widening across her face. It’s odd for someone so good-looking and stylish to be an economics teacher. Aren’t they usually old, bald guys wearing annoyingly thick glasses and horribly outdated Sears-brand suits? Ms. Lawrence can’t be much older than twenty-five. She’s dressed in an ivory turtleneck sweater dress and brown, knee-high leather boots. Her light-blonde hair is tied back in a sleek, low knot. She’s definitely more of a Ralph Lauren model than a boring econ teacher. I guess I can be thankful for one thing about the Cross: although it’s technically a Catholic school, it employs civilian teachers instead of nuns. I never had much luck with nuns—I was always getting erasers lobbed at my head at my previous schools. Apparently, nuns hate it when you fall asleep in their class, or don’t do homework, or chew gum. The list of nun pet-peeves is endless, actually.
“Come on guys, get it together.” Ms. Lawrence waits patiently as the class quiets down. “Are you about finished? Are we ready to continue?”
There’s a scattering of head-nods as students slump down in their desks, clearly defeated.
“Now here’s what we’re going to do,” Ms. Lawrence continues as she sits on the edge of her desk. “After I break you up into groups, I want each group to write down ideas for programs in which the government can cut spending. Then outside of class, I want you to do research on exactly how much the government spends on these programs.” She points her finger at all of us. “I also want you to make well-crafted arguments supporting why you chose the programs you did, and why you believe these programs are dispensable. Then, once you figure up how much money we would save by eliminating or reducing these programs, I want you to propose how we should use the money we have saved.” More soft groans erupt from the studen
ts. “You will present this as a group to the class, using PowerPoint, in three weeks. Any questions?”
A dark-haired boy in the front of the class raises his hand.
“Yes, Marcus?”
“How many programs should we identify, Ms. Lawrence?”
“I would like a minimum of four programs. Because there will be four group members, each person could be responsible for gathering information on a particular program and then making the required arguments. You can choose as many as you’d like,” she says, “but keep in mind, I want thorough research and logical, convincing arguments in support of your choices. Any more questions?”
Silence from the students. Ms. Lawrence begins reading off group names from a piece of paper.
“The first group consists of Evangeline Sweeney, Camilla San Sebastian, Laurel Danton, and Olivia Wright.”
I turn to Camilla and smile as Ms. Lawrence continues to call the next group’s members. Camilla frowns and rolls her eyes. I shrug, not knowing why she looks so unhappy to be in the group with me.
“Laurel and Olivia!” Camilla hisses under her breath. “This is going to be hell!”
Holy Mary. I completely missed seeing Laurel in the class when I rushed through the door. I look to the front of the room and there she is glaring back at us. The dark haired girl sitting next to her must be Olivia; I recognize her as one of the girls from the hallway incident. I’ve never met Olivia, but Camilla’s told me all about her, mainly that she’s Laurel’s loyal toady. I have a feeling that the next three weeks are going to be excruciatingly long. That is, if we make it through three weeks. The way Camilla’s scowling, her face turning dark crimson, our survival is questionable.
“Class, break up and find your group mates. I want to hear some serious discussions. Come on, chop-chop!” Ms. Lawrence advises and claps her hands for emphasis.
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