by Anna Banks
He grins, yanks my backpack from me, and walks out. Trying to ignore the waft of his scent as the door shuts, I look to Mrs. Poindexter, who giggles, shrugs, and pretends to sort some papers. The message is clear: He’s your problem, but what a great problem to have. Has he charmed the sense out of the staff here, too? If he started stealing kids’ lunch money, would they also giggle at that? I growl through clenched teeth and stomp out of the office.
Galen is waiting for me right outside the door, and I almost barrel into him. He chuckles and catches my arm. “This is becoming a habit for you, I think.”
After I’m steady—after Galen steadies me, that is—I poke my finger into his chest and back him against the wall, which only makes him grin wider. “You … are … irritating … me,” I tell him.
“I noticed. I’ll work on it.”
“You can start by giving me my backpack.”
“Nope.”
“Nope?”
“Right—nope. I’m carrying it for you. It’s the least I can do.”
“Well, can’t argue with that, can I?” I reach around for it, but he moves to block me. “Galen, I don’t want you to carry it. Now knock it off. I’m late for class.”
“I’m late for it too, remember?”
Oh, that’s right. I’ve let him distract me from my agenda. “Actually, I need to go back to the office.”
“No problem. I’ll wait for you here, then I’ll walk you to class.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “That’s the thing. I’m changing my schedule. I won’t be in your class anymore, so you really should just go. You’re seriously violating Rule Numero Uno.”
He crosses his arms. “Why are you changing your schedule? Is it because of me?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Sort of.”
“Emma—”
“Look, I don’t want you to take this personally. It’s just that … well, something bad happens every time I’m around you.”
He raises a brow. “Are you sure it’s me? I mean, from where I stood, it looked like your flip-flops—”
“What were we arguing about anyway? We were arguing, right?”
“You … you don’t remember?”
I shake my head. “Dr. Morton said I might have some short-term memory loss. I do remember being mad at you, though.”
He looks at me like I’m a criminal. “You’re saying you don’t remember anything I said. Anything you said.”
The way I cross my arms reminds me of my mother. “That’s what I’m saying, yes.”
“You swear?”
“If you’re not going to tell me, then give me my backpack. I have a concussion, not broken arms. I’m not helpless.”
His smile could land him a cover shoot for any magazine in the country. “We were arguing about which beach you wanted me to take you to. We were going swimming after school.”
“Liar.” With a capital L. Swimming—drowning—falls on my to-do list somewhere below giving birth to porcupines.
“Oh, wait. You’re right. We were arguing about when the Titanic actually sank. We had already agreed to go to my house to swim.”
Bells are going off in my head, but not the kind that should be ringing if this were true. I don’t remember talking about the beach at all, but I do remember answering the question about the Titanic in Mr. Pinner’s class. Even Galen, wielding his smile as a thought deterrent, couldn’t have talked me into getting in the water, could he? “I … I don’t believe you,” I decide as I say it. “I wouldn’t get that upset about a date. Historical or otherwise.”
He shrugs. “It surprised me, too.”
I raise a BS brow. “Why would you argue about the date anyway? You could Google it all over the place and get the same answer.”
“True. You could look it up on the World Wide Web. Ever wonder whose web it is, exactly?”
“What?”
“What I mean is, have you ever considered that you only know the facts they want you to know?”
I shake my head. “Nope. Not falling for it. You’re trying to distract me. What were we really arguing about?”
“What do you think we were arguing about?”
“Stop that. You’re answering my questions with questions.” He’s pretty stinking good at it, too. I’m kind of impressed with myself for catching it, especially with a concussion.
He seems impressed, too. “Are you sure you don’t remember? Your mind seems to be working fine to me.”
“You know what? Just forget it. Whatever it was, I forgive you. Give me my backpack so I can go back to the office. We’re about to get busted anyway, just standing here.”
“If you really do forgive me, then you wouldn’t still be going to the office.” He tightens his hold on the strap of my backpack.
“Ohmysweetgoodness, Galen, why are we even having this conversation? You don’t even know me. What do you care if I change my schedule?” I know I’m being rude. The guy offered to carry my things and walk me to class. And depending on which version of the story I believe, he either asked me out on Monday already, or he did it indirectly a few seconds ago. None of it makes any sense. Why me? Without any effort, I can think of at least ten girls who beat me out in looks, personality, and darker foundation. And Galen could pull any of them.
“What, you don’t have a question for my question?” I ask after a few seconds.
“It just seems silly for you to change your schedule over a disagreement about when the Titanic—”
I throw my hands up at him. “Don’t you see how weird this is for me?”
“I’m trying to, Emma. I really am. But I think you’ve had a rough couple of weeks, and it’s taking a toll on you. You said every time you’re around me something bad happens. But you can’t really know for sure that’s true, unless you spend more time with me. You should at least acknowledge that.”
Something is wrong with me. Those cafeteria doors must have really worked me over. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be pushing Galen away like this. Not with him pleading, not with the way he’s leaning toward me, not with the way he smells. “See? You’re taking it personally, when there’s really nothing personal about it,” I whisper.
“It’s personal to me, Emma. It’s true, I don’t know you well. But there are some things I do know about you. And I’d like to know more.”
A glass full of ice water wouldn’t cool my cheeks. “The only thing you know about me is that I’m life threatening in flip-flops.”
That I won’t meet his eyes obviously bothers him, because he lifts my chin with the crook of his finger. “That’s not all I know,” he says. “I know your biggest secret.”
This time, unlike at the beach, I don’t swat his hand away. The electric current in my feet prove that we’re really standing so close to each other that our toes touch. “I don’t have any secrets,” I say, mesmerized.
He nods. “I finally figured that out. That you don’t actually know about your secret.”
“You’re not making any sense.” Or I just can’t concentrate because I accidentally looked at his lips. Maybe he did talk me into swimming.…
The door to the front office swings open, and Galen grabs my arm and ushers me around the corner. He continues to drag me down the hall, toward world history.
“That’s it?” I say, exasperated. “You’re just going to leave it at that?”
He stops us in front of the door. “That depends on you,” he says. “Come with me to the beach after school, and I’ll tell you.”
He reaches for the knob, but I grab his hand. “Tell me what? I already told you that I don’t have any secrets. And I don’t swim.”
He grins and opens the door. “There’s plenty to do at the beach besides swim.” Then he pulls me by the hand so close I think he’s going to kiss me. Instead, he whispers in my ear, “I’ll tell you where your eye color comes from.” As I gasp, he puts a gentle hand on the small of my back and propels me into the classroom. Then he ditches me.<
br />
8
THE FINAL bell rings and students leak from every crevice of the redbrick building. Bus brakes hiss in the distance and the lower classmen corral into the bus ramp, bottlenecking to board. The juniors and seniors herd to the parking lot in a steady stream, which seems to coagulate around Galen and his not-so-modest car. He leans against the trunk, nodding to the males admiring the vehicle and avoiding eye contact with the females admiring something else.
The wave of students turns into a traffic jam. The obligatory honking becomes less frequent as cars packed with human adolescents migrate to the highway. Behind him, Galen hears someone on a skateboard make the acquaintance of asphalt and the accompanying groan of pain.
He glances at the car parked beside his. Where is she?
When she appears at the double doors, the air between them seems to crackle with energy. She locks eyes with him. Disappointed when she doesn’t smile, he pushes away from the car, reaching her before she can take ten steps. “Let me carry your pack. You look tired. Are you okay?”
Emma doesn’t fight about the backpack this time. Instead, she hands it over and pulls all her white hair to the side. “Just have a headache. And wow. You skipped an entire day of school after you fought with me about changing my schedule.”
He grins. “I didn’t think about it like that. I just knew you wouldn’t concentrate on class if I stayed. You’d be bothering me all day about your secret, and you’ve missed enough school already.”
“Thanks, Dad,” she says, rolling her eyes. When they reach their cars, he throws her bag into the backseat of his convertible.
“What are you doing?” she says.
“I thought we made plans for the beach.”
She crosses her arms. “You made plans. Then you left.”
He crosses his arms, too. “You agreed to it Monday, before you hit your head.”
“Yep, you keep saying that.”
Without thinking, he takes her hand into his. Emma’s eyes widen—she’s as surprised as he is. What am I doing? “Fine, so you don’t remember me asking you. But I’m asking now. Will you please come to the beach with me?”
She tugs her hand free, glancing at a few kids passing by who shield their whispers behind a yellow folder. “What does the beach have to do with my eyes? And why are you wearing contacts on yours?”
“Rach— Uh, my mom says they’ll help me blend in better. She says the color would just draw attention to me.”
Emma snorts. “Oh, she’s definitely right. Blue eyes make you look so much more average. In fact, I almost didn’t notice you standing there.”
“That hurts my feelings, Emma.” He grins.
She giggles.
He says, “I’d consider forgiving you—if you come with me to the beach.”
She sighs. “I can’t go with you, Galen.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Honestly, Emma, I don’t know how much more rejection I can take,” he blurts out. In fact, he doesn’t remember ever being rejected, except by Emma. Of course, that could be due to the fact that he’s a Royal. Or maybe it’s because he doesn’t spend a lot of time with his kind anyway, let alone the females. Actually, he doesn’t spend a lot of time with anyone except Rachel. And Rachel would give him her beating heart if he asked for it.
“I’m sorry. It’s not about you this time. Well, actually, it kind of is. My mom … well, she thinks we’re dating.” Her cheeks—and those lips—deepen to red.
“Dating?” What is dating, again? He tries to remember what Rachel told him.… She said it’s easy to remember because it’s almost the same as … what is the rhyme for it? And then he remembers. “It’s easy to remember, because dating rhymes with mating, and they’re almost the same,” she’d said. He blinks at Emma. “Your mom thinks we’re ma— Uh, dating?”
She nods, biting her lip.
For reasons he can’t explain, this pleases him. He leans against the passenger door of her car. “Oh. Well. What does it matter if she thinks that?”
“I told her we weren’t dating, though. Just this morning. Going to the beach with you makes me look like a liar.”
He scratches the back of his neck. “I don’t understand. If you told her we weren’t dating, then why does she think we are?”
She relaxes against his driver-side door. “Well, this is all actually your fault, not mine.”
“I’m obviously not asking the right questions—”
“The way you acted toward me when I hit my head, Galen. Some people saw that. And they told my mom. She thinks I’ve been hiding you from her, keeping you a secret. Because she thinks we’ve been … we’ve been…”
“Dating?” he offers. He can’t understand why she’d have a difficult time discussing dating, if it means what he thinks it does—spending time with one human more than others to see if he or she would be a good mate.
The Syrena do the same, only they call it sifting—and sifting doesn’t take nearly as long as dating. A Syrena can sift out a mate within a few days. He’d laughed when Rachel said some humans date for years. So indecisive. Then an echo of Toraf’s voice whispers to him, calling him a hypocrite. You’re twenty years old. Why haven’t you sifted for a mate? But that doesn’t make him indecisive. He just hasn’t had time to sift and keep his responsibility watching the humans. If it weren’t for that, he’d already be settled down. How can Toraf think Emma’s the reason he hasn’t sifted yet? Up until three weeks ago, he didn’t even know she existed.
Emma nods, then shakes her head. “Dating, yes. But she thinks we’re, uh, more than dating.”
“Oh,” he says, thoughtful. Then he grins. “Oh.” The reason her lips are turning his favorite color is because Emma’s mom thinks they’ve been dating and mating. The blush extends down her neck and disappears into her T-shirt. He should probably say something to make her feel more comfortable. But teasing her seems so much more fun. “Well then, the least she could do is give us some privacy—”
“Ohmysweetgoodness!” She snatches her backpack from the seat and marches around her car to the driver’s side. Before she can get the door unlocked, he plucks the key from her fingers and tucks it into his jeans’ pocket. She moves to retrieve it, but stops when she realizes where she’s about to go fishing.
He’s never seen her this red. He laughs. “Calm down, Emma. I’m just kidding. Don’t leave.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not funny. You should have seen her this morning. She almost cried. My mom doesn’t cry.” She crosses her arms again but relaxes against her door.
“She cried ? That’s pretty insulting.”
She cracks a tiny grin. “Yeah, it’s an insult to me. She thinks I would … would…”
“More than date me?”
She nods.
He steps toward her and puts his hand beside her on the car, leaning in. A live current seems to shimmy up his spine. What are you doing? “But she should know that you don’t even think of me like that. That it would never even cross your mind,” he murmurs. She looks away, satisfying his unspoken question—it has crossed her mind. The same way it crosses his. How often? Does she feel the voltage between them, too? Who cares, idiot? She belongs to Grom. Or are you going to let a few sparks keep you from uniting the kingdoms?
He pulls back, clenching his teeth. His pockets are the only safe place for his hands at the moment. “Why don’t I meet her then? You think that would make her feel better?”
“Um.” She swipes her hair to the other side of her face. Her expression falls somewhere between shock and expectation. And she had every right to expect it—he’s been entertaining the idea of kissing her for over two weeks now. She fidgets the door handle. “Yeah, it might. She won’t let me go anywhere—especially with you—if she doesn’t meet you first.”
“Should I be afraid?”
She sighs. “Normally I would say no. But after this morning…” She shrugs.
“How about I follow you to your house so you can drop off your car? Then sh
e can interrogate me. When she sees how charming I am, she’ll let you ride to the beach with me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Just don’t be too charming. If you’re too smooth, she’ll never believe—just don’t overdo it, okay?”
“This is getting complicated,” he says, unlocking her car.
“Just remember, this is your idea and your fault. Now would be the time to back out.”
He chuckles and opens the door for her. “Don’t lose me on the road.”
* * *
Emma tosses her backpack on the counter and pokes her head up the stairwell. “Mom, could you come down a sec? We’ve got company.”
“Sure, sweetie. Be right down. They just called me in, so I’m in a hurry though,” is the answer from above.
He shoves his hands in his pockets. Why am I nervous? It’s just one more human to fool. But everything hinges on this human liking him, accepting him. Winning over Emma’s mother is just as important as winning over Emma. Her mother could make his task more difficult, cost him more time if she disapproves.
Self-doubt settles in. If he hadn’t practiced with Rachel for those two weeks before school, he wouldn’t even be trying this. But Rachel was thorough. She ran through what to expect in school and how to act, what certain phrases meant, what he should wear and when he should wear it. They brushed up on his driving skills. She even anticipated him meeting Emma’s parents—just not under interrogation circumstances. Now he wishes he’d called her on the way here.
As he again contemplates kidnapping Emma, he glances around the room. From his vantage point in the kitchen, he can see the entire first floor. The only consistency in the decor is the theme of mismatching—mismatch appliances, furniture, paint. All the rooms open into each other without doors, as if in welcome. Beyond the living room, sand dunes tufted with grass peer into the huge window like they’re eavesdropping.
All of this is already enough to make him covet this house—it makes the one Rachel bought seem cold, distant, impersonal. But what makes him downright jealous are the pictures smothering every wall of every room. Pictures of Emma. Her entire life hangs on these walls—and if he doesn’t find a way to convince her mother of his good intentions, he might not ever get the chance to look at them.