by Temple West
I wandered back outside, pulling hard on the door twice to get it to actually close before studying the map. Mr. Warren was in room 3. Room 3 was ten feet to my left. I walked over and stared at the handle, knowing I had to open the stupid door eventually. Grabbing hold of the handle and expecting it to be warped and stuck like the office entry, I shoved too hard and pretty much fell into the classroom.
I pushed the door closed to cut out the cold draft that had swirled in after me, avoiding everyone’s eyes. A few students were sitting, others were lounging backward on their desks. Mr. Warren, an older man in a blue collared shirt, sweater vest, and khakis, was leaning back in the chair at the front of the room reading through a Dean Koontz paperback. He frowned as I waited awkwardly by the door and I wondered what on earth I could have done already to disappoint him. But then he smiled and he stood up, holding out his hand.
“You must be Caitlin,” he said as I stepped forward to shake it, very aware that everyone was staring at me. “Welcome. Have a seat anywhere.”
I nodded, then tried to find an empty seat. Tried, but failed. One girl just straight up stood in my way.
“You’re Caitlin Master?” the blond girl asked, standing half a head taller than me. She was built like a tank. I don’t mean she was fat; I mean it looked like she could wrestle bears.
“Holte, actually,” I said, trying to avoid this conversation.
“What?”
Something about her tone set my hackles on end. “My name,” I replied slowly, in case she couldn’t hear, “is Caitlin Holte.”
Ah, there was the anger again, fresh and raw, making me invincible and careless. So what if this tank-girl could wrestle bears? So what if everyone was staring at me again? I’d never been in a fight before. Maybe actually punching someone in the face instead of just wishing I could punch someone in the face would make me feel a little better.
The girl stared. Behind her, Mr. Warren watched us curiously over the top of his book. The moment stretched, and I could feel the eyes of the other kids on us.
Then, mysteriously, she relaxed. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said solemnly. “I know your aunt and uncle. Nice people.” She nodded at the other kids as if to say, “Come on; introduce yourselves.”
They murmured their names and smiled at me, but I forgot them immediately, overwhelmed by the abrupt turn of the conversation. After the last boy shook my hand, the tank-bear-girl said, “I’m Trish. Welcome to Stony Creek.”
The final bell rang. Mr. Warren stood and called everyone to attention, so I sat in the nearest empty seat, which happened to be next to Trish. My hands were shaking, and the classroom blurred in front of me slightly. Ever since the storm I’d been having dizzy spells. I chalked it up to remnants of the fever I’d come home with. That, or the rush of unused adrenaline that spiked my system when I’d briefly considered getting into a fight with Trish. The dizziness passed quickly and I slunk down in my seat, wishing for a lot of impossible things. It would be super great if my mom could somehow be not dead, but I’d settle for someone pulling the fire alarm so I could get out of here. Alas, no such miracle occurred.
For the most part, the junior class stayed together because there were virtually no electives to take at a school this size. Appearing to be engaged with my homework, I spent most of the day dodging conversation with Trish and the few brave others who asked me questions. I was actually just sketching in the margins of my books. I figured that counted as homework, given my career aspirations. People got the hint pretty quickly that I wasn’t much into chitchat, and with Trish’s line about being sorry for my loss, I guess they all understood why. Pretty sure I was giving off a newly minted orphan vibe.
First, second, and third period passed by in a blur of information that didn’t seem all that important for me to remember. Fourth was with a Mrs. Leckenby for art, which was mostly “sketching” with crusty markers and cheap tempera paint. I found a clipboard and tilted my paper toward me so no one could see the punk-rock/Victorian-crossover vest I was doodling. Frills and spikes, pale pink and black—not the most original idea in the world, but I was understandably off my game, and Mrs. Leckenby didn’t seem to care much what we made as long as we stayed quiet.
At lunch, everyone ate outdoors under the covered picnic tables. Trish stuck by me, but I was almost glad when Norah abandoned her fellow freshmen to plunk down her backpack at my table. She didn’t say much, but she was trying, which was more than I could say for myself.
I was just about to take a bite of my sandwich when I saw him out of the corner of my eye.
The him.
The giant question mark in the back of my head. My rescuer, if Rachel was to be believed.
The night of the storm was a complete blank spot in my brain. I couldn’t remember what happened, and it freaked me out that I couldn’t remember, so I did my best not to think about it because I didn’t want Rachel and Joe sending me to a shrink or, God forbid, a real hospital. From far away, Norah was speaking to me, or maybe to someone else, I couldn’t tell, there was a strange ringing in my ears—because there he was.
“Caitlin! Snap out of it!”
“Is she okay?”
“I think so; she just does this sometimes.”
“I’m fine,” I said, still unable to tear my eyes away from him. “Curly-ish hair, expensive coat—what’s his name?”
Trish looked over, saw the tall, dark-haired guy I was staring at, then looked back at me, clearly amused.
“That’s gotta be a record. Adrian’s so quiet it usually takes new girls a day or two to get all doe-eyed.”
Norah leaned over to Trish and not-so-quietly whispered, “Caitlin got lost during that freak storm last week. Adrian found her. Probably saved her life.”
“Oh, did he?” Trish asked. “He was out there just conveniently waiting to rescue you?”
“He lives down the road,” Norah pointed out as she bit through a baby carrot. “I’ve seen him walking around the woods before. Our properties mingle.”
“What’s his name again?” I asked, trying not to stare as he ate his lunch at the picnic table kitty-corner from ours.
“Adrian de la Mara. Stony Creek’s finest specimen of true manhood, unless you count Julian.”
I asked, “Who’s Julian?” at the same moment Norah countered, “Dude, they are so not from Stony Creek. We don’t make men like that.”
“Excuse me, we make damn fine men up here,” Trish bristled, then frowned. “Although, you’re right, they’re not Stony Creek born-and-bred.” She switched back to me. “And Julian is Adrian’s older brother. Just moved here, in fact—Julian, not Adrian. Adrian’s been here since, like, what—sixth grade?”
Norah said something in reply, but I was already lost in thought.
I’d had no idea that he was my age, or our neighbor, or that we’d be going to the same school. I guess it made sense that he’d been out on a sunny day, just like me, wandering around the woods. I mean, people did that, right? And it made sense that he’d seen me fall and had … had …
The details were foggy. Rachel said I’d been hallucinating pretty bad for a while after he brought me home. I didn’t remember that, either.
And there he was. I don’t even know how I recognized him—one, because he was sitting with his back to us and I couldn’t see his face, and two, because he was a dark gray blob in my only memory of that night before I passed out on the front doorstep.
“Keep your rescue on the down low,” Trish warned. “Literally every girl here who’s hit puberty would punch you in both ovaries if they thought Adrian had so much as smelled you.”
Norah made a gagging noise and started packing up.
“All right, not every girl,” Trish conceded, “but most. There’s money down on who can get a date with him first. It’s scary.” She grinned and leaned in. “I may have put twenty bucks down that he’s gay, but the others are holding out hope.”
I’d only seen the back of his head, so I didn’
t know what all the fuss was about, but I guess the back of his head was … nice? His hair was dark and wavy and brushed the collar of his wool coat.
“Yeah, sure,” I agreed as I absently waved good bye to Norah. “I’ll keep it to myself.”
Trish leaned in conspiratorially. “Good. Now, I’ve known you for a whole three hours and I have a good feeling about you, so I’ve decided to let you in on a highly classified secret.”
I looked curiously at her around a bite of ham and cheese. She seemed eager to include me in the community, and I wasn’t going to actively stop her from trying unless she got nosy about my personal life.
She grinned. “Every Halloween a bunch of us from all over Warren County have a party in this big old abandoned barn up on Black Spruce Mountain. There’s a little initiation ceremony for people who’ve never been before, but don’t worry, it’s nothing embarrassing. And don’t worry about your cousin seeing you there, only juniors and seniors are allowed in. I know that’s really soon, but you should come—it’d be a good way to get to know everyone.”
She mistook the look on my face for concern. “If you’re worried about getting in trouble, just say you’re spending the night at my house. My parents know I’m going and they’d totally let you stay over.”
My mind chose that moment to go completely blank, and because I couldn’t think of a good reason to say no, I shrugged yes.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe what I needed was a stupid party. Maybe I’d do something reckless; give in to the wild energy that more often than not took the form of rage, boiling deep in my stomach. Maybe I could let it all out for one night.
As the bell rang, I spotted Adrian ahead of us in the crowd, but again, his back was to me. Just as well. I had no idea what to say to someone who had apparently saved my life. Although really, who says he’d saved me? I probably would have been just fine out there. Might’ve taken a while to get back, but I would have been fine. Saved my life, my ass.
Fifth period passed with Mr. Warren again; he doubled as the history teacher. Sixth was music with Mrs. Leckenby and seventh period was study hall. It was weird because it was the end of the day and I felt I might as well go back to the ranch, except I didn’t have a way to get there. Trish made herself my tour guide, dropping me off at the library. There were maybe a dozen shelves full of books, half a dozen mismatched tables, an ancient row of computers lining one wall, and a desk for the librarian. Most people had study hall at other hours, but there were a few kids scattered around. As I made my way to the nearest table, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I looked up slowly and to the left—
And there was Adrian.
Alone at a table, face stuck behind a really giant book.
Totally ignoring me.
The goose bumps on my arms faded as I took a few deep breaths. Just say thank you, I told myself. I could be nice to one person. I had the energy for that.
I found myself walking toward him. He must’ve heard me because he lowered his book as I stopped a few feet away, and for the first time, I got a good look at him.
Holy mother of God.
Now I understood why there was a bet going on. It wasn’t so much that he was attractive—which he was—or flawless (this was a face that had never known acne or chicken pox or sunburn), as that he had a sort of presence. I could tell he was tall, but he also felt tall—like he was the archetype for all tall men, the original upon which the idea of tallness was built. His shoulders and arms were muscled, and I wondered what he did to look like that because he was sure as hell no farm boy.
He was currently leaning back in his chair, one arm flung casually around the back of the seat next to him, one boot resting on the table leg. He wore a cowl-neck sweater and expensive jeans—I could tell, because they were the type of jeans I would design if I were a menswear designer. Which I wasn’t, but still, I had an eye for these things. The charcoal sweater had to be cashmere it looked soft as butter, and was beautiful against his slightly olive skin. There was some sort of hemp bracelet on his left wrist and an antique silver ring on his hand. It was tasteful, masculine, and confident.
Trish was right—he was totally gay.
“Hi,” I said, but my throat was all froggy. I cleared it, awkwardly. “I’m Caitlin. Holte,” I added, as if that would make a difference.
The librarian chose that moment to knock a stack of books to the floor, which startled me. When I turned back to Adrian, he was rubbing his forehead like he had a headache—or maybe he was irritated that his reading had been interrupted. I couldn’t help but notice that his eyes seemed to be a dozen different shades of gray—darker on the edges and almost white near the center, with charcoals and silvers snaking back and forth. I’d had words that I’d intended to speak out loud, but my mind stuttered to a halt. In the awkward silence that followed, he remained leaning back in his chair, book open, obviously waiting for me to finish whatever I had to say so he could go back to what looked like very serious literature.
Finally, he filled the silence with a prompting “hi.”
I snapped back, embarrassed. “Right. Hi. I just wanted to thank you, for the other night. The rescue and whatnot. I don’t really remember much of it, but thanks.”
Before he could respond, I nodded good-bye, mentally smacked myself for nodding, and turned to go hide behind a giant shelf of books—but his voice caught me before I made it two steps.
“You have a ride home?”
Surprised, I turned back. “Yeah, my aunt’s going to pick us up. For today, at least—I’m supposed to take a bike from now on.”
For an eight-mile ride, each way. And the way back was purely uphill. With a backpack full of books. The last time I’d ridden a bike, I was eight years old with a scratched white helmet decorated in pink sticker flowers. Apparently Rachel and Joe needed the truck in the afternoons for the ranch, and there was no bus system to speak of. Norah was in good-enough shape, and the community was safe enough, that she’d been biking the route since she was ten, which made me feel like the laziest person on the planet.
Adrian regarded me for a long moment. “I can give you a lift to and from school,” he said finally. “You’re on my way.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it, then opened it. “Sorry, what?”
“A ride,” he repeated, with what looked like the hint of a smile threatening to take over the corner of his mouth. “I can give you one.”
Of all the questions I could have asked, somehow this is the one that made it out: “What about Norah?”
He didn’t even blink. “There’s only room for two. I’m sure she’ll understand.”
We stared at each other for a long moment as my mind raced through the options. I didn’t know Adrian—more importantly, I didn’t want to know him (I didn’t really want to know anyone), but I really didn’t want to friggin’ bike to and from school. And I could just picture the look of stunned horror on Rachel’s face as Adrian dropped me off at the ranch. He was a bad boy—even if he wore cashmere sweaters and swung for the other team, he was definitely a bad boy. But I didn’t understand his motivations, and I didn’t trust him.
“I don’t want to bother you,” I said, stalling.
He shrugged. “No bother. Run it by your aunt and uncle and let me know.”
I hesitated a moment longer, but the idea of freaking out Rachel was too great to turn down. Besides, it wasn’t like I’d done a great job of keeping a low profile so far. “Yeah,” I agreed finally. “Thanks.”
He returned to his book, which I took as my cue to go. I sat in the opposite corner of the tiny library. From the few quick glances I stole through the gaps in the shelves, he seemed completely engrossed by his book. When the bell rang, he simply reached over his shoulder and put it back on the shelf without even looking, escaping through the door back into the fog and rain. I crept over to his spot and looked at the title, but couldn’t read it—whatever it was, it was written in Latin. It looked strange and out of place in th
is forlorn little library, much like Adrian himself.
Yeah—definitely not from Stony Creek.
3
DOES YOUR UNCLE OWN A SHOTGUN?
“So are you going?” asked Ben, a fellow junior and a giant of a man. Or, boy. Boy-man. The dude was huge. We were outside eating lunch on my second day at Warren County—which, let’s be honest, sounds more like a prison than a school—and all the upperclassmen had decided to sit together to discuss the upcoming Halloween party. As the new girl, my decision to go or not go was apparently a hot topic.
“Yeah, I think so,” I told him.
“Where are you from, anyway?” asked a senior I hadn’t met yet.
“Mystic.”
“Where’s that?”
I said, “Connecticut,” but I was thinking, Leave me alone, strange upperclassman.
“Mystic,” Trish said. “I like it. I’m gonna call you that from now on.”
Two days in and I already had a nickname. Super.
“Did anyone call the Kellogg guys about bringing their sound system?” Ben asked, and the conversation steered blessedly away from me.
I was considering whether I could slip my earbuds in without anyone noticing when I heard Trish ask, “Hey, de la Mara, you’re coming, right?”
Without meaning to, I looked up, right at Adrian. And for some reason, he looked right back at me, just for a moment. His gaze went immediately back to his sandwich.
“I don’t know yet.” He said it quietly, but his voice somehow carried so everyone heard. He was wearing a thick green sweater with a wooden clasp holding the neck closed. It looked cozy and expensive.
And it totally confirmed my suspicions.
“Aw, come on, man; you gotta go!” a senior protested. “You’re graduating! And what you did last year at initiation was sick.”