by L. Philips
(The rhyming, as you might have guessed, was even more impressive in perfectly conjugated Latin, but that’s the English version. Brilliant, right? Move over, Shakespeare.)
I read it two more times to complete Meg’s incantation, and then kneel in the middle of the circle, stretching the list containing three strands of my hair over the flame of the northernmost candle.
Almost instantly, the notebook paper catches fire. I watch it burn until the flame crawls up to my fingertips, and then I let it drop. It disintegrates into ashes before it hits the ground and a quick, singular burst of wind carries them away.
I look over at Meg, who is staring at me with an expression of wonder that makes me feel horribly self-conscious. “What do I do now?”
Meg jerks as if I’ve just woken her. “What? Oh. Um, you have to close the circle. Thank the Goddess and then blow out the candles one by one. East, south, west, then north.”
“Okay.” I turn back, saying awkwardly to the night air, “Um, thanks for listening, Goddess.” Then I blow out the candles in order and turn to my friends. “Well. That was interesting.”
“Sam,” Meg says, strawberry-blonde brows coming together in a V. She closes the distance between us and puts a hand on my elbow. “This is going to work. Didn’t you feel Her? She’s got plans for you, baby. Big plans. I can’t even believe what I just saw. You’re a natural witch, Sam! Who knew? The Goddess loves you!”
Meg then proceeds to dance around the ritual circle like a drunken ballerina and Landon’s immediately at my side.
“You okay?” he says to me, his voice low so Meg can’t hear.
“Yeah,” I answer, watching Meg pirouette, then dip down to pick up a candle. She is humming something that sounds like a carnival tune, happier than I’ve ever seen her. “That was weird, right?”
“Yeah, really weird,” Landon answers. His eyes follow Meg too, and we let her distract us. It’s much easier than admitting that we’re a little spooked, and that the whole thing has us thinking that Meg could be right about her religion.
Which is just freaking ridiculous.
The ridiculousness of it doesn’t stop me from taking a step closer to Landon when another gust of wind whips through the graveyard, though.
“Ready to go home?”
I smile at Landon because I know that (a) he’s offering to go home because I want to get the hell out of here, and (b) he’s offering to go home because he wants to get the hell out of here.
“Please.”
On my word, Landon turns and calls out to Meg, who has stopped dancing and is zipping the last of the ritual supplies into her bag. “Hey, Meg, let’s go.”
Meg stands up and salutes Landon, giggling. “Yes, Sergeant Gray.” She runs to us, planting herself between me and Landon as we walk down the hill and follow the winding path out of the cemetery. She babbles on and on about the Goddess and the details of the spell, and speculates as to what kind of boy the Goddess will bring me. She keeps it up until we pull in front of her house to drop her off, and when she leaves, the silence between me and Landon feels especially quiet.
“You swear you’re okay?” Landon finally asks as he takes the last turn onto my sleepy street.
I shrug and stare out the window at the houses. Besides the general spookiness of the spell, there’s something off about what I’m feeling. It’s almost empty.
“Sam . . .” Landon says, and it’s a warning not to try to get out of talking about it. And he’s right. I don’t know why I’m hesitating. Landon’s always been my least judgmental friend. The only thing I can’t talk to Landon about is Landon, which is what makes this so hard.
“It’s just . . .” I begin, searching for the words. I turn to look at him as he pulls up to my house. “How did you meet him? The guy that you . . . you know.”
Landon pulls over in front of my house, but doesn’t take his eyes off the road ahead. “It was a weird string of coincidences. Believe me, it wasn’t exactly easy to meet someone else. He didn’t just fall into my lap, so to speak.”
“So . . .” I look down at my knotted fingers, trying to muster the courage to ask what I want to ask. “It’s not just me? This is hard for other people? For you?”
“God, Sam. Of course it’s not you. It’s this stupid little town. If we were somewhere else—New York, or L.A., even—you’d have a million guys following you around, begging for a chance. And all of them would be Perfect Tens, like you want. You’d have to narrow them down and choose. Like The Bachelor or something.”
I chuckle at that. “You’re a liar, but you’re a good friend to say so.”
Landon’s lips make a thin line. “Not lying. Really, Sam. It’s not you, okay? It’s not you. Any guy who meets you will want to be with you, trust me. As long as he’s not straight, anyway.”
I snort and shrug him away, but there’s a hot flush creeping up my neck.
Another reason why I fell for Landon? Silver-tongued. He always says the right thing.
“Thanks.” I squeeze his hand. “I guess if this spell doesn’t work, I’ll just have to move to L.A.”
“What a terrible fate,” Landon says, then winks. “Night, Sam.”
“Night.”
As he drives off and I turn myself toward the back door, another powerful surge of wind gushes all around me, rattling the shutters of my house and whistling through the trees. Perhaps the Goddess is with me, like Meg thinks.
I roll my eyes and walk toward the house.
If that’s true, the boy She brings had better be gorgeous.
Four
I don’t see Meg or Landon again until Monday at school, which is just as well. Between the report I had to write on Crime and Punishment, working on my writing samples for college applications, and calculus problems out the wazoo, I didn’t have time for much socializing.
It’s fourth period, right before lunch, and I look up from my psychology book to see Meg waving her arms at me like an idiot in the hallway. Before Mr. Henshaw can see her, I spring from my desk and approach his, asking for the hall pass.
“Are you having some kind of fit or something?” I hiss as soon as I’m in the hallway.
Meg’s expression is rapturous. “She answered you, Sam. She answered you.”
I know immediately what she’s talking about and my heart gives a loud ka-thunk in my chest. “Where?” I ask.
“Music room.” Meg does a little ballet twirl, then freezes, eyes wide and full of drama. “Hurry.”
We take off jogging (well, I jog; Meg sort of skips and leaps) toward the music wing of the school, which is way on the other side of the building, past the cafeteria.
Before we get to the double doors that lead into the band room, the sound of a saxophone and a brushed drum surrounds me like a night breeze, chill and bluesy. I stop, letting the sound carry me away, and Meg has to grab my hand and pull me the rest of the way to the doors.
“Look,” she whispers, pointing to the tiny square of glass in one door that is our only view of the jazz ensemble within.
I draw in a deep breath, casting an apprehensive glance to Meg before looking through the smudged pane.
The jazz band sits in a semicircle, save for a drum set and keyboard off to one side. No one’s playing, though, except for the drummer and a saxophone player, whose face is obstructed by a tall music stand.
I scan the rest of the ensemble’s faces as they watch the sax player with slack-jawed awe. There are a few kids I know from my days in the middle school band, back when I used to pretend to play trumpet in the back row. Landon also plays trumpet, and like schoolwork, is decent at it without any practicing. Meg still plays violin in the orchestra, and she’ll slap you if you give her any shit about it. At any rate, I’m no stranger to the way instruments and bands work, which is what makes this sight so weird. I’m pretty sure they’re all supposed to be playing.
“Which . . .” I start to ask Meg, but right then the sax player steps out from behind the music stand and I stop breathing.
He’s gorgeous. Okay, that’s an understatement. The sax player is stunning. He’s tall and slender, with thick, wavy hair the color of the midnight sky that falls nearly to his chin, and large, dark brown eyes that complement features like a strong jaw and patrician nose.
“Meg,” I say, snapping to get her attention. “The list. What was on my list?”
“Um, let’s see . . .” She pauses to think, eyes all squinty, lips pursed. “Thick hair, nice eyes . . .”
“Yes, yes,” I say, motioning to go on as my gaze travels back to the sax player. The rest of the band has started to join in, reluctantly tearing their admiring stares away from him. “Sexy, right? Attractive. Talented. He’s all of those things.”
“And you can bet he’s got the rest, Sam. Taste? Style? Ambition? Just look at him.” Contrary to her words, her hand is on my shoulder, pulling me away from the door. She’s laughing a little, like she can barely contain herself. “Foreign exchange student. He was in Madame Vinson’s class this morning. Sam, he’s from Paris.”
Oh my god. A sexy French exchange student. Who plays jazz. I turn back to look at him more through the window, saying to Meg, “Your goddess doesn’t half-ass anything, does She?”
Meg giggles. “Of course not.”
“What’s his name?”
“Gus,” Meg says, popping up to look through the window with me.
Gus. It’s not quite as romantic as I’d pictured it, but it’s kind of cute.
“I mean, that’s his nickname. His real name is Augustin Chevalier. And Chevalier means—”
“Knight,” I finish for her, a dreamy smile forming on my lips. “My knight in shining armor?”
Meg bumps me with her shoulder, laughing. “Perhaps. We’ll see. Class is ending soon. You can ask him out and decide for yourself.”
“Ask him out?” My voice rises up with alarm, loud enough to be heard over the jazz ensemble playing. For as much work as I’d put into this list, I guess I kind of figured the boy would at least do the asking. Was I going to have to do everything? “But,” I say, starting into what might be a litany of excuses, “do you know for sure I’m . . . you know . . . his type?”
“He’s gay, if that’s what you’re asking. He said so when he introduced himself to the class this morning.” Meg turns away from the window to study me, her lips making a flat line across her face. “Don’t chicken out on me. The Goddess has answered you. You can’t blow Her off.”
“She’s not my goddess,” I argue.
“Oh, now She’s not your goddess, even though just a few minutes ago She had answered your prayers.” Meg sighs and puts a hand on my upper arm, squeezing slightly. “Look, Sam. I know. This is hard, and it’s been since Landon, but . . . it’s also been since Landon, if you catch my drift here. You need to go for it.”
I glance one more time into the band room. Gus’s saxophone emits a plaintive melody, floating around the band’s supporting chord progression. It’s beautiful, and so is he, and Meg’s right. I’m so tired of being lonely and he seems so wonderful. I need to go for this.
Just then the bell rings, and the jazz students start toward the doors. Panicked, I grab Meg by the wrist and drag her, squealing, into the main hallway outside the music wing.
“Where are you going?”
“We can’t be right outside those doors!” I explain, exasperated. “He’ll think we’re stalking him.”
“Relax,” she says, and takes off back toward the band room. “I told him to wait for us. He wants to meet you.”
“Oh my god, Meg. No,” I say, mortified. I can actually feel the blush forming on my skin, but I run to follow her anyway.
As soon as I’m back in the music wing I hear a deep, silky voice say, “Ah, Meg. Eet ees so nice to see you again. But where ees zis boy you ’ave told me about?”
I am totally unprepared as I turn the corner and Gus’s eyes meet mine. I halt so suddenly that my sneakers squeak on the floor and it feels like my thundering heart slams into my rib cage from the inertia. It seems to right itself, only to get stuck in my throat so that I can’t speak and all I can hear is its stuttering beat in my ears.
“Meg!” the silky voice says again, but this time that lovely voice is attached to eyes that are so rich and dark, I have to wonder how they’re real. Then he turns them on Meg. “You ’ave lied to me. Your Sam ees not ’andsome, as you said.” My stupid, spazzoid heart plummets into my stomach at that. Then, with a smirk so sexy it should be outlawed, Gus turns back to me and says, “Il est magnifique!”
“That means—”
“I know what it means,” I cut Meg off and take a step closer to Gus, now wishing that she’d just go away and let me have a moment alone with a sexy Frenchman. A sexy Frenchman who thinks I’m gorgeous. “I’m Sam,” I say, extending my hand.
“Samuel?” Gus asks. The vowels take their time on his tongue, and the el is accented. It’s got a delicious, exotic feel to it, so it’s a shame that’s not really my name. He takes my hand in his, not shaking it but using it to draw me closer.
“Samson, actually.”
“Samson,” Gus repeats, and screw Samuel. Samson sounds much better from that mouth. “I am Augustin René Chevalier. But everyone calls me Gus.”
It sounds a little like goose to be honest, but it’s adorable. I let him fold my hand into his. The jazz band is piling out of the instrument closet, headed to their next classes, and I can see them but I can’t really hear them. It’s like Gus and I have our own little private bubble.
“Welcome to Athens High School,” I say, cheesy as it is. “In the middle of a semester, even. Odd how that happened . . .”
Gus only smiles and starts to walk toward the classrooms. I don’t know where his saxophone is. I don’t know where his book bag is. Maybe sexy French students don’t use books. And he hasn’t dropped my hand so, good heavens, I’m holding hands with a boy in the hallway.
“Oui. I should not ’ave arrived until January, but my school sent me early on uh . . . Meg, what ees zat word?”
“Scholarship,” Meg says from behind us, and I’d completely forgotten that she was there. I turn my head to look at her, and she glances pointedly at my hand joined with Gus’s before wiggling her eyebrows.
“Merci. Scholarship. But perhaps eet was perfect timing, no?” Gus squeezes my hand and my gaze is drawn back to his amazing eyes.
“Oui,” I answer (and how embarrassing, I sound breathless even to myself), and squeeze back. “If you would like someone to show you around Athens—”
“Ah, zat would be très bon! I ’ave not seen any of zis town since I ’ave arrived.” As we near the cafeteria, I can’t help but notice a few students staring, and even more whispering. I fight to keep a triumphant smile from forming on my lips. Yep, that’s me, Sam Raines, holding hands with a gorgeous French guy. Eat your hearts out.
“I, um, I have lunch now,” I stammer out, and Gus pouts.
“I do not eat until after ze next class. May I see you after school, Samson?” His eyes sparkle with the most flattering hopefulness.
I shiver at the sound of my name. “Yes. Please. Can I meet you . . . ?”
“In ze band room. I will ’ave to take my instrument ’ome wiz me.”
I wince. “I walk home. I mean, I don’t have a car.”
“And I cannot drive in zis country, but I walk too. Walk togezer, zen?”
I have to lift my chin a little to see into his eyes, as he’s just enough taller than me to merit it. “Sounds great,” I say, even though I have no clue where he lives and even if we’d be walking in the same direction. Whatever. I’ll walk a hundred miles in the wrong direction if he wants, as long as he keeps looking at me and talking like that.
“I wil
l see you after school, Samson. I will be counting ze minutes.”
“Me too,” I say, and he squeezes my hand again and disappears into a crowd of students all headed toward the science wing.
When I turn around to find Meg, I’m sure I look dumbfounded. I can feel my mouth hanging open in utter shock-induced stupidity. Sort of like how the cheerleaders look when you ask them a question with a big word in it.
My words come out in a rasp. “He just . . .”
“I know.”
“He held my hand.”
“He did.”
“He wants to see me after school.”
“I heard.”
“Meg,” I say, poking her forearm repeatedly, “did that really just happen?”
“I believe that, yes, an incredibly hot foreign exchange student wants you to be his lover, which is, I must say, très romantique. So, uh . . . you can thank me with a dinner at Seven Sauces whenever. Maybe after your wildly successful first date.” Meg’s grinning as she studies a hangnail with too much concentration.
I sigh. Dinner at Seven Sauces, the best restaurant in town, is going to eat a huge hole in my wallet, but hey, the list was Meg’s idea. I suppose she deserves it, but I can’t let her be right that easily. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Maybe he’s got horrible taste in movies or something. He may not be a Perfect Ten.”
Meg narrows her eyes at me. “Please. He’s practically an eleven. Just so you know, I’m going to have the filet mignon and the lobster. And maybe some of that delicious scallop dish. Bring your credit card.”
She leaves me alone to walk back to get my things, and by the time I sit down at the lunch table with her, she has a list of possible desserts she wants as well. As I listen to her ramble on about chocolate torte, my mind wanders back to the feel of Gus’s hand in mine, and the rest of the lunch period passes in a blur of jazz music and blissful daydreams.
As I gather my things from my locker at the end of the day, there’s a riot of butterflies in my stomach that won’t stop fluttering no matter what I do. By the time I’m passing the cafeteria, it’s not just a handful of butterflies but an entire freaking flock, and they’re all flapping their wings in mismatched staccato rhythms.