by Seven Steps
A second later, Bella French, best friend number two, came rushing into the bathroom.
“The limo’s coming.” Her eyes opened wide as they took in my tattered appearance.
“Is that—”
“Spray paint,” I said.
“And you—”
“Almost hit by a car.”
“But you—”
“Rescued by a stranger.”
“Was he cute?”
“Facemask.”
She made a disappointed face.
“Look, we have to get her out of here,” Ariel said. “But we can’t use the front door.”
“Why not?” Bella asked.
Ariel shrugged. “Something about a boy.”
“Isn’t it always about a boy?”
“Yes, but that’s beside the point. We’ll have to activate Operation Nighthawk.”
“What’s Operation Nighthawk?” I asked.
She and Bella smiled at each other, then they smiled at me.
“We’re breaking you out.”
The three of us peeked our heads out of the bathroom door, looking first left, then right.
Down the hall, close to the front doors, Eric Shipman and Cole Winsted, Ariel’s and Bella’s boyfriends, had formed one, big wall around Andrew, blocking his view of our escape.
I shuddered to think about what they might be saying to him.
“Eric and Cole will hold him for exactly one minute,” Ariel said, sounding more like an army general rather than a sixteen-year-old girl at a formal dance.
“Why only one minute?” I asked.
Ariel shrugged. “I like to live dangerously. Let’s go.”
I walked out first followed by Ariel and Bella. I moved as quickly as I could without attracting attention.
My heart raced with adrenaline. The hallway seemed longer. Every step seemed unsure. As if I were walking on a million invisible banana peels. I placed my feet carefully to keep from slipping.
“Twenty seconds,” Ariel said from behind me.
I walked a little faster. It took all I had not to sprint down the hallway and out of sight. But running would attract attention, and that was the last thing I needed right now.
We’d almost made it to the end of the hallway when two students came from around the corner. I recognized the girl. Wendy Darling was in our lunch period. The guy looked familiar, but I couldn’t place his face.
They looked just as anxious for us not to see them as we were for them not to see us.
The guy nodded.
“Bella.”
“Peter,” Bella said.
Then they were out of sight and I was rounding the corner, away from any chance of being seen by, or dancing with, Andrew Johnson.
I tried not to be too disappointed as we pushed open the school door, descended the stairs, and climbed into the awaiting limo.
This night was almost over, and nothing I thought would happen had happened.
I’d missed my first school dance.
I’d missed my chance with Andrew.
When did everything go so wrong?
“Just sit back and relax, J,” Ariel said. “We got you.”
I rubbed my chest and coughed. I was winded. And this limo was warm. Really warm. My skin prickled as it defrosted.
It pulled away from the curb, drove for about thirty seconds, then stopped in front of the school, allowing four more people to climb in.
Cole and Eric I recognized.
The other two girls I did not.
“Jasmine, this is Purity Dubois and Sophia Johnson,” Ariel said. “Purity is Eric’s cousin.” She gestured to a pale girl with jet-black hair and red lips. She was wearing a navy blue, strapless minidress, yellow heels, and a red clutch. She gave me a small wave. “And Sophia is—”
“Ariel’s long-lost sister,” Sophia blurted out.
Ariel shook her head. “I was going to say we’re on the swim team together.”
Sophia smiled wide. Her caramel skin was flawless. Her long, black hair hung in an elegant ponytail. She wore a forest green mermaid cut dress that was so long I couldn’t see her shoes.
“We have to go to the nearest Starbucks,” Bella said. “I’m in the mood for caffeine.”
“Hurray for coffee,” Sophia said. “I’ll take mine Irish. It matches my outfit.” She pointed to her dress as if that was all the convincing I needed.
I liked Sophia instantly. She seemed fun. And with that innocent, sparkling smile, I was sure she got away with a lot more than sipping Irish coffees.
“We got coffee on the way here,” Cole said. His jet-black hair was neatly gelled back, making him look debonair, like an actor in a silent film.
“Yes, babe,” Bella said, placing a hand on his arm, “but that was before Jasmine almost got hit by a car. We have to celebrate her being okay with coffee.”
Purity’s eyes widened. “You almost got hit by a car?”
“And some hot guy rescued her,” Ariel offered.
Sophia and Purity looked at each other, then at me.
“No,” I said. “He was wearing a mask. I don’t know if he was hot or not.”
Sophia threw her ponytail over her shoulder, closed her eyes, and sat back in her seat with a sly smile.
“We can dream, can’t we?”
Eric turned around and asked the driver—a man named Reginald—to stop at the nearest Starbucks. Of course, this being New York City, that meant the nearest Starbucks was only sixty seconds away in any direction.
Old school R&B poured through the speakers as we pulled into the spot. Eric and Cole collected drink orders, including my caramel macchiato, which Bella gleefully suggested, and climbed out of the limo.
“We should hang out my house tomorrow night to catch up,” Bella said. “Dad’s got a date with Ms. Mitchell, so we should have the apartment to ourselves.”
“I still can’t believe he’s dating your English teacher,” I said.
Sophia wrinkled her nose. “Isn’t that illegal?”
“It may not be illegal,” Purity said. “But it’s definitely gross.”
She had a Southern accent I liked. It made me feel like I was on a farm somewhere on a warm day, sipping iced tea and eating cookies.
“Odd coming from a sister-wife like you,” Sophia said.
Purity playfully pushed her.
“Sister-wife?” I asked.
“Long story,” Ariel said.
A few minutes later, the boys climbed back into the car. Cole had a tray with four cups while Eric had a tray of three. Each boy had paper bags hanging from their mouths.
“Babe, gross,” Bella said, plucking the brown bags from Cole’s teeth. She then did the same for Eric.
“Sorry. I knew if I came back with no birthday cake pop I’d have to go back in.”
“And ditto for the orange cranberry scones,” Eric said. His hair was spiked tonight, and he wore a tux with sneakers and a bowtie. It was an odd mix, but an adorable one.
Bella laughed. “We’ve trained you two well.”
She pulled a small cup from the tray and handed it to me. Then, she took her own cup—which was two sizes bigger than mine—and placed it in the cup holder on the door. Next, she handed me a chocolate chip cookie dough cake pop and refolded the bag. She grabbed her coffee cup and held it high in a grand gesture.
“To J,” Bella said. “May the guy who almost hit you get mosquito bites between his toes and itches in places he can’t scratch.”
I chuckled. It felt good to laugh after the mess my night had become.
The rich, sweet scent of coffee hit my nose and I brought it to my lips when, there he was.
The man in black.
He was walking past the limo with three other people, all wearing masks that covered them from nose to neck.
My hands shook, remembering how he’d saved my life. He’d been rude and curt, but he was still my hero, and I had to tell him how thankful I was or else I’d never forgive myself. The urge to expre
ss my gratitude overpowered my reason. Handing Bella my coffee and cake pop, I climbed over Ariel’s and Eric’s long legs and gripped the door handle.
“Jasmine, what are you doing?” Ariel cried.
I didn’t stop. I pushed the door open and tumbled out of the limo and onto the nearly empty New York City sidewalk.
My bun hit the top of the car on the way out and slipped sideways, but I didn’t care. I had to find the man in black. I had to thank him.
I spied him turning down an alleyway and raced after him. My friends screamed my name from behind me, but I didn’t turn around.
I slid to a stop at the edge of the alley. My eyes scanned the narrow area and returned only darkness, bricks, and a single, green dumpster.
There was no sign of the man in black or his friends. But how was that possible? I’d seen them turn down this ally, didn’t I?
“Jasmine, what are you doing?” Ariel demanded, placing a hand on my shoulder. She wasn’t winded. She and Sophia were swimmers. Bella, who stopped behind her, also wasn’t winded. She ran every morning. Eric and Cole were former football players. I did gymnastics for a year as a kid, though I wasn’t very good, and it did nothing for my stamina now. Purity was the only one who didn’t seem too thrilled with her impromptu workout. I suddenly liked her a hundred times more.
“Okay, why are we running?” Sophia asked.
“Did you see something?” Bella asked.
I shook my head. “No. No, I thought I saw something, but I guess it was nothing.”
But it had to be something. This guy was wearing the same face mask as my rescuer.
“Can we please get back in the limo?” Sophia said, visibly shivering. “This dress is to attract boys, not Jack Frost.”
Bella placed her hand on the small of my back. “Soph’s right. Let’s go before we turn into icicles.”
I took one last look down the empty alleyway.
Did I imagine seeing him? It’d been a stressful night, but was it stressful enough to cause me to imagine things?
Dazed and confused, I allowed Bella to lead me back to the limo, and Eric instructed Reginald, the driver, to head back to my car. When we arrived, the boys insisted on driving my car back to my house, and I handed them the keys and made them promise to be careful.
“Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?” Ariel asked.
I shook my head.
At this point, I didn’t need a hospital. I needed a therapist.
Bella handed me my coffee cup and I warmed my hands on the Styrofoam.
I saw something. I swear I saw something.
As we pulled away from the curb, I took one last look through the back window and, to my surprise, saw a familiar pair of dark, curious eyes watching me go.
My mouth fell open, and I dropped my coffee all over Bella as a single word escaped my lips.
“Ollie?”
1
My name is Jasmine Patel, and I have the perfect life.
Two loving parents. Four older brothers most girls would consider hot. Lots of money, fancy cars, cool clothes. A luxury condo in the heart of New York City.
Like I said. Perfect.
But, the truth is, it’s all a lie.
A ruse.
A joke.
On the outside, my life seemed rock-solid. But on the inside, everything was slowly falling apart, piece by piece.
It was those little pieces most people didn’t see. Tiny secrets I held deep within me.
Secrets like how my loving parents were on the brink of a terrifying divorce.
Or how my hot brothers had all abandoned me and moved out because my house was a twenty-four-hour war zone.
And then there was the biggest lie of all. Me. I was a fraud. A circus clown with a painted smile. A girl stuck between two lives. One I wanted to live, and one everyone else expected me to live.
I sat in my first period art class, scribbling in the corner of a clean, white sheet of paper. The rhythmic movement of the pen sent my entire body into Zen mode.
Long, clean lines had formed into a thin woman wearing a slim-fitting white top and black skirt. Her head was looking to the left, at something I hadn’t drawn yet. She had short, red fingernails. With one hand she adjusted her oversized sunglasses. In the other hand she clutched a perfectly square purse.
I had a love/hate relationship with squares. I used the shape in every picture I’d ever drawn. It was a safe shape. Tidy and familiar with its equal sides and pin straight lines. There were no surprises with squares. They were neat, little boxes everything fit into. I really shouldn’t have felt such malice toward the shape. But lately, it felt like that safe, square box had a tight lid on it.
And I was stuck inside.
Screaming.
In the front of the classroom, Mrs. Meredith, my art teacher, sat in a green, hard plastic chair, with the overhead camera stationed in front of her. The camera projected her hand and the thick black pencil it held onto a huge television screen that filled up nearly a quarter of the entire front wall space.
She was shading in the bottom part of a hand drawn egg that stood narrow side up, demonstrating our assignment for the week.
I pulled my egg picture out of my notebook and slid it in front of me. Then I adjusted my desk lamp to see the egg more clearly. Each of the desks used a single, bright lamp with an adjustable neck in lieu of overhead light. Mrs. Meredith said it reduced glare and helped us focus. I just liked that the overhead lights were off. The darkness and spotlights gave the room a cool, bohemian vibe, like the old school animation studios I’d seen pictures of.
I started shading my egg, then spotted my phone and picked that up instead. I just had to check the website one more time. It wasn’t like I was obsessed or anything. I was just thorough. And, maybe just a teeny bit obsessed.
I clicked on the icon shaped like a compass, and it took me to Devinta Holly’s official website.
I loved art and considered myself a pretty good painter. I was so passionate about it that I'd made it my goal to take a summer internship class from my favorite artist, and goddess on Earth, Devinta Holly. Devinta was smart, outlandish, and crazy talented. She did what she wanted and didn't care what anyone else thought of her. New York Times called her the bad girl of the art world, pointing out her short, purple hair, multiple tattoos, and her penchant for being tabloid fodder. True, her persona was intriguing, but I loved her for purer reasons than that. Her art spoke to me on levels I didn’t even understand yet. She was like a cross between Vincent van Gough and Andy Warhol. It was all bright colors and pop art paired with these beautiful, classic landscapes and swirling skies.
Only Devinta could make me cry with a brush stroke.
A hue.
A well-placed dot.
A summer with her would change my entire life. There was so much she could teach me, and I was desperate to learn at her feet.
All I needed was five paintings showing off my work and a letter of recommendation.
I had the letter covered. Mrs. Meredith had already promised me that.
Now it was just the matter of doing five paintings that would knock Devinta’s socks off.
I had that covered too.
In the little time I had between school, friends, my cat Raja, and homework, I’d painted several pieces I knew Devinta would love. I’d studied her technique. Every line, every shape, every stroke, and I knew these paintings were just the sort of thing she would appreciate.
I’d taken a picture of one of my paintings with my phone last night, and I planned on showing it to Mrs. Meredith after class to get some pointers.
After all, even perfection could be improved, right?
I scrolled down the front of the page until I reached the section titled Summer Internship Opportunity. Beneath the big, black letters was a box with information about the program as well as the available number of slots. A few months ago, it showed fifty available slots. Now, there were only ten left.
Only ten m
ore people she’d consider working with for the summer.
I needed to be one of those ten.
With the deadline in three weeks, I had to get a move on.
I closed my phone and looked back up at Mrs. Meredith.
“The difference between an amateur drawing and a piece of art is shading,” she said. “The perfect blend of shadow and light can turn a simple sketch into a masterpiece.”
I placed my phone onto my desk, screen down, and returned my attention to the mostly shaded egg. I started working on the shading again when there was a knock on the classroom door.
I ignored it and focused on shading my egg when a single, horrifying phrase pulled my attention.
“Class, this is Oliver Santiago. He’ll be joining us for the remainder of the semester.”
My head shot up, and my eyes went wide. There he was.
The bane of my existence.
Oliver Santiago.
My jaw clenched, and tension clawed up my back like a hairy tarantula looking for its next kill.
Oliver was dressed in his usual sloppy style. Black hair in desperate need of a cut, eyes so dark they reminded me of tar pits, carelessly untucked shirt, jeans that were shredded around the ankles, and dirty, black sneakers.
His demeanor bordered on cocky. I saw it in the way he looked at the eighteen people who inhabited this classroom from seven-thirty to eight-fifteen every morning; as if he expected a hero’s welcome.
Sadly, a few kids gave him what he wanted. One kid even whooped.
Suck up.
Not that I blamed the kid.
Everyone wanted to get on the school’s resident bad boy’s good side. The other option was being on his bad side. But that was where the teasing, pranking, and punches in the face lay.
No one wanted to be on Oliver Santiago’s bad side.
Except me.
I wanted Oliver to disappear off the face of the Earth, and I was willing to be on whatever side it took to make that happen.
Oliver’s eyes landed on mine, and he winked.
I growled in response, which seemed to pull a smile from him. I swear Oliver was intolerable.
Incorrigible.
Irredeemable.
And any other word in the English dictionary that meant douche-wad.