He recoiled before I could touch him, glaring at me, the towel, back at me. Then he grabbed his polo, shoved his glasses up his nose, and escaped.
“It’s fine,” he muttered as he passed me. He was out the door before I could say another word.
I finished cleaning up the table, then trudged back to the counter.
Tucker, composed, took the dishes from me. “Bravo. Brilliant job.”
“Tucker.”
“Yes?”
“Shut up.”
He laughed and disappeared into the kitchen.
Was that Blue Eyes?
I grabbed the Magic 8 Ball and rubbed the scuff mark as I looked down into its round window.
Better not tell you now.
Evasive little bitch.
Chapter Three
The first thing I noticed about East Shoal High School was that it didn’t have a bike rack. You know a school is run by stuck-up sons of bitches when it doesn’t even have a bike rack.
I shoved Erwin behind the blocky green shrubs lining the school’s front walk and stepped back to make sure the tires and handlebars were hidden. I didn’t expect anyone to steal, touch, or notice him, since his rusty diarrhea color made people subconsciously avert their eyes, but I felt better knowing he was out of harm’s way.
I checked my bag. Books, folders, notebooks, pens, and pencils. My cheap digital camera—one of the first things I’d bought when I’d gotten the job at Finnegan’s—dangled from its strap around my wrist. I’d already taken a picture of four suspicious-looking squirrels lined up on the red brick wall outside my neighbor’s house this morning, but other than that, the memory card was empty.
Then I did my perimeter check. Perimeter checks entailed three things: getting a 360-degree view of my surroundings, noting anything that seemed out of place—like the huge scorched spiral design covering the surface of the parking lot—and filing those things away in case they tried to sneak up on me later.
Kids funneled from their cars to the school, ignoring the men in black suits and red ties who stood at even intervals along the school’s roof. I should’ve known public school would have some weird security. We just had normal security officers at The Hillpark School, my (former) private school.
I joined the procession of students—keeping an arm’s-length distance between myself and the rest of them, because God knows who was bringing weapons to school these days—all the way to the guidance office, where I stood in line for four minutes to get my schedule. While I was there, I took a bunch of college brochures out of the stand in the corner and stuffed them in my backpack, ignoring the weird stares I got from the kid in front of me. I didn’t take crap when it came to college—I had to get in, no matter how early I had to start or how many applications I had to send. If I was lucky, I could guilt-trip some scholarships out of a school or two, the way my parents had done with Hillpark. It didn’t matter how I did it; either I got in or I worked at Finnegan’s for the rest of my life.
I realized everyone around me was wearing a uniform. Black pants, white button-down shirts, green ties. Gotta love the smell of institutional equality in the morning.
My locker was near the cafeteria. Only one other person was there, his locker right next to mine.
Miles.
Memories of Blue Eyes hit me rapid-fire, and I had to turn in a full circle to make sure my surroundings were normal. As I inched closer, I peered into his locker. Nothing unusual. I took a deep breath.
Be polite, Alex. Be polite. He won’t kill you because of some water. He’s not a hallucination. Be polite.
“Um, hi,” I said, stepping up to my locker.
Miles turned, saw me, and jumped so badly his locker door banged against the one next to it and he almost tripped over his backpack on the floor. His glare burned a hole through my head.
“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
When he didn’t reply, I focused on my locker combination. I glanced at him as I tossed books into my locker. His expression hadn’t changed.
“I, uh, I’m really sorry about the water.” I held out my hand against my better judgment. My mother always said to be polite, no matter what. Even if the other person might have a knife concealed up his sleeve. “I’m Alex.”
He quirked an eyebrow. The expression was so sudden, so perfect, and so obviously right that I almost laughed.
Slowly, so it looked like he thought he might burn himself by touching me, Miles reached out to shake my hand. His fingers were long and thin. Spidery, but strong.
“Miles,” he replied.
“Okay, cool.” We released our grips at the same time, hands shooting down to our sides. “Glad we got that out of the way. I’ll see you later, then.”
Go go go get away get away.
I walked away as quickly as I could. Had I just come into contact with Blue Eyes again after ten years? Oh God. Okay.
It wouldn’t be that bad if he was real, would it? Just because my mother never mentioned him didn’t mean he wasn’t real. But what if he was an asshole?
Screw you, brain.
It wasn’t until I got to the stairs that I realized I was being followed. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, and I grabbed for my camera as I spun around.
Miles stood behind me.
“Are you doing that on purpose?” I asked.
“Doing what on purpose?” he replied.
“Walking a few steps behind me, close enough so I realize you’re there but not so close you look creepy doing it. And staring.”
He blinked. “No.”
“It sure feels like you are.”
“Maybe you’re paranoid.”
I stiffened.
He rolled his eyes. “Gunthrie?” he asked.
Mr. Gunthrie, AP English, first period. “Yes,” I said.
Miles pulled a paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and held it out. His schedule. There, at the top of the page, was his name: Richter, Miles J. His first period was AP English 12, Gunthrie.
“Fine,” I said. “But you don’t have to be such a creeper about it.” I turned and stalked the rest of the way up the stairs.
“Sucks being new, doesn’t it?” Miles appeared beside me, a weird edge lacing his voice. Shivers worked their way up my arms.
“It’s not so bad,” I said through a clenched jaw.
“Either way,” he said, “I think you have an inalienable right to know that dyeing your hair is against the dress code.”
“It’s not dyed,” I snapped.
“Sure.” Miles quirked the eyebrow again. “Sure it’s not.”