I kept my head down and glanced up under my lashes. None of them were looking this way. I lifted my head a little.
They were laughing. Killian, Henry, and Liam all had their hair entirely saturated with melting snow.
Alice and Regina were leaning away as Robin shook his dripping hair toward them. They were
enjoying the snowy day, just like everyone else, only they looked more like a scene from a movie than the rest of us.
But, aside from the laughter and playfulness, there was something different, and I couldn't quite pinpoint what that difference was. I examined Killian the most carefully. His skin was less pale, I decided, flushed from the snow fight maybe, the circles under his eyes much less noticeable. But there was something more. I pondered, staring, trying to isolate the change.
Emma, what are you staring at?" Jessica intruded, her eyes following my stare.
At that precise moment, his eyes flashed over to meet mine.
I dropped my head, letting my hair fall to conceal my face. I was sure, though, in the instant our eyes met, that he didn't look harsh or unfriendly as he had the last time I'd seen him. He looked merely curious again, unsatisfied in some way.
"Killian Jones is staring at you," Jessica giggled in my ear.
"He doesn't look angry, does he?" I couldn't help asking.
"No," she said, sounding confused by my question. "Should he be?"
"I don't think he likes me," I confided. I still felt queasy. I put my head down on my arm.
"The Jones' don't like anybody... well, they don't notice anybody enough to like them. But he's still staring at you."
"Stop looking at him," I hissed.
She snickered, but she looked away. I raised my head enough to make sure that she did, contemplating violence if she resisted.
Neal interrupted us then, he was planning an epic battle of the blizzard in the parking lot after school and wanted us to join. Jessica agreed enthusiastically. The way she looked at Neal left little doubt that she would be up for anything he suggested. I kept silent. I would have to hide in the gym until the parking lot cleared.
For the rest of the lunch hour I very carefully kept my eyes at my own table. I decided to honor the
bargain I'd made with myself. Since he didn't look angry, I would go to Biology. My stomach did
frightened little flips at the thought of sitting next to him again.
I didn't really want to walk to class with Neal as usual, he seemed to be a popular target for the
snowball snipers when we went to the door, everyone besides me groaned in unison. It was
raining, washing all traces of the snow away in clear, icy ribbons down the side of the walkway. I pulled my hood up, secretly pleased. I would be free to go straight home after Gym.
Neal kept up a string of complaints on the way to building four.
Once inside the classroom, I saw with relief that my table was still empty. Mrs. Termiane was walking
around the room, distributing one microscope and box of slides to each table. Class didn't start for a few minutes, and the room buzzed with conversation. I kept my eyes away from the door, doodling idly on the cover of my notebook.
I heard very clearly when the chair next to me moved, but my eyes stayed carefully focused on the pattern I was drawing.
"Hello," said a quiet, musical voice.
I looked up, stunned that he was speaking to me. He was sitting as far away from me as the desk
allowed, but his chair was angled toward me. His hair was dripping wet, disheveled, even so, he
looked like he'd just finished shooting a commercial for hair gel. His dazzling face was friendly, open, a slight smile on his flawless lips. But his eyes were careful.
"My name is Killian Jones," he continued. "I didn't have a chance to introduce myself last week.
You must be Emma Swan."
My mind was spinning with confusion. Had I made up the whole thing? He was perfectly polite now. I had to speak; he was waiting. But I couldn't think of anything conventional to say.
"H-how do you know my name?" I stammered.
He laughed a soft, enchanting laugh.
"Oh, I think everyone knows your name. The whole town's been waiting for you to arrive."
Mrs. Termaine started class at that moment. I tried to concentrate as he explained the lab we
would be doing today. The slides in the box were out of order. Working as lab partners, we had to
separate the slides of onion root tip cells into the phases of mitosis they represented and label them
accordingly. We weren't supposed to use our books. In twenty minutes, he would be coming around to see who had it right.
"Get started," he commanded.
"Ladies first, partner?" Killian asked. I looked up to see him smiling a crooked smile so beautiful that i could only stare at him like an idiot.
"Or I could start, if you wish." The smile faded; he was obviously wondering if I was mentally competent.
"No," I said, flushing. "I'll go ahead."
I was showing off, just a little. I'd already done this lab, and I knew what I was looking for. It should be easy. I snapped the first slide into place under the microscope and adjusted it quickly to the 40X
objective. I studied the slide briefly.
My assessment was confident. "Prophase."
"Do you mind if I look?" he asked as I began to remove the slide. His hand caught mine, to stop me, as he asked. His fingers were ice-cold, like he'd been holding them in a snowdrift before class. But that wasn't why I jerked my hand away so quickly. When he touched me, it stung my hand as if an electric current had passed through us.
"I'm sorry," he muttered, pulling his hand back immediately. However, he continued to reach for the microscope. I watched him, still staggered, as he examined the slide for an even shorter time than I had.
"Prophase," he agreed, writing it neatly in the first space on our worksheet. He swiftly switched out the first slide for the second, and then glanced at it cursorily.
"Anaphase," he murmured, writing it down as he spoke.
I kept my voice indifferent. "May I?"
He smirked and pushed the microscope to me.
I looked through the eyepiece eagerly, only to be disappointed. Dang it, he was right.
"Slide three?" I held out my hand without looking at him.
He handed it to me; it seemed like he was being careful not to touch my skin again.
I took the most fleeting look I could manage.
"Interphase." I passed him the microscope before he could ask for it. He took a swift peek, and then wrote it down. I would have written it while he looked, but his clear, elegant script intimidated me. I didn't want to spoil the page with my clumsy scrawl.
We were finished before anyone else was close. I could see Mike and his partner comparing two slides again and again, and another group had their book open under the table.
Which left me with nothing to do but try to not look at him... unsuccessfully. I glanced up, and he was staring at me, that same inexplicable look of frustration in his eyes. Suddenly I identified that subtle difference in his face.
"Did you get contacts?" I blurted out unthinkingly.
He seemed puzzled by my unexpected question. "No."
"Oh," I mumbled. "I thought there was something different about your eyes."
He shrugged, and looked away.
In fact, I was sure there was something different. I vividly remembered the flat black color of his eyes the last time he'd glared at me, the color was striking against the background of his pale skin and his hair. Today, his eyes were a completely different color: a strange ocher, darker than butterscotch, but with the same blie tone. I didn't understand how that could be, unless he was lying for some reason about the contacts. Or maybe Storybrooke was making me crazy in the literal sense of the word.
I looked down. His hands were clenched into hard fists again.
Mrs. Termaine came to our table then, to see why we weren't working. He looked over our shoulders to glance at the completed lab, and then stared more intently to check the answers.
"So, Killian, didn't you think Emma should get a chance with the microscope?" Mrs. Termaine asked.
"Actually, she identified three of the five."
Mrs. Termaine looked at me now; her expression was skeptical.
"Have you done this lab before?" he asked.
I smiled sheepishly. "Not with onion root."
"Whitefish blastula?"
"Yeah."
Mrs. Termaine nodded. "Were you in an advanced placement program in Phoenix?"
"Yes."
"Well," he said after a moment, "I guess it's good you two are lab partners." He mumbled something else as he walked away. After he left, I began doodling on my notebook again.
"It's too bad about the snow, isn't it?" Killian asked. I had the feeling that he was forcing himself to
make small talk with me. Paranoia swept over me again. It was like he had heard my conversation with Jessica at lunch and was trying to prove me wrong.
"Not really," I answered honestly, instead of pretending to be normal like everyone else. I was still trying to dislodge the stupid feeling of suspicion, and I couldn't concentrate.
"You don't like the cold." It wasn't a question.
"Or the wet."
"Storybrooke must be a difficult place for you to live," he mused.
"You have no idea," I muttered darkly.
He looked fascinated by what I said, for some reason I couldn't imagine. His face was such a distraction that I tried not to look at it any more than courtesy absolutely demanded.
"Why did you come here, then?"
No one had asked me that, not straight out like he did, demanding.
"It's... complicated."
"I think I can keep up," he pressed.
I paused for a long moment, and then made the mistake of meeting his gaze. His dark blue. eyes confused me, and I answered without thinking.
"My mother got remarried," I said.
"That doesn't sound so complex," he disagreed, but he was suddenly sympathetic. "When did that
happen?"
"Last September." My voice sounded sad, even to me.
"And you don't like him," Edward surmised, his tone still kind.
"No, Phil is fine. Too young, maybe, but nice enough."
"Why didn't you stay with them?"
I couldn't fathom his interest, but he continued to stare at me with penetrating eyes, as if my dull life's story was somehow vitally important.
"Phil travels a lot. He plays ball for a living." I half-smiled.
"Have I heard of him?" he asked, smiling in response.
"Probably not. He doesn't play well. Strictly minor league. He moves around a lot."
"And your mother sent you here so that she could travel with him." He said it as an assumption again, not a question.
My chin raised a fraction. "No, she did not send me here. I sent myself."
His eyebrows knit together. "I don't understand," he admitted, and he seemed unnecessarily frustrated by that fact.
I sighed. Why was I explaining this to him? He continued to stare at me with obvious curiosity.
"She stayed with me at first, but she missed him. It made her unhappy... so I decided it was time to spend some quality time with David" My voice was glum by the time I finished.
"But now you're unhappy," he pointed out.
"And?" I challenged.
"That doesn't seem fair." He shrugged, but his eyes were still intense.
I laughed without humor. "Hasn't anyone ever told you? Life isn't fair."
"I believe I have heard that somewhere before," he agreed dryly.
"So that's all," I insisted, wondering why he was still staring at me that way.
His gaze became appraising. "You put on a good show," he said slowly. "But I'd be willing to bet that you're suffering more than you let anyone see."
I grimaced at him, resisting the impulse to stick out my tongue like a five-year-old, and looked away.
"Am I wrong?"
I tried to ignore him.
"I didn't think so," he murmured smugly.
"Why does it matter to you?" I asked, irritated. I kept my eyes away, watching the teacher make his rounds.
"That's a very good question," he muttered, so quietly that I wondered if he was talking to himself.
However, after a few seconds of silence, I decided that was the only answer I was going to get.
I sighed, scowling at the blackboard.
"Am I annoying you?" he asked. He sounded amused.
I glanced at him without thinking... and told the truth again. "Not exactly. I'm more annoyed at myself.
My face is so easy to read, my mother always calls me her open book." I frowned.
"On the contrary, I find you very difficult to read." Despite everything that I'd said and he'd guessed, he sounded like he meant it.
"You must be a good reader then," I replied.
"Usually." He smiled widely, flashing a set of perfect, ultrawhite teeth.
Mrs. Termaine called the class to order then, and I turned with relief to listen. I was in disbelief that I'd just explained my dreary life to this bizarre, beautiful boy who may or may not despise me. He'd seemed engrossed in our conversation, but now I could see, from the corner of my eye, that he was leaning away from me again, his hands gripping the edge of the table with unmistakable tension.
I tried to appear attentive as Mrs. Termaine illustrated, with transparencies on the overhead projector, what I had seen without difficulty through the microscope. But my thoughts were unmanageable.
When the bell finally rang, Killian rushed as swiftly and as gracefully from the room as he had last
Monday. And, like last Monday, I stared after him in amazement.
Neal skipped quickly to my side and picked up my books for me. I imagined him with a wagging tail.
"That was awful," he groaned. "They all looked exactly the same. You're lucky you had Jones for a
partner."
"I didn't have any trouble with it," I said, stung by his assumption. I regretted the snub instantly. "I've done the lab before, though," I added before he could get his feelings hurt.
"Jones seemed friendly enough today," he commented as we shrugged into our raincoats. He didn't seem pleased about it.
I tried to sound indifferent. "I wonder what was with him last Monday."
I couldn't concentrate on Neal's chatter as we walked to Gym, and RE. didn't do much to hold my
attention, either. Mike was on my team today. He chivalrously covered my position as well as his own, so my woolgathering was only interrupted when it was my turn to serve; my team ducked warily out of the way every time I was up.
The rain was just a mist as I walked to the parking lot, but I was happier when I was in the dry cab. I got the heater running, for once not caring about the mind-numbing roar of the engine. I unzipped my jacket, put the hood down, and fluffed my damp hair out so the heater could dry it on the way home.
I looked around me to make sure it was clear. That's when I noticed the still, white figure. Killian Jones was leaning against the front door of the Volvo, three cars down from me, and staring intently in my direction. I swiftly looked away and threw the truck into reverse, almost hitting a rusty Toyota Corolla in my haste. Lucky for the Toyota, I stomped on the brake in time. It was just the sort of car that my truck would make scrap metal of. I took a deep breath, still looking out the other side of my car, and cautiously pulled out again, with greater success. I stared straight ahead as I passed the Volvo, but from a peripheral peek, I would swear I saw him laughing.