The next day is torture. Aiden makes sure of it.
The first time I see him in the hall I'm at my locker. I close it and head for Economics. He's walking in the opposite direction, hands in his pockets, tattoos emblazoned from his elbow, over his bicep, disappearing under the tight sleeve of his shirt. He's shaved his hair on the sides, but the top is dark brown and long enough to fall into his eyes. He's tall enough that he can see over most people's heads, scan the crowds. And there's a girl hanging off his arm.
I catch her eye first to make sure she's sober. I'm not scared to take another girl out of his clutches if I need to. But this one is more his speed—short, harshly tousled hair and an entire ear of thick, silver hoops. She glances at me, but her attention dances on, consumed with Aiden. I watch him, too—his body, mainly. He moves with the lithe grace of a cat.
Then he sees me and his slate-gray eyes light up. He stops so fast the girl is pulled awkwardly back mid-step. She follows his gaze to me. Her face hardens.
I couldn't care less what she thinks. Forcing myself to keep walking, I ignore the sheen of his skin and the black-green of his ink—a strange, twisting star surrounded by animals in tortured positions—pushing away questions about how he came up with the design, and what it means.
He reaches for my arm as I pass. I twist to stay out of his grip.
He laughs. "You won't get away from me that easily, Angel!" he calls as I slide through the crowd.
Chin up, I stride down the hall. Inside I'm trembling.
When his fingers brushed my arm I almost stopped.
My skin still tingles there.
What is wrong with me?
#
Amy and I meet on the bleachers for lunch. The weather's beautiful—unseasonably so, apparently—and even though it's cold on the metal benches, I'm grateful to be in the sun.
A guy jogs the athletic track around the football field. A group of shiny Girl Guides cackle at the end of the bleacher block. But I'm otherwise alone. Maybe I'll get Amy to smile with the funny story from my creative writing class.
The door from the main building bangs and Amy emerges on the cement that stretches between the buildings and the athletic track. I'm about to wave when I register someone with her. Someone with smooth, brown skin, a nearly-shaved head, and shoulders to rival a Ford Ram.
Chase, the big guy from yesterday, ambles beside Amy, keeping a couple feet between them. But she trots along, smiling, inching closer even as he inches away, so they make a diagonal path across the track. She gazes at him like I'd look at an industrial-sized bottle of Vicoden.
Oh no. I've seen Amy crush before. She's already fixated on this guy. And apparently unaware of the kind-but-hesitant look on his face that screams not in a million years, kid.
I curse and start down the bleachers.
When I meet them Amy brightens. Chase watches me. Those stunning green-gold eyes give nothing away. Shoving his hands in the pockets of his khakis he watches me.
"Kate! Kate! This is Chase! From yesterday, remember!?" Amy trills, patting Chase's arm like he's a pet dog.
I have to close my eyes to stop myself rolling them. Then I force a brittle smile of warning that he registers.
"Hello, Chase," I say through my teeth. "C'mon, Amy, I've got us a spot." I wave towards the empty bleachers, like we might not get seat.
Amy beams. "Do you want to eat with us, Chase?"
Chase hesitates and inwardly I groan. He clearly has zero desire to hang out with Amy, but is too nice—or too naïve—to tell her straight.
"Chase's friends are waiting for him." I try to cover for her. Amy gives me a far-too-obvious you're not getting it expression. Lord, save me from my sister's inability to read body language. Or, you know, billboards.
"But—" Amy starts.
"Yeah," Chase cuts in, his face an expressionless wall. "I told my friends I'd catch them. So . . . see you around."
He starts walking. Amy reaches for his arm, but I slap her hand back before she can embarrass herself more.
"What are you doing?!" she whispers. "I'm trying to—"
"The whole school can see what you're trying to do," I hiss back.
"But—"
I shush her as Chase glances over his shoulder. She waves and I drop my face into one hand. It isn't enough that I'm struggling not to throw myself at some guy who's probably three steps up the sick ladder from my ex-boyfriend, now I have to stop Amy humiliating herself with a guy who has a stick up his butt and is still way out of her league.
Taking her by the elbow, I drag her up the bleachers to where I left my stuff.
"You don't have to be like that," she pouts, dropping onto a bench one step below me. "He said he was glad you stepped in yesterday. He didn't know how to help Brittany when she was so out of it."
Brittany? Harvard bound Barbie? We're on first name basis with these people now?
"I don't care," I say, biting into my tuna sandwich and wincing. Mom bought the cheap mayonnaise.
"Well, you should," Amy says, leaning in conspiratorially. "I've been asking around. Apparently Chase and Aiden are, like, sworn enemies."
"So?"
Amy, rolling her eyes, digs into her lunch bag for her apple, crunching it while she speaks. "So, this isn't a couple guys who don't like each other. They're like, nemesises, or whatever you call it. They hate each other—and their friends do too."
I stop chewing and frown. "They're in gangs?" Aiden, I could see. But Mr. Crease-in-his-Khakis?
"Not gangs," she says around another bite of apple. "Groups. Like, religions, or something."
"They're in a cult?"
"I don't know . . ." she trails off, watching me, building suspense. She waits until I raise an eyebrow to lean in even closer and whisper, "Aiden's a murderer, and a Shade!"