I sigh, shut Advanced Explorations in Chemistry, and swivel to face her. “Because if word gets out you used to go to East Prep, you’ll be stuffed inside a locker before day’s end. Century-long rivalry, ya know?” Prep students may be of a higher breed, but they’re not above the occasional mutt-like behavioral slipup.
“Thanks.” She unsnaps her purse and applies fresh gloss to her poison-apple lips. Smack. “I’ll keep it in mind. So what class do you have next?”
I hate to ruin the possibility I might gain a friend my last year of high school, but . . . “You probably don’t want to be seen talking to me either.” I’m a glutton for punishment, but it wouldn’t be fair to sentence the girl to my personal purgatory on her first day.
She removes a bottle of black polish and begins coating her already-ebony nails. The ammonia odor wafts toward me. “Why not?”
I smother a choke. This is why I go with the natural look. “Seriously?” I glance at Mr. Newman. Will he reprimand her for using class time for personal pampering?
No. He’s sitting atop his desk reading The Prisoner of Azkaban. Again. Technically we’re supposed to be studying for the exam tomorrow. Really it’s just our twenty-three-year-old chemistry prof ’s excuse to pretend he’s teaching at Hogwarts, rather than our “completely mundane Muggle institution.” Yes, those words have literally flown from his mouth on more than one occasion.
Quinn blows on her nails, leaving my question without its obvious answer.
I roll my eyes. She has to notice my birthmark—a homing beacon for ridicule and rejection. “Let’s just say if you hang with me, there’s no way you’ll get in with the popular crowd.” Do I really need to spell it out for her?
She hops down from the stool.
Sayonara. Been nice knowing you. Oh wait, I didn’t.
The stool legs scrape linoleum as she scoots her seat closer to mine. It’s only a few inches away when she resumes her perch.
Well, that’s new.
“So, are you a native or a transplant?” Chatty, this one.
I shrug, hunkering into the Yankees sweatshirt I borrowed—a.k.a. stole—from Joshua last Friday during our all-night American Idol audition marathon. Making fun of fifteen seasons’ worth of people dressed as cows who sing rap-remixes of “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” is what we do best. “I’ve lived in the city since I was a baby,” I tell her, taking a whiff of Joshua-scented fabric. Only four more hours, then I can have the real thing. “You?”
She slides the bottle of polish toward me and stretches her right hand beside it. “Same. Live with my mom. Dad left when I was little.”
“Me too.” I lift the brush, wipe it against the bottle’s lip. Drip, drip. Paint splatters the tabletop. It’s black as well. Mr. Newman won’t notice.
“My mom works in fashion. What’s yours do?”
I move from her pinky to her thumb, giving each nail an even coat. “She’s an artist, a painter. Mostly watercolors and stuff like that.”
“Hey, there’s this really high-end art dealer who lives in my building. Lincoln something or other. I could totally introduce your mom to him if you want.”
“I don’t know. She kind of likes her privacy.” The art contest incident from last week is still fresh. Since then things have been awkward between us. I hate it.
“Oh, come on,” Quinn says. “Every serious artist needs a dealer. At least meet him.” She gives a nonchalant smile, as if changing people’s lives is something she does all the time.
“I’ll think about it.” What would it hurt?
“Great.” She plucks a phone from her purse, careful not to smudge her freshly inked nails. “What’s your number?”
I prattle off the digits as she taps them into her phone. My own phone vibrates. I glance at Mr. Newman, then withdraw it from my backpack. One new text.
hit the bux after school?
I smile and reply. Quinn’s screen flashes almost instantly. This must be the equivalent of passing notes in class, something I’ve never done.
Just like that, for the first time since childhood, I have a friend.
I arise from the groggy haze of my memory-slash-dream. I’m lying on the back seat of a car. Oily leather sticks to my face and carries the faint smell of coconut. I try to cry out, but my mouth’s gagged, my feet and hands bound. Is this what being drunk feels like? Streetlamps blur by. I’m going to be sick. I really have to pee now. Lovely.
“Ugh.” I groan against a throbbing migraine. I’ll never forgive Quinn for this.
“It’s not much farther, princess.”
I blink several times and try to zero in on the driver. Ky. Or what did Joshua call him? Kyaphus? How could Joshua know that? Does this have something to do with the conversation I overheard before I left the house?
The car’s steady vibration attempts to lull me back into oblivion. I open my eyes wider. Gotta stay awake. I have to scream the minute Ky lets me out.
He doesn’t have the radio on. The eerie silence is louder than Blake Trevor’s stereo. I need music. Now. Music mollifies me, helps me focus. Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” comes to mind. I tap off the notes on my numb fingers. At least I have muscle control again.
One, two, three. Breathe in through my nose. One, two, three. Breathe out through my mouth. Oxygen enters my lungs, surfing smoothly on each wave of notes. My head bobs to the steady rhythm I’ve heard so many times. Mom’s favorite for me to play on the piano.
The melody repeats three times over before Ky brings the car to a slow stop.
Where are we?
When he comes around the side and opens my door, panic returns. He’s put his hoodie on. Stalker identity confirmed. A blade glints at his side—is it made of glass? He reaches for me.
I shut my eyes. Tight. Blood. Please don’t let him draw blood.
The glass blade is cold against my sore wrists. Every muscle seizes. Teeth grind. Lungs fail.
But Ky doesn’t hurt me. He frees me.
With my hands and feet loose, air greets raw skin. Ahhh.
“We walk from here.” He helps me sit. “Don’t try anything. This is no ordinary blade. I’d hate for you to get hurt.” His voice softens. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he means it.
Ha! Not likely.
“Understand?”
I nod. Sweat trickles down my temple.
Grazing my cheek with the knife, Ky severs the gag. He presses the tip into my side. I don’t dare scream. “Get out. Slowly.”
I obey to perfection, stalling as much as possible. Will Joshua know where to find me? I don’t have my phone, so he has no way of tracking me. He recognized Ky’s name, so maybe—
“Move.” Ky forces the point closer, if possible.
I wince.
We’re standing on the edge of Central Park’s south end, right outside the Artist’s Gate. A statue of José Julián Martí on his noble steed guards the entrance. This is where he brings me? We’re closer to home now than we were downtown. A surge of hope bursts from my chest. I know this area of the city as well as the chords to “Daydream Believer.”
“Um, I don’t think you can leave your car parked on the curb.” I point to a red-and-white No Parking Any Time sign. “You’ll get towed.”
“Unimportant.” He wraps one arm around me. “Smile, princess. For the next few minutes we’re in love.”
Groups of various sizes cluster around the Park’s perimeter. I refuse to smile and he draws me closer. He nuzzles his nose into my hair, and I gag.