Fire and Ice (5 page)

“What's up, birthday girl!”

I opened one eye, then the other, as a small package bounced off my stomach and landed in the grass. Reaching for it with a lack of enthusiasm, I sat up. A lean muscular frame towered over me, a mass of blond hair framing a boyish face with bright blue eyes.

“Hey,” I grinned up at him.

“Hey, yourself.” He grinned back.

My hasty departure from Camilla's place meant I arrived at school early for my first class. But between the phone call and her weirder than usual behavior, I had to get out of there. I liked hanging out on the football field bleachers. Davin, however, wasn't usually this punctual.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, shaking my head. I examined the bundle which looked suspiciously like a novel.

“Bearing gifts, of course. I stopped by the house, but witch-face told me you'd already left. I figured you'd be hiding out here, today of all days.” His eager smile reminded me of an affectionate puppy dog — loyal, loving, and begging for attention. But that was Davin, trusting, open, warm… and always — there. No matter how many times I pushed him away, he stayed.

I tore the carefully wrapped paper off and tossed it at him.
“A
Midsummer Night's Dream
… Thanks, Davin, but honestly, you shouldn't have. We agreed, no gifts, remember?”

“Technically, only you agreed,” he argued. “And, you're welcome.” Plopping onto the grass next to me, he leaned over. “Besides, it's not a present.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Oh no?”

“Nope. Just my small contribution to the freakishly huge library of my favorite
literati
.” He ruffled my hair, and then paused. “Bri helped pick it out.”

I forced a smile as my stomach tightened. “Really… Well, it's still perfect, I love this book.”

He leaned back with a smug grin. “I know. So how do you feel turning the big one-seven?”

“Stressed,” I said, lifting my face to the rain falling in a soft mist.

He cracked up. “Oh man, that is bad.”

I smacked his arm lightly. “What do you know?”

“I know that you stressed out on stage won't be pretty.” He chuckled. “Plenty of casualties.”

“Only if they're unlucky enough to be in my puke radius.”

He was only half-joking. Davin and I had been friends since childhood. He'd known me long enough to know I collided with catastrophe most when I was stressed out. And he'd witnessed the glamour of me tossing my cookies on more occasions than either of us care to remember.

“So what's up? Is it the competition tonight?”

I gave a short laugh. “You could say that.” It was more than nerves. I hadn't felt at ease since meeting Adrius.

“Well don't worry about it, Lor. It's all good. Bri's actually hoping you'll be there. She's asked me at least a dozen times if you were still performing.”

“That's great.” I can just image what she had planned for me.

Leaning my head on his shoulder, I tried to block out my fate.

“Okay, 'fess up,” he said. “What aren't you telling me?”

My cheek pressed against his flexing arm muscle so I lifted my head. Davin had a lean, athletic build. Even though he was tall, he was shorter than most of the players on the basketball team. But it was his speed and skill that got him voted most valuable player too many years to count. And he was going out with Brianne, which complicated things. I used to be able to tell him anything, but Davin wanted his girlfriend and his best friend to get along, and I didn't have the heart to tell him how impossible that was going to be. Especially now.

A throng of students rushed past us as the bell rang. The misty dampness coaxed my fairly relaxed ponytail into frizzy curls clinging to my neck. I tugged my hood up over the wiry mess and turned to meet his baby blue gaze head on.

“Davin, don't you wonder what it's all for? I mean, why are we here? Why bother?”

“What are you talking about; you're not getting suicidal on me?” he chided, shifting to face me.

“Oh, right. That would imply I thought death had something better to offer. It just seems so useless. All of the trying to make things different, when things are what they are.”

I plucked the pale blades of grass. Everything in Drearyton Cove looked like someone had de-saturated the color from it. Even the flowers were muted; watered down shades of pink and yellow. The entire town was a sallow monochromatic pallet — a perfect match to my mood.

“That's not overly dramatic at all,” he mocked.

“Haven't you ever wanted to tear a hole in the world and escape?”

He stared at me, creased brows forming a deep wrinkle on the bridge of his nose. “What's with you, Lor? Is this about turning a year older? 'Cause I think it's way too early for a midlife crisis.”

I paused. “There must be something I'm supposed to do with my life. Some reason in this insane world for me being… me.”

Davin rolled his eyes. “Seriously,
that's
what you're stressing about? You're s
eventeen
not seventy.”

There was so much more to it than that. If I couldn't figure out how to control my freakish gifts, then there was nothing special about me at all. I was like the misfit toy that nobody wanted — a healer who couldn't stand blood and a singer who couldn't perform — a defective marionette with someone else pulling the strings.

Squinting up at him, I said, “You can't seriously tell me that spending the rest of your life trapped here with the head cheerleader is all you want out of life. I mean, it's so… unimaginative.”

“
Trapped
— wow, interesting choice of words.” He gave a short nervous laugh, which I didn't return.

Then his voice dropped. “I guess I do wish some things were different.”

I stiffened, understanding the translation; the look of longing on his face… it meant,
I wish
we
were different
.

I lowered my eyes.

“Come on.” He got up, tugging my arm gently. “You're getting wet.” It was drizzling steadily now, enough that I could feel the dampness through my clothes. “And I can't afford another late slip.”

The second bell rang as we entered. Davin bolted down the hall and I skipped a stop at my locker and headed straight for first period, taking the stairs two at a time. I arrived out of breath and seriously wishing I was anywhere but here. Why didn't I stick with the whole ditch-day idea?

The door to my art class was shut. Something made me stop and stare at it, unable to suppress an eerie feeling sweeping over me. My hand reached out, opening the door against my will. Everything came to a halt. Two dozen heads rotated in my direction in unison. I was late. My face grew uncomfortably warm. I was suddenly struck with an overwhelming urge to turn and run screaming from this school — and from this town — picturing the shock of the townspeople who'd probably never heard anything louder than a cough in public.

In the midst of seriously considering this option, a shrill voice thwarted my plan.

“Miss Alundra, thank you for joining us. Please take your seat.”

The teacher continued mechanically reciting the roll, pausing briefly between names.

“Steven Caldwell?”

“Present.”

“Abigail Ryan?”

“Present.”

“Lorelei Alundra.” She peered over her horn rimmed glasses. “The tardy birthday girl?”

Cringe. “Here,” I answered quickly, pulling off my damp jacket. Mrs. Burnstin made a point of remembering birthdays. She said the way we approached our artwork had something to do with our astrological sign. I think she liked to embarrass me any chance she got.

Mrs. Burnstin had the extraordinary ability to speak without ever changing the intonation of her voice. It was like one long hum of the same high-pitched note. By this point in time, nearly everyone had tuned out the monotony of attendance. Yet the room seemed unusually excitable, filled with hushed whispers and shuffling paper.

I dug deeper into my backpack. Where was my sketchbook? My eyes lifted instinctively when there was a break in the monotonous hum of her voice.

“Hmm… I should probably introduce our new student. Welcome to Drearyton Cove Collegiate, Adrius.” Her voice perked as she gestured toward the back of the classroom.

The soft rustling grew fervent as bodies rotated in his direction. Giggles and whispers drowned out the rest of roll call and a weird sensation crept through me. The air was charged with an electric excitement. Slowly, I turned to find the room was an obscure blur, a fuzzy sea of expressionless faces, with the exception of one. It was sharply in focus. His eyes pierced through the haze, a brilliant shade of golden olive. I gasped. Hopefully not out loud. It was so surreal running into him
here
— in my art class. I was probably staring, but it was almost like seeing him for the first time. He truly was gorgeous. More than that. He was beautiful — a mysterious, nonhuman, otherworldly beautiful.

Breathe, Lorelei, and stop staring
. Quickly grabbing my books and charcoal, I made my way to the only available seat — next to him. Not surprisingly, the desks were cramped and cold, like everything in this town. My less than graceful attempt to squeeze into the ridiculously small chair caused me to drop my backpack on the desk, sending my pencils and new copy of
A Midsummer Night's Dream
skidding out of the bag. As I collected the scattered rolling pencils, the book pitched off the edge of my desk, and all I could do was wait for the inevitable smack as it hit the floor. But there wasn't one. Mrs. Burnstin cleared her throat intentionally, and I mumbled an incoherent apology, reaching to retrieve it as inconspicuously as possible. My hand brushed against something warm that sent an unexpected jolt up my arm. I gazed up to find Adrius staring at me, my novel in hand. He handed it back, apparently having caught and returned it faster than I could process without a slow motion video replay. I mumbled “thanks”, feeling my face grow warm, and wondered if anyone else had noticed the way his hands moved so quick they were slightly blurred. I spent the next five minutes convincing myself it was all in my head.

“Great book, Lorelei.”

I snapped upright and caught his gaze. He looked at me with dazzling eyes, and I swear my heart beat faster. A slightly amused expression lingered on his perfect face. Waves of dizziness swept over me and I had to steady myself to keep from falling out of my seat completely.

“We meet again.” His face warmed into a smile, revealing spectacular white teeth — his voice like melted chocolate.

“Yeah. Hey,” I whispered in a breathy voice that sounded nothing like me. I somehow managed a faint smile then looked away. It was hard to ignore the strange feeling I got whenever I was near him. My heart pounded so loudly that I wondered if anyone else could hear it.
Calm down
, I told myself steeling a glance at the sultry hazel eyes that were still watching me. My eyes darted back to the center of the room and I focused on the bowl of fruit perched on a pedestal, waiting for my pulse to settle.

I wanted to talk to him, pepper him with questions, and find out more about him, like how he knew so much about me. But my thoughts were tangled. Not to mention the art teacher was a stickler for the no-talking rule in her classroom. “
True art is birthed from the silence within.
” Whatever
that
meant. Normally I was into my drawings. Today, the dejected fruit didn't stand a chance of holding my attention. Not sitting this close to someone so striking he defied art itself.

Turned out he was right-handed and I was a lefty, which meant our hands brushed repeatedly while sketching the sad still-life. I shouldn't be so hard on the poor fruit bowl. It was the closest we ever came to a live model. I had just started sketching some loose lines, when his hand bumped mine, sending my pencil skidding across the page.

He ran his hand through his hair awkwardly. “I'm so sorry,” he whispered in his rich velvety tones.

“No worries.” I shrugged. “Not all that into drawing fruit anyway.” With trembling fingers I searched for an eraser.

“Understandable. What do you like to draw?” He reached for my sketchpad.

My hand clamped down on it. No one had ever asked to see my sketches before.

“You don't have to show me if you'd rather not,” he apologized, but he looked wickedly entertained by my reaction.

“No,” I sputtered, in an attempt to sound nonchalant. “It's not that, it's just… well, no one has ever wanted to see them before.”

His eyes held mine again in a grasp I couldn't escape. “Their loss,” he said with strange certainty. “I'd like to see them. That is, if you'd like to show them to me.”

He smiled and my heart did that fluttering thing again. Did anyone ever refuse his requests?

I shook my head slightly, biting my lower lip. “No… sure. Here.” I relinquished the book, peeling my fingers from it. It was worse than being graded. I glanced at his sketch of the fruit bowl. He was clearly talented, far too advanced for this class. Immediately, regret twisted my stomach at showing him my work — a collection of imaginary places and mythical beings. They would seem like preschool doodles to anyone with his skill. He flipped through the pages slowly, pausing to absorb each image. After a painfully long stretch of time, he handed it back.

“They're good. You have a true gift.”

“Thanks.” I blushed, taking the book from his hands.

He leaned toward me. “I can tell you have a thing for fantasy.”

I swallowed hard, and choked on my own saliva which set off a fit of coughing. I tried to talk, but couldn't get any words out.

“Shush.” The warning came from the front of the room. I peeked up at Mrs. Burnstin, who glowered over her horn-rimmed glasses at me. She was another throw back from the sixties' hippie movement, complete with the floor-length, tie-dyed skirt and peasant sandals… only subtract the free spirit and add an uptight librarian attitude and bifocals.