Blue Moon Read online

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Damen whispers, attempting a stern look as he leans toward me.

  “Please. You’re the one who wants me to practice manifesting.” I shrug. “Looks like those lessons are finally starting to pay off.”

  He looks at me, shaking his head as he says, “You see, it’s even worse than I thought, because for your information that was psychokinesis you just did, not manifesting. See how much there is to learn?”

  “Psycho-what?” I squint, unfamiliar with the term, though the act itself was sure fun.

  He takes my hand, a smile playing at the corner of his lips as he says, “I’ve been thinking . . .”

  I glance at the clock, seeing it’s already five minutes past nine and knowing Mr. Robins is just now leaving the teachers’ lounge.

  “Friday night. What do you say we go somewhere . . . special?” He smiles.

  “Like Summerland?” I look at Damen, my eyes growing wide as my pulse quickens. I’ve been dying to get back to that magical, mystical place. The dimension between the dimensions, where I can manifest oceans and elephants, and move things far greater than projectile Prada bags—only I need Damen to get there.

  But he just laughs and shakes his head. “No, not Summerland. Though we will return there, I promise. But I was thinking more like, I don’t know, maybe the Montage, or the Ritz, perhaps?” He raises his brows.

  “But Miles’s play is Friday and I promised we’d be there!” I say, realizing just after I’ve said it that I’d conveniently forgotten all about Miles’s Hairspray debut when I thought I was going to Summerland. But now that Damen wants to check into one of the area’s most swanky hotels—my memory is somehow restored.

  “Okay, then, how about after the play?” he offers. But when he looks at me, when he sees how I hesitate, how I press my lips together and search for a polite way to decline, he adds, “Or not. It was just a thought.”

  I gaze at him, knowing I need to accept, that I want to accept. Hearing the voice in my head shouting: Say yes! Say yes! You promised yourself you’d leap forward, without once looking back, and now’s your chance—so just go ahead and do it! JUST! SAY! YES!

  But even though I’m convinced that it’s time to move on, even though I love Damen with all of my heart and am determined to get over his past and take the next step, what comes out of my mouth is entirely different.

  “We’ll see,” I say, averting my gaze and focusing on the door, just as Mr. Robins walks in.

  four

  When the fourth-period bell finally rings, I get up from my desk and approach Mr. Munoz.

  “Are you sure you’re finished?” he asks, looking up from a pile of papers. “If you need another minute, that’s perfectly okay.”

  I glance over my test sheet, then shake my head. Wondering what he’d do if he ever found out that I’d finished approximately forty-five seconds after he first handed it to me, then spent the next fifty minutes only pretending to struggle.

  “I’m good,” I tell him, knowing it’s true. One of the perks of being psychic is that I no longer have to study, instead I just sort of know all the answers. And even though it’s sometimes tempting to show off and ace all of my tests in a long steady stream of perfect scores, I usually try to hold back and get a few wrong since it’s important to not overdo it.

  Or at least that’s what Damen says. Always reminding me how imperative it is to keep a low profile, to at least give the appearance of being normal—even though we’re anything but. Though the first time he said it, I couldn’t help but remind him of how there seemed to be an awful lot of tulip manifesting going on back when we first met. But he just said that certain allowances had to be made in his efforts to woo me, and that it took longer than necessary since I didn’t bother to look up their true meaning of undying love, until it was almost too late.

  I hand the paper to Mr. Munoz, cringing when the tips of our fingers make contact. And even though our skin just barely brushed, it was still enough to show me far more than I ever needed to know, allowing for a pretty clear visual of his entire morning so far. Everything from his incredibly messy apartment with the kitchen table that’s littered with takeout containers and multiple versions of the manuscript he’s been working on for the past seven years, to him singing “Born to Run” at the top of his lungs as he tried to find a clean shirt before heading over to Starbucks where he bumped into a petite blonde who spilled her iced venti chai latte all down the front of it—resulting in a cold, wet, annoying stain that one flash of her beautiful smile seemed to erase. A glorious smile he can’t seem to forget—a glorious smile that—belongs to my aunt!

  “Want to wait while I grade it?”

  I nod, practically hyperventilating as I focus on his red pen. Replaying the scene I just saw in my head, each time coming to the same horrific conclusion—my history teacher is hot for Sabine!

  I can’t let this happen. Can’t allow her to ever go back there. I mean, just because they’re smart, cute, and single, doesn’t mean they need to date.

  I stand there, frozen, unable to breathe, struggling to block out the thoughts in his head by focusing on the tip of his pen. Watching as he leaves a trail of tiny red dots that turn into checkmarks at numbers seventeen and twenty-five—just as I’d planned.

  “Only two wrong. Very good!” He smiles, brushing his fingers against the stain on his shirt, wondering if he’ll ever see her again. “Would you like to see the correct answers?”

  Uh, not really, I think, eager to be out of there as soon as I can, and not just so I can get to the lunch table and see Damen, but in case his fantasy decides to pick up where I forced it to leave off.

  But knowing that the normal thing would be to appear at least somewhat interested, I take a deep breath and smile and nod as though I’d like nothing more. And when he hands me the answer key, I just go through the motions, saying, “Oh, look at that, I got the wrong date.” And, “Of course! How could I not know that? Duh!”

  But he just nods, mostly because his thoughts are already back on the blonde—aka: The only woman in the entire universe who he is absolutely forbidden to date! Wondering if she’ll be there tomorrow—same time and place.

  And even though the idea of teachers in lust pretty much grosses me out in a general sense, this particular teacher’s being in lust over someone who’s practically like a parent to me—just will not do.

  But then I remember how just a few months ago I had a vision of Sabine dating some cute guy in her building. And since Munoz works here, and Sabine works there, I figure there’s really no threat of my two worlds colliding. But just in case I’m wrong, I still manage to say, “Um, it was a fluke.”

  He looks at me, brows merged, trying to make sense of my words.

  And even though I know I’ve gone too far, even though I know I’m about to say something as far from normal as you can get, I really don’t feel I have much of a choice. I cannot have my history teacher dating my aunt. I can’t tolerate it. I just can’t.

  So I motion toward the stain on his shirt when I add, “You know, her, Miss Iced Venti Chai Latte?” I nod, seeing the alarmed look on his face. “I doubt she’ll be back. She doesn’t really go all that often.”

  Then before I can say anything else that will not only dash his dreams but confirm the full extent of my freakdom, I sling my bag over my shoulder and run for the door, shrugging off the last of Mr. Munoz’s lingering energy as I make my way toward the lunch table where Damen is waiting—eager to be with him again after three very long hours apart.

  But when I get there, it’s not quite the homecoming I expected. There’s a new guy sitting beside him, right in my usual place, and he’s soaking up so much attention, Damen barely notices me.

  I lean against the edge of the table, watching as they all break into laughter at something the new guy said. And not wanting to interrupt or come off as rude, I take the seat across from Damen rather than right beside him in my usual place.

  “Omigod
, you are so funny!” Haven says, leaning forward and briefly touching the new guy’s hand. Smiling in a way that makes it clear her new boyfriend, Josh, her self-proclaimed soul mate, has been temporarily forgotten. “Too bad you missed it, Ever, he’s so hysterical Miles even forgot to obsess on his zit!”

  “Thanks for the reminder.” Miles scowls, his finger seeking the spot on his chin—only it’s no longer there.

  His eyes go wide, looking to each of us for confirmation that his mammoth-sized zit, the bane of this morning’s existence, really is gone. And I can’t help but wonder if its sudden disappearance is because of me, because of when I touched it this morning, back in the parking lot. Which would mean I really do have magical healing abilities.

  But just after I think it, the new guy says, “Told you it’d work. Stuff’s brilliant. Keep the rest in case it returns.”

  And I narrow my gaze, wondering how he could’ve had enough time to intervene on Miles’s complexion issues when it’s the first I’ve yet to see of him.

  “I gave him some salve,” he says, turning toward me. “Miles and I are in homeroom together. I’m Roman, by the way.”

  I look at him, taking in the bright yellow aura that swirls all around him, its edges extended, beckoning, like a friendly group hug. But when I take in his deep navy blue eyes, tanned skin, blond tousled hair, and casual clothes with just the right amount of hipster chic—despite his good looks, my first reaction is to run away. Even when he flashes me one of those languid, easy, make-your-heart-swoon kind of smiles, I’m so on edge, I can’t seem to return it.

  “And you must be Ever,” he says, retracting his hand, the one I hadn’t even noticed was extended and waiting to be shaken until he pulled it away.

  I glance at Haven who’s clearly horrified by my rudeness, then over at Miles who is too busy mirror gazing to notice my faux pas. But when Damen reaches under the table and squeezes my knee, I clear my throat, look at Roman, and say, “Um, yeah, I’m Ever.” And even though he shoots me that smile again, it still doesn’t work. It just makes my stomach go all jumpy and queasy.

  “Seems we have a lot in common,” he says, though I can’t imagine what that could possibly be. “I sat two rows behind you in history. And the way you were struggling, I couldn’t help but think, well there’s a girl who hates history almost as much as I do.”

  “I don’t hate history,” I say, only it comes out too quickly, too defensively, my voice containing a sharp abrasive edge that makes everyone stare. So I glance at Damen, looking for confirmation, sure I can’t be the only one who feels the unsettled stream of energy that starts with Roman and flows right to me.

  But he just shrugs and sips his red drink as though everything’s perfectly normal and he hasn’t noticed a thing. So I turn back to Roman and delve into his mind, eavesdropping on a steady stream of harmless thoughts that while slightly juvenile for sure, are basically benign. Which pretty much means the problem is mine.

  “Really?” Roman raises his brows and leans toward me. “All that delving into the past, exploring all those long-ago places and dates, examining the lives of people who lived centuries before and bear absolutely no relevance now—that doesn’t bother you? Or bore you to death?”

  Only when those people, places, and dates involve my boyfriend and his six hundred years of carousing!

  But I only think it. I don’t say it. Instead, I just shrug and say, “I did fine. In fact, it was easy. I aced it.”

  He nods, his eyes grazing over me, not missing an inch. “Good to know.” He smiles. “Munoz is giving me the weekend to catch up, perhaps you can tutor me?”

  I glance at Haven, watching as her eyes grow dark and her aura turns a jealous puke green, then at Miles who’s moved on from his zit and is now texting Holt, and then I look at Damen who’s oblivious to us both, his gaze far away, focused on something I can’t see. And even though I know I’m being ridiculous, that everyone else seems to like him and I should do what I can to help, I just shrug when I say, “Oh, I’m sure that’s not necessary. You don’t need me.”

  Unable to ignore the prick of my skin and the ping in my stomach when his eyes meet mine—revealing a set of flawless white teeth when he says, “Nice of you to give me the benefit of the doubt, Ever. Though I’m not sure you should.”

  five

  “What’s up with you and the new kid?” Haven asks, lagging behind as everyone else heads for class.

  “Nothing.” I shake off her hand and forge straight ahead, her energy streaming right through me as I watch Roman, Miles, and Damen laugh and carry on as though they’re old friends.

  “Please.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s so obvious you don’t like him.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I say, my eyes focused on Damen, my gorgeous and glorious boyfriend/soul mate/eternal partner/cohort (I really need to find the right word) who’s barely spoken to me since this morning in English. And I’m hoping it’s not because of the reason I think—because of my behavior yesterday and my refusal to commit to this weekend.

  “I’m totally serious.” She looks at me. “It’s like—it’s like you hate new people or something.” Which happened to come out much kinder than the actual words in her head.

  I press my lips together and stare straight ahead, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.

  But she just peers at me, hand on one hip, heavily made-up eyes squinting from under the flaming red stripe in her bangs. “Because if I remember right, and we both know I do, you hated Damen when he first came to this school.”

  “I didn’t hate Damen,” I say, rolling my eyes despite my recent vow not to. Thinking: Correction, I only gave the appearance of hating Damen. When the truth is, I loved him that whole entire time. Well, except for that short period of time when I truly did hate him. But still, even then, I loved him. I just didn’t want to admit it. . . .

  “Um, excuse me, but I beg to differ,” she says, artfully messy black hair falling into her face. “Remember how you didn’t even invite him to your Halloween party?”

  I sigh, completely annoyed by all this. All I want to do is get to class so I can pretend to pay attention while I telepathically IM Damen.

  “Yes, and if you’ll remember that’s also the night we hooked up,” I finally say, though the second it’s out, I regret it. Haven’s the one who found us making out by the pool, and it pretty much broke her heart.

  But she just ignores it, more determined to make her case than revisit that particular past. “Or maybe you’re jealous because Damen has a new friend. You know, someone other than you.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I say, though it comes out too quickly to ever be believed. “Damen has plenty of friends,” I add, even though we both know it’s not true.

  She looks at me, lips pursed, completely unmoved.

  But now that I’m this far in, I’ve no choice but to continue, so I say, “He has you, and Miles, and—” And me, I think, but I don’t want to say it because it’s a sad little list, which is exactly her point. And the truth is, Damen never hangs with Haven and Miles unless I’m there too. He spends every free moment with me. And the times we’re not together he sends a steady stream of thoughts and images to make up for the distance. It’s like we’re always connected. And I have to admit that I like it that way. Because only with Damen can I be my true self—my thought-hearing, energy-sensing, spirit-seeing self. Only with Damen can I let my guard down and be the real me.

  But when I look at Haven, I can’t help but wonder if maybe she’s right. Maybe I am jealous. Maybe Roman really is just some nice normal guy who moved to a new school and wants to make some new friends—as opposed to the creepy threat I assume him to be. Maybe I really have become so paranoid, jealous, and possessive I automatically assume that just because Damen wasn’t as focused on me as he usually is, I’m about to be replaced. And if that’s the case, well, it’s way too pathetic to admit. So I just shake my head and fake a laugh when I say, “Again, ridiculous. All of this is seriously
ridiculous.” Then I try to look as though I really do mean it.

  “Yeah? Well, what about Drina, then? How do you explain that?” She smirks and says, “You hated her from the moment you saw her, and don’t even try to deny it. And then, once you found out she knew Damen, you hated her even more.”

  I cringe when she says it. And not only because it’s true, but because hearing the name of Damen’s ex-wife always makes me cringe. I can’t help it, it just does. But I have no idea how to explain it to Haven. All she knows is that Drina pretended to be her friend, ditched her at a party, and then disappeared forever. She has no memory of Drina trying to kill her with the poisonous salve she used for that creepy tattoo she recently had removed from her wrist, no memory of—

  Oh my God! The salve! Roman gave Miles a salve for his zit! I knew there was something strange about him. I knew I wasn’t making it up!

  “Haven, what class does Miles have now?” I ask, my eyes scanning the campus, unable to find him and in too big of a hurry to use remote sensing, which I still haven’t mastered.

  “I think English, why?” She gives me a strange look.

  “Nothing, I just—I gotta run.”

  “Fine. Whatever. But just so you know, I still think you hate new people!” she shouts.

  But it lingers behind me. I’m already gone.

  I sprint across campus, focusing on Miles’s energy and trying to sense which classroom he’s in. And as I round a corner and see a door on my right, without even thinking, I burst in.

  “Can I help you?” the teacher asks, turning away from the board, holding a broken piece of white chalk in his hand.

  I stand before the class, cringing as a few of Stacia’s minions mock me as I fight to catch my breath.

  “Miles,” I pant, pointing at him. “I need to speak to Miles. It’ll only take a sec,” I promise, as his teacher crosses his arms and gives me a dubious look. “It’s important,” I add, glancing at Miles who’s now closed his eyes and is shaking his head.