Paranormal Realities Box Set (46 page)

"Hey, stop it." I twisted and
stepped way from the wall pushing against his chest with both hands. His big
body barely moved. My strength was puny against his two hundred pounds, but I
slapped at him anyway. The impact on his rock hard bicep had no more effect
than would a gnat wing. "Do I have to scream?"

His eyes widened and his mouth opened. Of
course Quinn had a slack-jawed expression even at the best of times, but I
detected genuine surprise at my rejection. Why did most of the girls at school
think he was so handsome?

"Wha'sup?" He demanded.
"Riding the red dragon?"

"What?"

"Your period."

"No, you jerktard," I shouted.

At the moment I flung the insult, my eyes
collided with a gaze from a few feet away. A guy I'd never seen at school
before was staring at me with a scary intensity, but at the same time I found
his gaze exciting. With furrowed brows, the guy turned an angry glare on Quinn,
which gave me a chance to appraise his looks without being too obvious.

I couldn't find anything to criticize.
His blond hair had a slight wave to it and when combined with his high cheekbones
and full lips, the effect was definitely hot. Something about the guy was so
familiar, but I couldn't place him.

Just then his eyes returned to me. The
word Holden drifted into my head almost as if I knew his name. We'd never
spoken...had we?

I would have thought I knew the guy from
elementary or middle school but my family had only moved to Savannah, Georgia,
in the last year.

Dragging my attention from the hottie, I
turned back to my date. "I don't have a red dragon. And I find you
extremely gross."

Mrs. Gazardi, the school's guidance
counselor who was chaperoning the dance, approached us and spoke.

"Everything okay here, Eve?"

Wanting with every fiber of my being to
rat out Quinn for his bad behavior, I nevertheless said "I'm fine,
Ma'am."

My date examined his feet and mumbled
something unintelligible.

Mrs. Garzardi must be old— at least
fifty by my estimation— and she didn't possess particularly beautiful
features. But she was striking and unusually graceful. The way she wore her
silvery hair pulled back into a chignon and the long flowing robe dresses she
favored, accentuated the fluidity with which she moved.

For a few moments she examined me with a
penetrating thoroughness. Her perusal gave me the feeling she could see the
handprints on my dress from Quinn's groping. Mrs. Gazardi's lips compressed in
an angry line and her brows knitted as she turned to cast a disapproving glare
on Quinn.

What I saw next caused me to start in
surprise. It was as if a light bulb switched on inside her, illuminating her
skull so that it became faintly visible under her skin.

The spotlights in the otherwise dark gym
must be shining on her face in a funky way to cause such an eerie effect,
I thought.

After a few rapid blinks, the illusion faded
as quickly as it had come.

Mrs. Gazardi turned back to me with a
placid smile. "Have fun you two." Then she addressed Quinn. "But
not too much fun."

She spun on her heel and started away and
as she moved the lighting had more tricks for me. Along her shoulder blades
there seemed to be a ripple of movement under her dress, as if she'd trapped
birds in that voluminous garment and they were struggling to break free.

Ridiculous.
Could someone have slipped me a roofie?
No. Impossible. Not that I'd put it past Quinn, but I hadn't had anything to
drink that night.

Quinn muttered, "Nosey biddie."

"She's very nice," I defended.
"And if you pull any more crap on me, I'll report it to her."

"Whatever." With a pfffffffft
sound Quinn waved a hand and rolled his eyes. "I'm gonna go get some punch
and give you time to remember you're here with a star of the football team.
Maybe when I get back you'll be less agro and more with the gratitude and
appreciatin'."

"Starting your Christmas wish list
early, are you?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind. Go get the punch."

As soon as he walked away, Lashonda
hurried over from across the dance floor. Well, she hurried as fast as someone
could as she teetered on six-inch stiletto heels.

"How's it going?" she asked,
clapping her hands and giving an excited wiggle in her skin-tight, spandex,
purple mini-dress.

I wasn't the DUFF in our friendship, but
Lashonda was definitely the more gorgeous of the two of us with her cocoa skin
and dark eyes. By contrast my skin was pale and my hair a feathery, flyaway
brown mess unless trapped in a ponytail. My frame was slight where Lashonda had
curves in all the right places. I was a pre-makeover version of Cinderella to
her Nubian princess or a wren to her peacock. Like tonight for instance. My
flouncy-skirted cream dress paired with ballet slippers washed out in
comparison to her flamboyance.

 
I'd long ago gotten used to the way guys drifted from me to
her almost as if I'd turned invisible.

So when she wiggled, Lashonda drew the
lustful gaze of every guy within fifty feet—and some gals—except,
that is, the gaze of the guy I thought of as Holden. He still had his attention
firmly on me.

A zing of pleasure began as a spot in my
stomach, then blossomed into a warm blush up my neck and into my face.

"You're having a great time. Admit
it," she said.

 
Fixing her with my most dagger-like, arch-browed, condemning
expression possible, I answered, "I can't believe I let you talk me into
this date. Quinn's a creep."

"He's a running back," she
defended.

"The two aren't mutually
exclusive," I observed.

"I can't believe it," Lashonda
said. "Quinn told Billy, and Billy told Juliette, and Juliette told me
that he really likes you. And she wouldn't lie to me. Cheerleading sisters'
code."

"Yeah, he really likes me all right.
He's used all fifty snaky hands on me plus his forked tongue to prove it."

"Snakes have no hands, Eve."

"Okay, but he has no neck just like
a snake and—anyway, you get my point. Besides, I could be studying like
my dad wanted. Then at least one of us would be happy tonight."

I had the SATs tomorrow and Dad was so
not happy I'd decided to go to this dance.

"Ackk," Lashonda said.
"The dance is so dismal that studying would be better?"

When I nodded, she put an arm around my
shoulder. "Sorry, sweetie. But at least you gave it a try. You've acted
like you were afraid to try romance. It's unnatural."

"Afraid?" I scoffed.
"Hardly." Even as the words escaped I knew I was lying.

"Really? 'Cause this is the first
date you've had since I've known you."

"And it might be my last,
girlfriend, if this is what I've got to look forward to."

"I told you a million times, don't
call me girlfriend," Lashonda said. "It just sounds so damn lame when
a white girl uses it. You make my ears bleed." Lashonda always seemed to
sound more urban when riled.

"Okay," I said, conceding with
a toss of my hands into the air. "I don't want to render you deaf."

She chuckled. "You gotta put
yourself out there. Life is short."

That's what everybody at Double Dick had
been saying ever since little Franky Abbot died so suddenly just a month
before.

"Just ditch Quinn and go after
someone else at the dance," Lashonda said.

My eyes darted to Holden and then back to
my friend. "I can't do that."
Could I?

"Yes you can. I'm going to,"
she said. "My 'date' may be Ronny but I'm going home with someone else if
I have anything to say about it."

She tilted her head toward the dance
floor where the object of her nod— Chase —was doing a variation of
the white guy overbite moves.

"Ooooh, girl. He has a great
booty." Lashonda held up two hands grasping mounds of air. "Chase's
butt looks like two hard, denim-encased cantaloupes in those jeans."

She made a smacking sound with her mouth.
"I could just take a bite outa those delicious melons."

A laugh burst from me.

"What can I say," she
continued. "My heart hums when I see yummy buns."

"You should put those lyrics to
music."

She licked her lips. "I'm gonna ask
Chase to dance."

Just then Chase, the epitome of
surfer-dude, scuttled to the side and gave me a view of his dance partner.

"I don't think you wanna do
that," I told her. "He's with Petra."

Lashonda's face fell into a pout.
"Petra's a witch. She tried to tear out my hair last week."

"Understandable since you
are
trying to
steal her boyfriend."

"You can't steal something that
don't want to get taken."

"That's ridiculous." My eyes
went to the corner again where Holden hid a smirk almost as if he heard us
talking.

"No it's not. It's Zen."

"That's you. Lashonda. The second
coming of Confucius."

"Zen is Buddhism, not
Confucianism."

"Oh," I said. "Excuuuuuse
me for mistaking the philosophical basis for your psychological
rationalization."

"Whatever," Lashonda said with
a wave of her hand. "I'm gonna ask Chase to dance and really freak
Petra."

"That's not smart."

"To hell with smart. Touching a
black girl's hair is like launching a nuclear bomb. It takes the warfare to a
whole new level."

"Good to know," I muttered.

"Anyway, pick out somebody and go
for them, just like I'm gonna go for Chase."

My eyes flickered and found Holden again.

"How about the guy you can't keep
your eyes off," Lashonda continued.

"What?" I sputtered, blinking.

"Yeah. I've conducted this entire
conversation to the side of your face." She frowned putting a hand on one
hip. "I hope he's cute, at least."

Trying to keep myself from gushing, I
left it at, "He's kinda Nordic looking."

Lashonda smiled knowingly.

"I gotta see this Viking God."
She made a move to glance to her right.

"Don't look." I leaned forward,
stopping her with a hand on her arm. Mortified, my whisper was furious.
"He'll know I'm talking about him."

"Shocker!"
 
My friend said slapping her hands
against both cheeks mimicking a famous movie moment. "Like he won't know
by the way you're staring at him."

"He's the one staring at me," I
defended in my best impression of affronted pride. "I'm just noticing that
he's staring. I'm not doing any staring of my own."

"Uh huh." Lashonda's lips
twisted in smirk.

Just then Quinn returned with Ronny
tagging along behind him.

"Girls," Quinn greeted us. He
took a sip from his glass.

"I thought you were getting
punch," I said.

"I did." He held up the
glass....the
one
glass.

Not that I trusted him to get me a drink
but he could have had the courtesy to try.

Quinn ogled my friend up and down and
then issued a long wolf whistle while shaking one hand as if burned.
"Lashonda, you are so smokin' hot tonight I need a fire
extinguisher."

"How about using the punch
instead." I swiped at the hand holding the glass, tipping it back and into
his chest where the red fruity concoction spilled like blood soaking his
shirtfront.

"Hey," he screeched.

Not stopping to get a further reaction, I
pushed past him.

"Crazy whacked out bitch."
Quinn shouted over Lashonda's laughter as I strode off.

Now was the time to find out if I was, in
fact, whacked out crazy or whether I did know the cute Viking.

As I walked toward him, the music changed
to a slow song: "No Air." The lyrics drifted over me:
Tell me how I'm
supposed to breathe with no air.

What had started as bold strides slowed
to regular steps. Cowardice the size of a boulder suddenly lodged itself in my
throat and I had no air to breathe. Trying to swallow it down, I forced myself
forward. Holden, who'd been leaning against the wall, straightened, and a
smile—or was it a smirk—turned up the right side of his lips. The
boulder shifted, plopping directly into the bottom of my stomach. I had air,
but vomiting seemed a distinct possibility.

What if he laughed in my face?
"You?" he would say. "Why would I be looking at you? You're
nothing special."

Maybe a detour to the punch bowl would be
a good idea, instead. Making a sharp right turn wouldn't seem weird to anyone.
Na
, I assured
myself.
Perfectly
normal.
So I went for it—the punch bowl that is.