Ever (3 page)

CHAPTER THREE

The First Day

I
awoke with a start on the first day of the rest of my life. My earbuds were silent next to me on the pillow, and I was still wearing my clothes from the day before.
Oh, crap!
My math notebook was on the floor, facedown. Panicked, I fumbled for my clock. It was 6:47 a.m., exactly three minutes before my alarm was set to jolt me into the day.

“Crap!” I hadn’t studied one second for the exam, and now I had barely had enough time to get to class. I could pretend I was sick but that would only prolong my plight—absentees got to spend the lunch period alone with Mr. MacFarlane taking the makeup.
Oh, hell no!
I took the fastest shower of my life and skipped washing my hair. I pulled on the same jeans I had fallen asleep in and paired them with my signature black tank top. February in southern Cali was fickle and today, it was warm enough to skip a jacket, which was great because I couldn’t find mine. I raced around my room, indiscriminately shoving items into my book bag. I could swear Bear was smirking at me from beneath her whiskers as she observed me from the end of my bed.

“Quit it,” I muttered. Yeah, I talked to my cat. Didn’t everyone?

Mom had left early for work but there were a couple of blueberry muffins on the table, thank God. I stuffed one in my mouth as I ran out the door.

I fumbled in my bag as I sat idle at the stoplight, rummaging for my cigarettes. I was stressing hardcore. A few drags usually calmed me down, but when I touched the box a sharp jolt made me jerk back my hand as though I had been burned. Nausea roiled through my gut. What was that? Ugh, maybe I should have eaten dinner last night.

I made it to class just as the bell rang. The girl next to me, an obnoxious Cheerleader, raised her sculpted eyebrow as she took in my disheveled state. My heart was thudding and a trickle of sweat beaded its way between my non-existent breasts as I heaved silently. This was not the ideal way to start my day—that was for sure.

I struggled to contain my anxiety as Mr. MacFarlane handed out the exams. He walked back and forth across the front of the room, taking stock of each of us in his typical condescending way. Each student at the front of each row received a stack of packets to “take one and pass back.” As the vile test loomed nearer and nearer, I felt my palms begin to itch.

Finally, the test sat in front of me, an innocent-looking collection of papers held together with a simple metal staple. I stared at the packet for a good thirty seconds before the scribbling sounds of those who had studied the material began to sink into my awareness. I flipped the cover page back to reveal neat rows of equations. There were so many questions. I retrieved my pencil and gripped it tightly, praying that by some miracle, it would write out the answers to the equations that danced like demented ballerinas in my head.

“Please, let me pass,” I whispered to myself. I could hear MacFarlane’s footsteps approaching as he paced the aisles, hunting for cheaters. I closed my eyes and said another silent prayer, visualizing myself writing out the answers. Failing would mean mandatory participation in MacFarlane’s summer school class—an experience I could definitely do without! I opened my eyes, prepared to face the dreaded test. The answers were hidden somewhere in my memory, and I would find them.

I can do this!

I blinked several times. Hard. Something was very wrong.

I was standing at my locker.

What the—?
I had my backpack in my left hand, my pencil still gripped in my right.

Oh God, I must have flipped out and run out of the classroom! Did I even finish the test?

A swarm of students invaded the campus from the parking lot, indicating that first period was about to start. I had to find out what had happened. My stomach in knots, I made my way down the hall, back to the classroom. I hesitated outside the door. I could see Mr. MacFarlane inside, shuffling through what I assumed were the tests. At the sight of him, I did a quick about-face. Whatever I had done, I didn’t want to know. Unfortunately for me, Mr. MacFarlane happened to look up as I turned away.

“Can I help you, Miss Jordan?” he called.

Oh great.

“Well?” His voice was stern, without any hint of amusement. Why had this man chosen a life of teaching when he seemed to despise his students? I could feel my cheeks turning red as he tapped his foot.

“I just…that is, I think I…” I stammered, not knowing what to say. How could I explain that I had totally zoned out and had no recollection of finishing the test? “I feel like I did something wrong,” I whispered. My heart began to pound, and my hands began to tremble
. I failed it.

“Perhaps next time you should check your work to avoid feeling like you made mistakes. Being the first one to finish means nothing if you rush and make careless errors,” he admonished.

Huh?
My jaw was now hanging open. I closed it. “Yes, sir. Um, I’ll make sure to do that next time.” I turned on my heel and headed back toward my locker.

I had turned in the test
first?
I literally had no recollection of anything I looked at the first question. A vague sense of discomfort radiated from my right hand. I still had a death grip on my pink, mechanical pencil. I leaned down to stick it into my backpack and caught a glimpse of my palm. It looked funny, whitish, like that powder from the bookshop had re-appeared. The hair on the back of my neck prickled.

I felt myself working up into a state of total panic. In fact, I was downright nauseous. Oh God, I was totally drugged, or poisoned or something. At the very least, I was having some kind of allergic reaction to the powder from the bookstore.

Perhaps I wasn’t even here, I comforted myself. Obviously, I was still at home, asleep, and this was all just a crazy dream. Yep, that made perfect sense. All I had to do was go home, and I would wake up. The quickest way to get home would be to pretend I was sick, which wouldn’t be hard to do given that I was lightheaded and dizzy. Off to the nurse’s office, then.

I took one step and smacked right into what felt like a brick wall. My pencil went flying, and my book bag slid off my shoulder, dragging down the thin strap of my tank top. Gradually, I became aware that I was pressed against someone’s flannel shirt—and his solid, muscular chest. My feelings of nausea dissipated. Mesmerized by a plaid pattern of blues and greens, I looked up.

“I’m so sorry,” I started to say as I focused on his face. And realized who he was.

Holy crap on a biscuit!

“Are you okay?” His voice was husky, older-sounding.

“Uh,” I said.
Oh, lord, Everleigh, act normal for once in your life!

I mentally regrouped, forcing myself to achieve an outward semblance of calm that I definitely didn’t feel at all. First the lost time in math class, and now the stomach-jarring experience of being in physical contact with one of the hottest guys in school—or maybe even the world—my senses were scrambled.

“I dropped my pencil,” I said.
Oh great, that was my response? Real cool, Ever.

Six feet of gorgeousness knelt down and retrieved my pencil, which rested against his brown flip-flop.

“Here it is,” he held it out to me, and I stared at it as though it was the first time I had ever seen a…pencil!

What was wrong with me? I couldn’t even move. I hoped I was asleep, because if I wasn’t, Jaren Wilder was going to think I was
such
a bumbling idiot.

“Thanks,” I said, jerking into action.

I reached out to take my pencil, daring a glance at his perfect, chiseled face. I sucked in a breath. Bottomless, deep blue eyes were focused on my palm, and then he shifted his gaze, those endless pools of azure meeting my eyes with a jolt so strong I felt it reverberate through my body like an electric shock. I stifled the gasp that begged to escape my lips.

“What’s that on your hand?” he asked, his voice taking on a sharp edge.

“Oh, um, it’s just some new lotion, you know, the kind with the glitter…” I said lamely.

What the hell was I supposed to say?
Oh, hi, Hottest Guy in School. Nice to meet you. Oh this? It’s some sort of magic dust that has made me conveniently forget failing my math test…

His eyes narrowed, like he knew I was lying.
No way!
I was a master manipulator when I wanted to be—my own mother couldn’t tell my truth from my fiction. I stared at my feet as though they were part of a Renoir. I was acting like a bleeping idiot! Worse, I looked like I had glittered up my right hand like Michael Jackson’s famous glove.

I had to get away. I swiped my pencil from Jaren’s grasp, ignoring the mild shock that raced through me as my fingers made contact with his palm. “I think I’m late to class,” I mumbled.

Then I ran the heck away.

CHAPTER FOUR

Growing Confusion

T
he school nurse, Ms. Lee, thought she was a one-woman public health crusader. Every semester, tons of memos were sent home from her sterile office on topics such as sexually transmitted diseases, the importance of hand-washing, teen pregnancy and more. She also apparently believed she was a full-fledged doctor. Her grandiosity worked in my favor, as she took one look at my flushed cheeks and labored breathing, and promptly decided I had the flu. She called my mom, collected a selection of influenza handouts describing my infectious condition and promptly sent me home.

My mom wouldn’t be home from work for hours. This gave me plenty of time to get back to the Third Eye and take a closer look at the jar I had knocked over. Looking closely at the glittery stain, I could see that it now seemed to emanate from underneath my skin, rather than sitting on top like paint or marker. It had leaked into my hand, infecting me like some crazy virus. I had to get it out, off, whatever!

I rushed to my car, which I’d parked facing downward on the steep hill, making it nearly impossible to get the door open without major effort. I yanked hard and pulled the car door right into my knee. I sucked in a breath, knowing that I was going to have a hideous bruise. No matter—I was already changing colors.

I was sweating as I gunned it back to the bookstore, conscious that I was risking my license by pushing my little car past the speed limit. I rumbled over three speed bumps in the parking lot, jarring my brain, and at last, I rolled to a stop in front of the store. I jumped out, half-limped to the heavy door and pulled it open.

My eyes adjusted to the dim light as I breathed in the familiar smell of incense and candles. There was no one at the cashier’s station. Whatever. I knew exactly where the powders and herbs were shelved. I marched straight to the shelf that contained the strange intoxicants and scanned the names, searching for one that rang a bell.

My gaze fell on a jar that was turned around, with the label partially hidden. I reached very carefully to adjust it and found the name.
Artemis Vulgaris
. It meant nothing to me. What was it for? I pulled out my phone and tried to Google the name, but for some reason, my connection wasn’t working. I looked around behind me, and again, the silence of the place was a little unsettling. Was I the only one here? Gingerly, I picked up the jar and cradled it against my chest. I carried it to the front of the store and set it on the cashier’s desk. There was a small bell nestled among the items on the desk, and I pushed down on it, emitting a startling loud ring.

A tall, thin man with shaggy brown hair appeared and made his way to the front of the store. He reminded me of Shaggy from reruns of
Scooby Doo
I watched when I was a kid.

“Can I help you?” His voice was high and reedy.

“Well, um, yeah I guess,” I said. I gestured to the jar. “What is this stuff?”

“What do you need it for?”

“Um, okay, here’s the thing,” I stumbled over my words as I admitted my guilt. “I was in here yesterday and well, um, I accidentally spilled some of this stuff.” I paused, trying to see from his expression if wasting some of this weird substance would land me with a hefty bill.

“Okay, so no big deal,” the guy said, shrugging. He was wearing a worn nametag that read simply, Steve. A black leather bracelet dangled from his left wrist.

“Well, actually, uh, Steve, I got some of it on my hand here.” I took a deep breath and stuck out my hand, letting him see the shimmer that glinted from my palm.

My heart pounded as I waited for his reaction. What if what I had was incurable? Worse, what if I was infected with a deadly virus that would render me a cannibalistic zombie like
The
Walking Dead?

“And?” He peered at my hand and then looked at me without a hint of surprise or confusion. If anything, he looked annoyed.

Didn’t he see it? I held my palm up closer to his face. “Well, how do I get
this
off?”

“Get
what
off?” Steve appeared to be genuinely confused. He obviously didn’t see the stain that seemed to glow from my hand. Was I the only one that could see it? For a brief second I thought I might be hallucinating, but I dismissed the thought quickly. After all, Jaren Wilder had noticed the substance…hadn’t he?