From a Dream: Darkly Dreaming Part I (3 page)

Sean and I both swiveled forward at the same time. That was when I saw the red traffic light. I gasped as the motorcycle accelerated and burst through the intersection just as the light changed to green. Sean whistled again and stepped on the gas.

“That was
awesome
,” Sean muttered. “Do you know what kind of bike that was? It was an Aprilia. You
never
see those around here.”

“Do I look like a gearhead to you?” I smirked at him.

“Kinda.”

Sean crouched away from me, anticipating my attack as I reached over and smacked him with my binder. He did most of the talking the rest of the way to school, but as soon as we pulled into the student parking lot, he stopped, silently watching as Allison passed by with Natasha and Shelley.

“Maybe you should say something to her,” I said quietly.

Sean laughed weakly as he maneuvered into a free space at the end of the lot. Deep down, I knew Sean and I probably wouldn’t hang out if he were dating someone like Allison, but I still felt bad watching him pine after someone he couldn’t have. As we got out and walked through the parking lot, I felt a wave of relief that it was Friday. I was ready for the weekend and a decent night of sleep. Sean fell in step with me, and I reached out to squeeze his hand. He smiled, already back to his usual self.

W
hen we reached the stairs to the school entrance, I glanced back toward the parking lot and did a double take at the sight of a motorcycle sticking out from behind some cars. I shook my head in disbelief. The thought of any of my teachers riding a motorcycle to school was laughable.

I was about to nudge Sean, but the second bell was only seconds from ringing, and I had to practically run down the hall and into Ms. Kluman’s room, where I slipped into my seat just in time. As Ms. Kluman collected the homework, I tried to envision Mr. Aguilera, the youngest and arguably the coolest teacher at Winters, riding to school on a motorcycle. And nope. I still couldn’t imagine it. But it couldn’t have been a student’s. There was no way.

According to Sean, after he had gotten his license, his mom had looked at him like it was the last time she was going to see him. Plus, almost every time I had been at his house over the summer, Sean’s dad had sighed and told me how lucky my dad was that he didn’t have to insure a teenage driver. Two-wheeled transportation was definitely
not
an option, and I figured most parents of teenagers felt the same way as my dad. In his words,
he would have my head
if he saw me even looking at a motorcycle.

I groaned inwardly as Ms. Kluman began screeching about the average quiz scores in our class. To make things worse, I wasn’t sure if I had done the homework correctly. As it was, I didn’t think Ms. Kluman liked me very much, which made sense since I hated math with a burning passion. Ms. Kluman was the antithesis of Mr. Aguilera, who taught the AP Calculus class. Mr. Aguilera wore mostly jeans and T-shirts.

Ms. Kluman, her white hair tied in a severe bun, always wore high-necked, ankle-length dresses that looked like they were from the Old West. She also had a voice that resembled nails on a chalkboard. Having her for first period was punishment for a crime I had committed in a past life, I was sure. Sean, who was taking Calculus, told me that Mr. Aguilera threw candy to the students when they got answers right—instead of rapping on desks with a pointer and yelping “
Wake up
!” like Ms. Kluman did to the kids who couldn’t stay awake in my first period.

Lucky for me, math passed by uneventfully. Ms. Kluman didn’t even rap on anyone’s desk. Second period was Health Sciences, which I didn’t mind. I was doing pretty well, but Mr. Morgan didn’t exactly strain himself preparing the lesson plans. The material was straight out of the book, making it easy enough to keep up by simply reading the chapters. Taking AP History and AP English was my way of making up for the fact that I wasn’t taking Physics or AP Calculus.

During nutrition, I studied my notes from History, determined to return to my typical state of invisibility by paying attention to Mr. Anderson’s questions instead of staring out the window. His lectures were actually pretty entertaining when I could keep myself from being lulled to sleep by the rain outside, but my favorite class at Winters was Ms. Gilbert’s third period AP English class, mostly because it allowed me to spend my time reading. I could tell that
For Whom the Bell Tolls
was going to end tragically—mainly because most great literature had a sad ending, in my experience at least. In fact, I was already trying to guess the ending, and I was almost sure the characters I cared about were going to die.

It wasn’t that I wasn’t enjoying the book, but I always found myself getting too involved with authors’ fictional characters, like they were real people I knew. As a result, my moods tended to reflect whatever I was reading. I wanted Hemingway’s serious young idealist, Robert Jordan, to make it out of Spain alive even though I knew the chances were slim. The thought of Hemingway’s character dying bothered me more than it should have.

For the first half of the day, I had managed to keep my thoughts trained on school, tuning out any lingering creepiness from the day before. When I got to fourth period, I made a vow to pay attention and avoid getting lulled into a trance by the rain. Sean was already sitting a few rows over. I wouldn’t have minded sitting next to him, but given Mr. Anderson’s fondness for alphabetical seating, Sean sat behind Allison Monroe. Several seats in my row remained empty, which I didn’t mind at all.

As the classroom grew noisier, I concentrated on keeping my eyes off the windows. With my textbook opened to chapter four, I waited for the second bell. Mr. Anderson was just beginning to write a few dates on the board when an excited murmuring began to spread from the back of the classroom. I turned in my seat, mildly curious.

From where I sat, I could just make out the frizzy red hair of Ms. Gerber, the guidance counselor who always wore horn-rimmed glasses and mid-calf plaid skirts like she was trying to resurrect the 1950s. She had her back to the door and appeared to be talking to someone. When she turned, her expression was flustered. It almost looked like she was blushing. Strange—she usually never left her office. On my first day at Winters, she had acted like I had pissed in her Cheerios when I had told her I wanted to take AP U.S. History. It had taken her all of an extra minute to switch my Health Sciences period, but I remembered thinking that the
guidance
part of her job title was a little misleading.

“Yoo-hoo, Mr. Anderson, could I have a word?”

Mr. Anderson took off his glasses and turned, sighing when he saw Ms. Gerber. As he walked out into the hallway, I tried to listen to their conversation, but the classroom had already erupted into a dozen different conversations. Shifting my attention, I listened to Allison Monroe talking about a party that Jason Everett was throwing at his house while his parents were out of town. I didn’t pay much attention since I wasn’t invited—for obvious reasons.

When the classroom fell silent, I turned my attention to Mr. Anderson, who was walking back to the front of the classroom. A second later, my gaze locked onto the stranger behind him. I stopped breathing and stared at the newcomer. His face was beautiful. Perfect. But it was his eyes that drew me in. They were a bright, penetrating blue that made my heart skip in my chest like I had been shocked with electricity.

“Will Kincaid,” Mr. Anderson muttered, staring at a slip of paper. “I’ll have a syllabus and textbook for you at the end of the period. Try to follow along as best you can.”

I frowned. The guy who had just walked in was a
student
? I had been sure he was college-age or older. An older sibling visiting someone … or a student-teacher maybe.

“You can take the empty seat over there behind Aven.”

I jumped when Mr. Anderson pointed at me, my cheeks flushing bright red. I watched breathlessly as the stranger walked toward me. For some reason, it felt like I wasn’t sitting right in my seat. I pulled myself up straighter as I listened to my pulse pounding in my ears. Feeling him take the seat behind me, I breathed in and then regretted it. His aftershave was … like chocolate chip cookies, but not. Tasty? I had to bite down on my lip to focus on what Mr. Anderson was saying. The scent was strangely mouthwatering, but I couldn’t place it. Whatever it was, every guy in school could definitely use a bottle of it.

What the hell is wrong with me
? I wondered desperately.

Halfway through the class period, Mr. Anderson asked a question that stumped even Doug Cho. To redeem myself from the day before, I reluctantly raised my hand, ignoring Allison Monroe when she muttered, “
That’s a surprise
.” After answering—correctly—I went back to scribbling notes, but my pulse wouldn’t slow down. I could feel the adrenaline rushing through my veins as I watched the clock. My thoughts were swimming, and I felt distracted and dizzy. I needed to talk to Sean. But what was I going to tell him? That I was having a panic attack over someone I had barely seen? No way. He would tease me relentlessly.

Just before the bell was about to ring, Mr. Anderson looked around the room and announced that anyone able to answer his next question wouldn’t have to take the test on the second unit the following week. The last time, he had asked a question from the extra credit reading. Scott Adams, one of Jason Everett’s friends, raised his hand and asked if we could use our books. Mr. Anderson exhaled.

“No, Scott. That’s why it’s called a pop quiz.”

Jason elbowed his friend in the ribs.

“What event took place fifty-five years before Abraham Lincoln, the guy on the penny and the five-dollar bill, issued the Emancipation Proclamation and could be said to have foreshadowed the Civil War?”

This wasn’t in chapter four; it was in the first section of chapter five. Mr. Anderson was checking to see if anyone had bothered reading ahead. The classroom remained almost completely silent. I was pretty sure I knew the answer. What I
wasn’t
sure about was if I could get my voice to work if I opened my mouth. I watched as the second hand on the clock ticked, and when the bell finally rang, I shoved my book and binder into my backpack. Standing unsteadily, I avoided turning around, even though every ounce of my attention was still focused behind me as I made my way past Mr. Anderson’s desk.

Mr. Anderson looked up and said he appreciated my full attention in class. Smiling crookedly, I hurried toward the door. Unable to stop myself, I turned to catch sight of the new student once more, but he had already disappeared. Mr. Anderson looked bewildered as well, a textbook and an extra copy of the syllabus sitting on his desk.

By the time I got to my locker, I remembered that Sean was spending the lunch period in the band room where he was putting the finishing touches on one of his many music projects. Lunches without Sean were awkward. There were a few girls from my English class that I ate with occasionally, but I always ended up feeling like a fifth wheel tagging along. They spent most of their time updating their social media accounts, which I didn’t have because social media implied being social—and I wasn’t. Besides, their conversations tended to revolve around stuff I had to struggle to pretend I was interested in. Like shopping and Jason Everett, the resident drool-worthy asshole. Plus, I loathed the cafeteria, because it gave me the horrible feeling of being simultaneously watched and disregarded. If Sean wasn’t around, I usually opted for eating alone.

Looking out the windows as I walked to my locker, I saw that the rain had stopped. As soon as I got rid of my books and grabbed my lunch, I decided to take my chances that it would stay dry. While other people headed toward the cafeteria, I walked in the opposite direction to the stairs at the edge of the student parking lot. When I got there, I noticed a couple of guys leaning against a car and smoking. They didn’t look in my direction, and I was relieved that the lot was otherwise deserted. I set my jacket on a step and quickly surveyed my lunch. My stomach was still swirling with nerves, but I took out an apple anyway as I opened my copy of
For Whom the Bell Tolls
. I made it about half a page before my eyes began to wander. Looking up, I hastily scanned the parking lot, trying to locate the motorcycle from the morning. It was gone, leaving me to contemplate the unsettling possibility that it had been my imagination.

Just when I had managed to start concentrating on the book, goose bumps rose on my arms. Shivering, I looked up, again with the eerie feeling that someone was watching me. The parking lot was empty—even the two smokers had taken off. I turned and looked up the long staircase behind me that led to the chain-link fence surrounding the school’s perimeter—the one with the gate that was always locked.

My eyes widened when I registered someone standing on the opposite side of the fence. The figure was holding a helmet at his side, and there was a motorcycle idling at the curb. I stared until he turned and got on the bike, which disappeared in seconds. Some crows in the trees behind me began to call out, and I shivered again at the sound. Then, from across the parking lot, I heard Sean’s voice. I turned slowly, still in a daze.

“
Yo
! Casey.”

Sean walked quickly toward me, and when he reached me, he sat down and cuffed me on the shoulder, his eyes shining with excitement.

“I thought I’d find you here. Hey, you’re not going to believe this.”

“Okay …” I prompted warily.

“Jason Everett came up and asked if I knew you.”

I smirked and rolled my eyes.

“Yeah, sure he did.”

At the very most, Jason knew me as the quiet new girl who had messed up the curve in his history class.

“Wait,” Sean said excitedly. “So, it gets weirder. He asked me if I was going to his party this weekend. Then he told me to bring you.”

I made a face.

“And you told him I’ve seen
Carrie
, right? Invite the new girl to the dance and pour pigs’ blood on her? Some days I regret not having telekinetic powers,” I muttered.

I was about to remind Sean that Allison and Jason were together, at least on and off, when Sean’s expression turned sheepish.

“I kinda thought it would be a chance to see Allison outside of school. And hey, maybe Jason thinks you’re hot.”

I shook my head.

“I think I’ll pass. Why don’t you go with Matt and Jeff?”

“They’re already going. I just thought it’d be fun if we went together. Never mind. … But hey, what’d you think of the new guy? Must be a fellow Southern Californian.” He pauses and studies me. “Oh, wait. That’s right. You come from the albino segment of Southern California’s population.” I reached out and smacked him on the shoulder. “Ouch! I noticed you stopped breathing when he walked in. Got a crush, Casey?”