Poison Princess (4 page)

When we reached the entrance of the white-stuccoed building, I realized school was just what I needed. Routine, friends,
normalcy
. Here, I could forget all the crazy, all the nightmares. This was my world, my little queendom—

The sudden rumble of motorcycles made everyone go silent, like a needle scratch across an old record.

No way they'd be the same creepers from before. That group had looked too old for high school. And wouldn't we have passed them?

But then, it wasn't like the genteel town of Sterling had many motorcyclists. I gazed behind me, saw the same five kids from earlier.

Now
I was ready to meld into auto upholstery.

Each of them was dressed in dark clothes; among our student body's ever-present khaki and bright couture, they stood out like bruises.

The biggest boy—the one who'd leered at me—ramped over the curb to the quad, pulling right up on the side to park. The others followed. I noticed their bikes all had mismatched parts. Likely stolen.

“Who are
they
?” I asked. “Have they come to start trouble?”

Grace answered, “Haven't you heard? They're a bunch of juvies from Basin High School.”

Basin High? That was in a totally different parish, on the other side of the levee.
Basin
equaled
Cajun
. “But why are they
here
?”

“They're attending Sterling!” Catherine said. “Because of that new bridge they built across the levee, the kids at the outer edge of the basin are now closer to us than to their old school.”

Before the bridge, those Cajuns would have had to drive all the way around the swamp to get here—fifty miles at least.

Until the last decade or so, the bayou folk there had been isolated. They still spoke Cajun French and ate frogs' legs.

Though I'd never been to Basin Town, all of Haven's farm help came from there and my crazy ole grandmother still had friends there. I knew a lot about the area, a place rumored to be filled with hot-blooded women, hard-fighting men, and unbelievable poverty.

Mel said, “My mom had to go to an emergency faculty meeting last night about how best to
acclimate
them or something like that.”

I could almost feel sorry for this group of kids. To go from their Cajun, poor—and adamantly Catholic—parish to our rich town of Louisiana Protestants . . . ?

Culture clash, round one.

This was actually happening. Not only would I have to see the guy who'd shamelessly ogled me, I'd be in the same school with him.

I narrowed my eyes, impatient for him to take off his helmet. He had the advantage on me, and I didn't like it.

He stood, unfolding his tall frame. He had to be more than six feet in height, even taller than Brand. He had on scuffed boots, worn jeans, and a black T-shirt that stretched tight over his chest.

Beside him was a couple on a bike—a kid in camo pants and a girl in a pleather miniskirt. The big boy helped her off the bike, easily swinging her up—

“Wheh-hell,” Catherine said, “good to know her panties are hot pink. Shocked she's wearing them, actually. Classy with a capital
K
.”

Mel nodded thoughtfully. “I finally understand who buys vajazzling kits.”

Grace Anne, proud wearer of a purity ring, screwed her face up into an expression of distaste. “Surely she's going to get sent home with a skirt that short.”

Not to mention her midriff-baring shirt, which read:
I GOT BOURBON-FACED ON SHIT STREET!

Once he'd set the girl on her feet, she took off her helmet, revealing long chestnut-brown hair and a face made up to an embarrassing degree with glaring fuchsia lipstick.

The skinny boy who'd been driving her removed his own helmet. He had dark-blond hair and a long face, which wasn't
un
handsome but still reminded me of a fox.

He revved his motorcycle, startling two passersby, and his friends laughed.

Or rather a weasel.
Strike feeling sorry for them.

Finally, the big one reached for his helmet. I waited. He yanked it off, shook out his hair, and raised his head. My lips parted.

Mel voiced my thoughts: “I kind of wasn't expecting that.”

A tangle of jet-black hair fell over his forehead, with jutting tousles above his ears. His face was deeply tanned, with a lantern jaw and strong chin.

He looked to be older than eighteen. Overall his features were pleasing, handsome even. Though he couldn't hold a candle to Brandon's Abercrombie looks, the boy was attractive in his own rough way.

“He's
gorgeous
,” Catherine said, her eyes lighting up with interest. We called her Cat-o-gram because she could never hide her reactions, displaying them for all to see.

People passed us in the doorway, speculating about the newcomers:

“My maid comes from Basin. She said all five of them are juvies with records.”

“I heard the tall boy knifed two guys in the French Quarter. He was just released from a year's stint in a cage-the-rage correctional center!”

“The blond boy is a sophomore for the
third
try. . . .”

Weasel and the big one started for the entrance, leaving the other two and the girl to smoke, right out in the open.

The big one dug a flask from his back pocket. On school grounds? I noticed his fingers were circled with white medical tape for some reason.

While Weasel sneered at everyone he passed, his friend just narrowed his eyes with an unnerving resentment, as if he was disgusted by the kids at this school.

As the boys neared, I could make out some of their words. They spoke Cajun French.

My grandmother had taught it to me—before she'd been sent away—and for years I'd listened to the farm help speak it. As they'd stomped through Haven's fields in their work boots, I'd followed in my miniature boots, eagerly listening to their wild tales of life deep in the bayou.

I understood the dialect well. Not that this was something to brag about, since I could barely understand proper French.

I saw Weasel glowering at a nearby group of four JV cheerleaders. As he stalked closer, the girls grew visibly nervous; he yelled, “BOO!” and they cried out in fright.

Weasel snickered at the girls' reaction, but the other boy just scowled in their direction, muttering,
“Couillonnes.”
He pronounced it
coo-yôns
. Idiots.

Any tiny lingering inclination to be friendly to the new students—as was my usual way—died. They were messing with
my
khaki tribe.

Then Weasel zeroed in on me with a smirk. “Ain't you dat
jolie
girl in dat Porsha?” His Cajun accent was as thick as any I'd ever heard. “Turn around, you, and hike up dat dress, so I can tell for true.”

My friends' shocked expressions had me squaring my shoulders, refusing to be cowed by either of these boys. They'd come into our domain, acting like they owned the place.

With a sunny smile, I said, “Welcome to
our
school.” My tone was part bubbly, part cutting—a mash-up of sugar and snide so perfected I should TM it. “I'm Evie. If you need assistance finding your way around
our
campus, just let someone—else—know.”

If possible, Weasel's leer deepened. “Well, ain't you sweet, Evie. I'm Lionel.” He pronounced it
Lie-nell
. “And this here's my
podna
Jackson Deveaux, also known as Jack Daniels.”

Because of the flask? How delightful.

Jackson's eyes were a vivid gray against his tanned skin, and they were roaming over my face and figure like he hadn't seen a girl in years—or hadn't seen
me
minutes ago.

Lionel continued, “We doan need no ass-is-tance finding our way, no, but there're other tings you can ass-ist us with—”

Jackson jammed his shoulder into Lionel's back, forcing him along. As they walked down the hall, the big Cajun snapped under his breath,
“Coo-yôn, tu vas
pas draguer les putes inutiles?”

My eyes widened as understanding hit me.

Catherine said, “Did you see the way that boy was looking at Evie?”

“I didn't understand a word of that gibberish they were talking,” Mel said. “And I just got back from Paris.” She turned to me. “So what'd the big one say?”

Grace asked, “
You
speak Cajun?”

“A little.”
A lot.
Though I didn't particularly want everyone in Sterling to know I spoke the “Basin tongue,” I translated: “Idiot, you're not going to chat up one of those useless bitches?”

Catherine gasped. “You lie.”

As I watched Jackson striding down the hall, I noticed with amazement that the flask was not the only thing he kept in a back pocket of his jeans.

I could clearly make out a knife, a folded blade outlined in faded denim.

Then I frowned. Was he heading into
my
homeroom?

Grace said, “Wait a second. What did that boy mean about you hiking up your dress in a Porsche?”

DAY 5 B.F.

For lunch period, Mel and I were lying out on a blanket in a sunny spot in Eden Courtyard, sleeves and skirts rolled up.

All around us, roses and gardenias bloomed. A marble fountain gurgled. Brand and Spencer were playing a pickup game in the adjoining quad with other boys, laughing in the sun.

And Jackson Deveaux?

He was loitering just outside our courtyard with the other Cajuns, sipping from his flask while the rest smoked. And he was staring at me.

Ignore him.
I was determined to enjoy the rest of lunch relaxing with my best friend; never would I take for granted this precious freedom.

I exhaled. Okay, so maybe I wasn't precisely
relaxing
. I'd been on edge since I'd woken this morning from another nightmare of the red witch.

In each one, I seemed to be present with her, watching from a short distance away, forced to witness her evil deeds. Last night, she'd been in a beautiful golden field, surrounded by a group of cloaked people, all on their knees. She was tall, towering over their bowed heads.

With a laugh, she'd cast bloody grain in front of them, demanding that the people lap it up, or else she'd
slice their flesh to ribbons and choke them in vine.

As she'd bared her claws, sinister purple ones that looked like rose thorns, her victims had wept for mercy. She'd given them none.

In the end, their flayed skin really did look like ribbons. . . .

Eager for distraction, I turned to Mel, but she had her earbuds in, absently singing an angry female rock song. She loved to sing; her voice sounded like two cats in heat sparring in a traffic cone.

With the right makeup and lighting, her face looked stunning, all haughty cheekbones and flawless skin. Right now, she was cute, with her mouth a touch too big, her eyes a bit wide, her expressions comical instead of come-hither.

We'd been best friends ever since kindergarten, when a little punk kid had kicked my shins. Mel had swooped in to save the day. Lisping through her missing front teeth, she'd demanded, “Wath he mething with you?”

I'd nodded up at her, sensing a sympathetic hug on the way and eager for it. But she'd marched off and handed that boy his ass.

Now she leaned up on her elbows, removing her earbuds with a frown. “Okay, nobody's ever accused me of being perceptive or anything, but even
I
can feel that Cajun staring at you.”

He had been at it for a day and a half. “Imagine having three classes with him.” English, history, and earth sciences. Not to mention that Jackson and I were practically locker mates.

“
And
homeroom.” Mel was still pissed that she and I weren't together, that I'd been exiled from all my friends.

But hey, I'd scored both Jackson and Clotile Declouet, the Cajun girl.

I sat up, twisting my hair into a knot, sneaking a glance to my side. Yet again, I found myself in his sight line. He was sitting atop a metal table, scuffed biker boots on the attached bench, with his friends gathered around him.

Jackson had his elbows on his knees and his gaze fixed in my direction, even as he spoke French with the others. Occasionally Clotile leaned over to murmur to him.

“You think she's his girlfriend?” I asked, immediately regretting it when Mel shaded her eyes to blatantly study them.

“Normally, I'd say they were
perfect
for each other.”

Klassy, meet Good-Natured.

“But if they're together, then why does he keep staring at you? Like he hasn't deposited enough mental images into his spank bank by now?”

“That in no way makes me feel better about this situation, Mel.”

“What are they talking about?” She'd been delighted that I was uncovering all kinds of dirt on our enchanting new students.