They all look at her. Slowly, she rises from the seat, swinging her leg over the bench, and walks to me, timidly, as if being pulled against her will. She stops more than arm’s distance away from the fence. It strikes me at that moment that as a human, I have always made women uneasy. I seem to threaten them just as much as they threaten me.

She’s wearing a long flowered skirt; it’s delicate and suits her. “Yeah?” she asks in a brusque voice that does not.

“Hello. My name is Eron DeMarchelle,” I say softly, bowing my head in respect.

Behind her, one of the girls shouts in a brash tone better suited to a bartender, “Take it all off, baby!”

Julia turns to them for barely a second and then to me, blushing charmingly. “How do you know my name?”

I could tell her much more about herself, probably more than even she knows, but that is not my purpose. I smile. “You do not know me, but—”

Smack. Something, or someone, hits me on the back of the head. I recoil, wincing, and look around, rubbing the soreness on the back of my head. Nothing there. But I know better.

I clear my throat. “What I wanted to say was—”

I stop midsentence. I feel a twinge and look down at my hands. I can see the fence and blades of grass on the ground through them, just barely. It’s not quite noticeable yet, but I know what is coming. I must flee before I disappear in front of her.

“I must go,” I say hurriedly.

“I … don’t understand.” Above, a bell rings, tinny and disconcerting. Julia looks away, hesitating. “I—I’ve got to go, too,” she says, moving away from the fence. She picks up her tray and disappears into the building without another glance in my direction.

And that is when I see a face, twisted in rage, in the school’s dust-coated window. The same boy from Julia’s dream. Mr. Colburn’s best friend.

CHAPTER 15

Julia

Breathe.

Once inside, I need to remind myself to do that. Though the air in the courtyard was fresh and cool and smelled like the honeysuckles lining the back of the school, and the air here, in the dank cafeteria, reeks of mustard, onion, and some unidentifiable dead animal, I finally have an easier time getting my lungs to work.

He spoke to me like he knew me. But I’d remember if I’d seen him before, and not just because of the top hat and spats. He’s easily the best-looking guy I’ve ever seen, someone unforgettable. It was obvious Ebony and her crew thought the same, judging by the way they drooled into their lunch trays. He had a movie-star, chiseled jawline with the slightest hint of late-day stubble, and dark brooding eyes that lingered lazily, comfortably on me, making me uneasy. I’d have remembered very clearly a guy who could look at me that way. I had the vaguest feeling of déjà vu, but nothing I could place.

He knew my name. And he wanted to speak to me, only to me. About what? Probably that I can save hundreds on auto insurance by switching to his company. But still …

What kind of insurance salesman wears a tuxedo?

Before I can formulate a better explanation, an arm snakes around my shoulders and pulls me against the cold cinder block wall of the cafeteria. I gasp, then relax when I see Bret. “Who was that guy?” he asks, just a bit too loudly and too protectively for my liking.

I shrug. “No clue,” I say, wondering if my cheeks are still flushed. He leans into me, so close I think he’s going to put his forehead against mine. That’s something Griffin used to do; he would boast that he could read my thoughts by osmosis. But Bret has never been this close, and that’s when I smell his breath, hot and sour. His dad’s scotch, I think. “Are you trying to get suspended on the second-to-last day of school?”

He grins, and slurs, “I’m going to B Tri-C. All you need to get in there are three brain cells and a number two pencil.”

This is nothing new to me. Bret is constantly disparaging himself because Griffin got into a good school and he didn’t. Bret has never been the scholarly type, so that’s why he’s going to Bucks County Community College this fall. And when he’s drunk, he likes to mope and feel sorry for himself. “Oh, stop,” I say, slapping him lightly. “Look on the bright side.”

He’s still standing entirely too close for my liking. And looking entirely too serious. The smile is still there, but barely. Unfortunately, Bret gets that way when he drinks. He raises an eyebrow. “And what is the bright side, Ippie?”

“You know. You won’t be here, at Wilson.”

His face falls until only a trace of a smile is left. Clearly it was not the answer he was hoping for. He sighs and his eyes trail to the ground. “I always thought the bright side was that I would be near you.”

I’m trying to figure out how I can escape him, so it takes me a moment to realize what he has said. I search for the irony, the sarcasm in his features, but there is none. He’s not looking at me; though he may be tipsy, he’s obviously still aware that he’s out of his comfort zone. Bret is being sweet. How can I run away and toss a casual “See you” over my shoulder when he’s baring his soul like this? I can’t. But I can’t think of anything else to say, so a lame “Oh” slips out.

Maybe a full minute passes, and I still can’t think of anything to say. Well, nothing nice. I can think of a hundred insults, the best being “Go tell it to Dr. Phil,” thanks to all the time I spent with Griffin.

Finally, he mumbles, “I thought with Griffin gone, you and I would be … you and I … we make sense. But you’re … changing…. I mean, don’t you like me anymore?”

It’s really pathetic. He sounds like a three-year-old asking if someone, anyone, will play with him on the playground. But this is Bret; he’s only this way because he’s drinking. Tomorrow he’ll shrug it off and crack jokes about it. “It’s not you,” I explain, knowing I’m heading for that horrible cliché It’s not you, it’s me. “You know I loved Griffin. I still do. And—”

My mouth is still forming words when he swoops in and lays a kiss on it. His lips are cold and wet and lacking all muscle tone, like two fat jellyfish. And I thought it wasn’t possible for a kiss to be any less passionate than in my dream. But how can I deny a guy who has just broken open a vein for me like that? He brings his hand to my cheek and strokes it, kind of nice and soft, like I’m some fine treasured possession, so I know this is a big deal for him. Even if he will deny that tomorrow. So I tilt my chin up and kiss back. But only for a second, because at that moment someone tweaks my ass.

“Ouch!” we both shout in unison, separating.

I rub my backside, muttering curses, ready to slap him, when I realize that one of Bret’s hands is wrapped around a jug of something probably laced with scotch, and the other, the one that was previously stroking my cheek, is now gingerly massaging the back of his head. “Something hit me,” he moans, sour-faced. He turns around, looking confused. The vast cafeteria is empty except for a couple of hairnetted ladies cleaning tables in the far corner.

I stop rubbing as a tingling sensation rises up my neck to my hairline. Only one person I know liked to squeeze my butt like that.

Oh, hell.

I belong to you. I belong to you, Griffin, I say to myself, as if he’s in my mind and can hear my thoughts. I start to move away from Bret, but he grabs my hand. “Are you okay?”

I snatch it back. Any more physical contact and my backside might end up a black-and-blue checkerboard. “Yeah. Late for class,” I say, forcing a smile.

It’s crazy. Crazy to think Griffin is still here.

Still, when I turn away from Bret and make my way past the empty tables, I mutter, almost inaudibly, “I belong to you, Griffin.”

Just in case.