beautiful dead boy in his open casket, I kissed his cheek—I seem to have made it to and past my sweet sixteen without being properly kissed.
If love and romance were a credited course in school, I would flunk out.
If the tally of notches on your bedpost was any indication of your likelihood of finding love in the future, I’d be doomed to a life of collecting cats, culminating in death-by-suffocation-under-a-hoard-of-creepy-china-dolls.
But just because I haven’t exactly allowed myself to become the human equivalent of a school bus—ridden regularly by everyone—doesn’t mean a) that I’m dead inside or b) that guys feel dead inside when they look at me. I mean, I don’t know what they feel. Probably nothing like what they feel when girls like Harper and her gang o’ skanks walk by. But there have been times—memorable moments—when I’ve caught dudes looking at me in class. And, in grade eight, I heard a guy tell his friends he’d had a sex dream about me, which, I eventually admitted to myself, felt sort of cool. If it came down to it, I’d rather be smart than pretty, but a part of me would like to believe that, down the road, I might turn out to be both.
“First day?” Pilot asks me, breaking the silence.
Ben darts a glare at Pilot then averts his bright mint-green gaze in a way that makes me think he might never look at me again.
“I’m Pilot. You must be the new junior, Anne Merchant.”
Great. Does everyone know my story? “Is it your first day, too?”
Pilot shakes his head and fixes his twinkling gaze on me. His irises are so black, they appear to merge with his pupils in an unsettling yet beguiling way. Everything about him is dark and masculine, from his ultra-short black hair to his rich skin tone to his wide, strong-looking shoulders.
“I came here last fall,” he says. “From California. My dad knows your dad.”
Before I can register my surprise at our connection, the door to Headmaster Villicus’s office swings open, and Dr. Z looks out sternly. “Mr. Stone. He’ll see you first.”
“I’ll catch up with you in class,” Pilot says, smiling at me as he gets up. “I’m a junior, too—and a double major, so we’ll have some classes together. I’ll help you find your way around, cool? See you, Annie!”
The door has barely closed behind him when I breathe a sigh of relief. It was only moments ago that I was fretting over the extremely high likelihood that I would live a friendless existence here. I can’t help but beam.
Which Ben catches me doing.
He scowls and looks away again. I close my lips to mask my crooked tooth, which my mom always said gave me character but which everyone else seems to be repulsed by, and refuse to let Ben get to me. I don’t need everyone to be my friend. Just one person—just Pilot—will do, thank you.
I strain to eavesdrop on Pilot’s conversation with the headmaster, but I’m unable to make out more than the low rumble of mumbles. So I distract myself by rifling through my orientation packet. In catering to the greatest minds among the world’s most privileged youth, Cania Christy holds itself to a standard of education that goes beyond the AP-level courses I had in public school. I used to take Bio; here, that’s The Ethical Dilemma of Euthanasia. Exploring the Science of Consciousness is what regular schools would call Physics. And A Critical Exploration of the Supernatural in Literature and Society is Cania’s version of English. Because I’m in the Fine Arts stream, I’ll also take Sculpting the Human Form every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon and Advanced Portfolio Development first thing every day.
“Stomping the Devil’s tattoo,” Ben says out of nowhere. His voice is buttery—slippery and rich, like it’s hard to hold onto, like it runs smoothly over everything it touches. Oh, God, I do not want him to have a sexy voice. In combination with his body, his eyes, and his sculpted face, it’s completely unfair. “That’s what it’s called. What you’re doing with your fingers.”
There’s no one else in the hall, so he’s obviously talking to me. I realize then that I’ve been absentmindedly drumming my fingertips on the arm of the bench. When I glance at Ben, I find that he’s closed his eyes and tipped his head to the ceiling. Napping.
That’s it? He just wanted me to stop drumming my fingers?
I tuck my hair behind my ears, take a deep breath, and very purposefully begin drumming again. Louder this time. And faster.
“I take it,” he says, deigning to speak to me again, “you’re not a music major.”
I shake my head, drumming on blissfully. “Art.”
And then I get his point: I can’t carry a beat. My drumming slows to a stop.
“I’m an artist, too. A sculptor,” he says. He must be a senior. There’s a maturity about him that can only come with age. “Tell me, do you sign your work with your full name?”
Odd question. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was being friendly. But he’s probably just talking to me because he’s bored. Rich guys are always bored so quickly. That’s what happens when you’ve had everything handed to you and have perfectly easy access to more of it at any time.
“I use my initials.”
The corners of his lips turn up ever so slightly. “A.M.”
“Yep. I guess you already know I’m a junior. Evidently, it’s headline news, though I can’t imagine why.”
At the far end of the hall, a secretary appears in the darkness. For no apparent reason, she starts pacing, darting furtive glances our way every now and then like some strangely dressed, paranoid bird. Ben turns his gaze on her and waits until her back is to us to continue speaking, now in a hush I have to lean to make out.
“Because you’re different from the rest of us,” he says.
“Yeah, well, I was different from everyone back home, too, but.”
“There are different ways to be different, Anne.”
As the secretary darts another look our way, I internally smile at the sound of my name rolling off Ben’s tongue. If I were to let myself entertain the idea of Ben being semi-decent, I would probably be lost in love with him in the time it takes to outline a pink heart on a canvas. There’s an alluring formality about him, as if he’s been raised to sit quietly at the dinner table while the chef serves him, as if he’s been wearing a tie since he was a toddler. He sits extra-straight, he holds his jaw in a tight clench, his every move seems deliberate—not robotic. Deliberate. Elegant. At least, I’d think that if I let myself think that. Which I refuse to do. Because this guy showed me his true colors when he grimaced at my crooked tooth; if I am going to think of him at all, it will be casually and with indifference.
Yes, I command myself, that’s the way it will be.
“I don’t suppose you know all that much about being different, Ben,” I say, careful to sound as indifferent as I wish to be. He arches an eyebrow, and I realize my tone may have been a little too cold.
“I’d say I know a lot about a lot, including being different,” he replies. “Are you familiar with the Big V race?”
“Outside of the fact that it’s being passionately protested?”
“It’s only being protested by Pilot Stone.” We sit in inhospitable silence for longer than I’d like—me trying not to feel consumed by the depth of his gaze, him quite likely wondering how he got saddled with my company—until Ben says, “I saw you running to school today. I passed you on my bike. You’re fast. Long legs.”
When my surprise shows on my face, he grins. His nose wrinkles charmingly. It’s far cuter a smile than I’d have expected from someone like Ben, someone who’s more of a starched-shirt guy than a funny T-shirt guy. Not that I care about his smile. Not that his extremely adorable crinkle-nosed grin really affects