I nod, refusing to look any further than his sleek, black, motorcycle boots. The kind that are more GQ than Hells Angels.
The kind that looks very out of place among the rows of multicolored flip-flops currently gracing the green-carpeted floor.
Mr. Robins asks us all to turn our books to page 133, prompting Damen to lean in and say, "Mind if I share?"
I hesitate, dreading the proximity, but slide my book all the way over until it's teetering off the edge of my desk. And when he moves his chair closer, bridging the small gap between us, I scoot to the farthest part of my seat and hide beneath my hood.
He laughs under his breath, but since I've yet to look at him, I have no idea what it means. All I know is that it sounded light and amused, but like it held something more.
I sink even lower, cheek on palm, eyes on the clock. Determined to ignore all the withering glances and critical comments directed my way. Stuff like: Poor hot, sexy, gorgeous new guy, having to sit next to that freak! That emanates from Stacia, Honor, Craig, and just about everyone else in the room.
Well, all except for Mr. Robins, who wants class to end almost as much as me.
By lunch, everyone's talking about Damen.
Have you seen that new kid Damen! He's so hot-So sexy-I heard he's from Mexico-No I think it's Spain-Whatever, it's some foreign place-I'm totally asking him to Winter Formal-You don't even know him yet-Don't worry I will
"Omigod. Have you seen that new kid, Damen?" Haven sits beside me, peering through her growing-out bangs, their spiky tips ending just shy of her dark red lips.
"Oh please, not you too." I shake my head and bite into my apple.
"You would so not be saying that if you'd been privileged enough to actually see him," she says, removing her vanilla cupcake from its pink cardboard box, licking the frosting right off the top in her usual lunchtime routine, even though she dresses more like someone who'd rather drink blood than eat tiny little sweet cakes.
"Are you guys talking about Damen?" Miles whispers, sliding onto the bench and placing his elbows on the table, his brown eyes darting between us, his baby face curving into a grin.
"Gorgeous! Did you see the boots? So Vogue. I think I'll invite him to be my next boyfriend."
Haven gazes at him with narrowed, yellow eyes. "Too late, I called dibs."
"I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were into non-goths." He smirks, rolling his eyes as he unwraps his sandwich.
Haven laughs. "When they look like that I am. I swear he's just so freaking smoldering, you have to see him." She shakes her head, annoyed that I can't join in on the fun. "He's like combustible!"
"You haven't seen him?" Miles grips his sandwich and gapes at me.
I gaze down at the table, wondering if I should just lie. They're making such a big deal I'm thinking it's my only way out. Only I can't. Not to them. Haven and Miles are my best friends.
My only friends. And I feel like I'm keeping enough secrets already. "I sat next to him in English," I finally say. "We were forced to share a book. But I didn't really get a good look."
"Forced?" Haven moves her bangs to the side, allowing for an unobstructed view of the freak who'd dare say such a thing. "Oh that must have been awful for you, that must've really sucked."
She rolls her eyes and sighs. "I swear, you have no idea how lucky you are. And you don't even appreciate it."
"Which book?" Miles asks, as though the title will somehow reveal something meaningful.
"Wuthering Heights." I shrug, placing my apple core on the center of my napkin and folding the edges all around.
"And your hood? Up or down?" Haven asks.
I think back, remembering how I raised it right as he moved toward me. "Um, up," I tell her.
"Yeah, definitely up." I nod.
"Well thank you for that," she mumbles, breaking her vanilla cupcake in half. "The last thing I need is competition from the blond goddess."
I cringe and gaze down at the table. I get embarrassed when people say things like that. Apparently, I used to live for that kind of thing, but not anymore. "Well, what about Miles? You don't think he's competition?" I ask, diverting the attention away from me and back on someone who can truly appreciate it.
"Yeah." Miles runs his hand through his short brown hair and tutus, gracing us with his very best side. "Don't rule it out."