Here's to prologue, by the way. (To help you understand that Damon isn't perfect):
I know what I did was unsuitable, but is love all that immoral? Is love—the definition being a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person—such a disgrace? Why does it even have to be one of the three sacred cows of my kind? After all, we are supposed to love one another, aren’t we? You know what? I’m glad I’m on earth now. I know I should be abashed that I have broken such a top-drawer law, but it was worth it. If love is wrong in the place where I’m from, then instead of being ashamed of falling in love, I’m ashamed of being from there. And now that I’m on solid ground for good, I know where I going. The only place I really want to be. Where she is. Orange County, California. Hopefully she’ll accept me. And, knowing her inside and out, she will. As she does with everyone.
Chapter 1
It smelled like BO. Well, of course it did, it was gym class. And not to mention I was in a gymnasium full of sweaty, exhausted 10th graders. It was no surprise it reeked like a month-old dirty sock. If it didn’t, then I’d be worried. But I was also worried that no one in my class was wearing deodorant. I was glad I put on my ‘Secret- Unbeatable Wetness Protection’ before school that morning.
Coach Montello blew her whistle. “You two”—She pointed tersely at two fatigued girls slumping on the bleachers—“Laps!”
The girls groaned. I recognized them from my biology class the previous year and empathized with them. Coach Montello could really work you out until you forget about everything except for the feeling of your knees about to give out. But, she didn’t care. After all, it was her job. But everyone knew she only took that job so she could coach the JV girls basketball team. It couldn’t have been more evident. I didn’t want to think about what her basketball practices were like—torture for the team, I expected. Even more than we got in gym class.
The girls dragged themselves off the bleachers and began jogging laps around the gym—well, stumbling laps, really.
We continued our ‘fun little game’ of catch the bacon. Keep in mind that this was fun in elementary school, but now….it was pure torment. Coach Montello was the one who was always stealing the ‘bacon’ (also known as a Frisbee)—imagine a 6’7 woman with muscles like steel and a mean glower painted on her face fighting you for the ‘bacon’. And wouldn’t you think that after the first couple of times she tried to steal it from you, she’d grow weary? Wrong. It was the opposite, actually. She grew more and more energized and battle-starved as the game went on. The woman was a monster.
“Arielle!” Coach’s whistle shrieked, and I felt my cheeks grow hot. It was my turn to ‘steal the bacon’. Joy.
As I edged closer to the bacon in the center of the room, I couldn’t help but remember all the other times I’d embarrassed myself in gym class—getting hit in the face with the ball every time we played dodge ball, slipping and falling when trying to run to first base in baseball, not paying attention and smacking my head on the outdoor track whenever we ran the mile—I guess I’m not compatible with sports. At all.
Coach’s face transformed into a sneer. Her face tilted up in something that wasn’t quite a smile—I did the same, except mine was a flinch.
She licked her chapped lips.
This is it, I thought, I’m going to die.
Coach’s dark brown eyes were restless—they flickered to the ‘bacon’, to me, to the children all sitting tiredly behind me.
She lifted one side of her mouth. “Your move.” She said softly.
My amber eyes grew huge. I didn’t want to move! I knew I would fall down, or hurt myself, and all my classmates would laugh at me. Coach raised an eyebrow at me, as if to say: We’re waiting. I desperately wanted to be saved by the bell.
Next period would be art—my favorite class.
I decided to wing it—I pretended to lunge forward, but once I did, Coach grabbed the ‘bacon’, pushed me back so hard I stumbled, and began running toward the goal. I couldn’t care less. But I had to make an A in gym, like I do with every other class, and gym is simply participation. I ran after her like I cared.
She hissed into laughter and I cringed at the sound of it—like a witch hackling over her brew. “Can’t catch me!” she goaded and I wondered why the principal would allow her to be a teacher—cockiness can rub off on students.
She zoomed past me like a bullet out of an AK47 and rushed into the goal—although, there was no point to hurry…she could’ve beat me if she was tip-toeing to the goal.
“Ha!” Coach gave a smug grin, “No one can beat me!”
I let her have her enjoyment and sat back down on the ground next to my friend Miranda Sherman.
Miranda smiled at me encouragingly. “Hey, at least you got her to believe you actually cared!” she whispered.
I laughed and immediately checked behind me to see if Coach had heard us. But right now she was calling on her next name. “Chandler!”
Chandler was a tall, skinny red-head who looked as if he’d never kicked a ball in his life.
He pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and quivered.
“What’s wrong, Gregory?” Coach called the kid by his last name. “Scared?”
Yeah, Coach definitely wasn’t teaching material. I thought teachers were supposed to be encouraging, not haughty and cruel.
But, before Chandler could face Coach Montello, the bell rang and everyone exhaled, more than relieved.
Coach growled at the bell and squinted her eyes. “This isn’t over Gregory.”
Chandler winced and backed up toward the boy’s locker room slowly, warily.
Chandler was so lucky. Why did he get to be saved by the bell, and not me?
After I changed back into my regular clothes and freshened up a little bit with some floral-smelling perfume (hey, I didn’t want to smell like BO for the rest of the day), I made my way to last period, art.
Art was the shining light in my bland, boring A.P. filled day. My parents pushed me so hard to do the best in school, and I’d ended up being valedictorian of my class since 6th grade.
I was actually enjoyed art—I was pretty good at it, too.
I stepped into the art classroom when Mr. Fuller—the art teacher—stopped me.
“Will you give a tour, Arielle?” he asked, running a hand through his graying dark hair.
I gaped. “Only seniors give tours, though…” I said disbelievingly.
Mr. Fuller shrugged. “You’re one of our best students. Plus, I looked at your project”—we were working on copying famous works of art, I picked Picasso—“and you’re way ahead of everyone else. It’s really good by the way.” He smiled. “Starry Night is one of my favorites.”
I stuttered. “But—but I have no clue how to give a tour! Will I have to do it alone?”
“Do what comes naturally, Arielle.” He said in that teacher-y tone of voice. “You can do it alone.”
I was still skeptical, but headed off to the main office, anyway.
This was going to be a sure disaster. Multiplied by 3.
I entered the main office where the secretary—Ms. Cochran—smiled at me warmly.
“Are you giving the tour?” she asked and I nodded.
She kept smiling and got out of her seat to lead me the way. “Oh, he’s right over here…”
She led me to the waiting room where a boy about my age was sitting on a blue vinyl couch.
He looked up at me with beautiful, wide, and sparkling dark green eyes.
He got up from the couch at I could clearly see from across the room that he was nearly a foot taller than me. Which wouldn’t be really hard, considering I was 5’4.
The boy brushed his dark hair off of his face, and I could then clearly see that he had handsome, defined features along with sheet-white skin. Which was odd considering we lived in Orange County, California and it was mid-September—still hot outside. Must be from somewhere else, I decided.
“Alright,” Ms. Cochran clapped her hands together excitedly, “Damon, this is last year’s freshman valedictorian and spelling bee champ,” don’t remind me. “Arielle LeFone. Arielle, this is Damon Lockhart.”
I gave Damon a warm, heartfelt smile. He would be new at this school—if I gave a good enough tour—and that was a scary thing. Being new would be any highschooler’s worst nightmare.
But the weirdest thing happened after I smiled at him. He seemed to melt under my smile. And want to know what else? I melted under his.
Damon stepped closer toward me, and said, “Hello,” in a musical voice. When he stepped toward me a rush of familiar presence swept over me and I had to bite the inside of my cheek not to say something about it--which probably would make Damon think that the students in this school were all lunatics. The presence was like sunny summer days lying on the beach, and school dances when I was in middle school, and lying in bed late at night, just daydreaming, and when my former friend Karen Notali completely stabbed me in the back because I have major issues with trust, his presence was that consoling energy.
I plastered on a smile. "Ready for your tour?" I asked, by my voice sounded weary and hollow.
He walked out of the waiting room with me and into the main lobby.
“So where’d you come from?” I asked.
“Angels City.” He said in that harmonious voice. He smirked as if he were enjoying a private joke.
“Hm? Oh, really.” I said, confused, “Is that in California?”
He laughed, “Yeah. It is.”
I was clearly eyeing his pallor and he laughed again. My heart thudded.
“I don’t get out in the sun a lot.” He said, and I was ashamed with myself for thinking he was anemic for a second.
“Did you come here because your parents work moved here?” I questioned as we walked past the wall full of pictures of current class presidents, treasurers, secretaries, and what not. I saw my friend Callie as the treasurer for the sophomore class and smiled.
Callie had been my best friend since kindergarten, and nothing could ever change that.
“Not parents.” He said, and looked at the class presidency as if he were interested in what he saw. “Guardians.” He smiled that private-joke smile again.
I tried to block out the side-effects of his bright smile and even brighter green eyes, but when you’re heart’s beating it’s way out of it’s chest, that’s kind of hard.
“Oh…” I said awkwardly, not sure what else I should say. “Sorry.” But my apologies sounded more like a question.
He looked at me and said, “Your friend?”
I cocked my head. What did that mean?
He shook his head and clarified. “She’s your friend?” he asked, pointing to the picture of Callie with a long, sinewy finger.
I looked at him for a long time. “Yes.” I said softly, “My best friend. How did you know?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “You were looking at her picture like she meant something to you.”
But the truth in his statement didn’t register in his eyes like it did in his tone of voice.
I looked at the picture of Callie again—her long, straight brown hair and sparkling blue eyes—then back at Damon.
I decided to let it pass.
I was suspicious, nevertheless. But he would be a new kid if I gave a good enough tour—I wanted to make a good impression.
So I continued our tour and he continued his private-joke smile. And even though I knew he was lying about how he knew Callie and I were friends, I still melted under his stare and smile. As he seemed to do with mine...and this whole time, I couldn't quite put my finger on the famaliar presence of him. Maybe it was just my imagination....
