Fated (The Soul Seekers #1)(53)

I take another glance—noting how the tables are systematically segregated. There’s the cowboy table, filled with kids wearing jeans, Western-style shirts and cowboy boots; the hippie table, where they all sport tie-dyed T-shirts, bandannas, and ripped jeans; the Native American table, where the majority wear flannel shirts and faded denim—all of them talking and laughing but clearly keeping to themselves. And after seeing all that, well, I finally understand the true meaning behind the sayings: Like seeks like.

And: Water seeks its own level.

They were talking about high school.

Or maybe just life in general.

The point is, people will always cling and conform in order to belong to something they want to be part of.

Even the fringe group, the ones who think they’re so arty and different, so outside the mainstream—no matter how outrageously indie they strive to be, it only takes one informed glance to see that they’re all conforming to each other. Without even realizing it, they’re keeping within their own defined boundaries.

That’s just the way it is. It’s never gonna be any different. And even though the day’s half over, I’ve yet to see anyone who’d consider sitting with me.

Well, Cade might, judging by the way he’s smiling and waving and gesturing for me to join him, but I know he’s not serious. It’s all a big show, designed to make him look funny and make me feel awkward and bad about myself.

As far as Xotichl goes—I can’t quite get a handle on her. Besides, I have no idea where she is. Haven’t seen her since that weirdness in the hallway this morning.

I turn my back on it all, push through the door, and slink down the hall. In search of a nice, quiet place where I can eat my lunch in silence and wait for yet another bell to tell me where to go.

Spotting a place at the end of a long row of lockers, I drop to the floor, reach into my bag, and smile when I discover Paloma packed one of my favorites: a small plastic container filled with goat cheese enchiladas covered with her amazing, homemade tomatillo sauce.

With my plastic fork at the ready, I’m about to dig in when I’m stopped by a soft rustling sound that could only come from a lunch sack. Wondering who could possibly be as big an outcast as me, I scooch forward just enough to peer around the bend where I spy a pair of long legs, dark jeans, and heavy, thick-soled black shoes so large I hope they belong to a guy. Then I retreat to my corner, happy to know I’m not nearly as alone as I’d thought—that I’m not the only friendless loser who doesn’t belong in this school.





twenty-six

The bell rings—again. That awful, shrill sound blaring through the hall, bouncing off the ugly beige walls and red metal lockers, sparking a stream of students into a flurry of movement, as I try my best to find my next classroom.

I pause by the door, schedule in hand, taking a moment to confirm I’m in the right place, since I really don’t need to make that particular mistake yet again.

Independent study. Right. Last class of the day—praise be, hallelujah, and more.

I make my way inside and introduce myself to the man at the podium bearing a squinty mean gaze, a cruel slash of a mouth, a size-too-small T-shirt forced to stretch over a belly that will always arrive well before the rest of him, and a crew cut so tight it’s mostly just scalp. Pausing when he places a red checkmark next to my name and tells me to grab any seat.

If I’ve learned anything today, it’s that it can’t be that easy. It may not be obvious at first sight, but somewhere in this deceptively innocuous classroom, territory has been staked, boundaries drawn, and an invisible wall erected, bearing an equally invisible sign that states clueless new girls like me are not welcome here.

“Any seat,” he barks, shooting me a look that’s already pegged me as just another moron in a succession of many.

I give the room a thorough once-over, noting how instead of the usual desks, it’s divided into a series of tall, square, black tables and old metal stools. All too aware of the way my fellow classmates track my movements, sighing with overblown relief when I pass them in favor of the back where I toss my bag onto a table, grab an empty stool, and ask, “This seat taken?” My eyes grazing over the only other occupant, a guy with long glossy dark hair with his head bent over a book.

“It’s all yours,” he says. And when he lifts his head and smiles, my heart just about leaps from my chest.

It’s the boy from my dreams.

The boy from the Rabbit Hole, the gas station, and the cave—sitting before me with those same amazing, icy-blue eyes, those same alluring lips I’ve kissed multiple times—but only in slumber, never in waking life.

I scold my heart to settle, but it doesn’t obey.

I admonish myself to sit, to act normal, casual—and I just barely succeed.

Stealing a series of surreptitous looks as I search through my backpack, taking in his square chin, wide generous lips, strong brow, defined cheekbones, and smooth brown skin—the exact same features as Cade.

“You’re the new girl, right?” He abandons his book, tilting his head in a way that causes his hair to stream over his shoulder, so glossy and inviting it takes all of my will not to lean across the table and touch it.

I nod in reply, or at least I think I do. I can’t be too sure. I’m too stricken by his gaze—the way it mirrors mine—trying to determine if he knows me, recognizes me, if he’s surprised to find me here. Wishing Paloma had better prepared me—focused more on him and less on his brother.