Twisted Fate(12)

“Okay. He is actually super freaking HOT!” she said. “Your description did not do him justice—he’s like actually interesting looking, not just some pretty boy. I don’t think there’s anything bad about him at all.”

“Hello? And you are talking about who? A little context here, please . . .”

“Okay. So, this morning I am walking to school and Graham drives by in like this James Bond car or something—but you know, like a James Bond car from the seventies—like Sean Connery James Bond . . . or the one right after him. Who was the one after him?”

I rolled my eyes. “Not that much context.”

Becky laughed. “And so I just watch him cruise by,” she said. “I think, okay, he’s cute. But THEN when I got to school I went around back and was sneaking a smoke out by that one corner where they don’t have their freaking spy cameras set up and he’s STILL sitting in his car.

“C’mon.” She pulled me by the arm and started walking back behind the school.

I dragged my feet following her and felt again like this kid had some kind of weird power. My sister, now my best friend—who was next, Declan? Was I the only one who thought there was something weird going on? Was Declan going to be best buds with this kid? But I only had to worry about that one for a second.

“I don’t know why you and Declan don’t like him,” Becky went on, stopping to light her cigarette. “Declan called him a drug addict, which I thought was hilarious. He said his eyes look funny and he seemed too skinny. I was like, YOU? You are calling someone a drug addict? You are saying someone is skinny and has red eyes or whatever? YOU, Declan Wells? Okay, whatever.”

We rounded the corner of the school and sure enough his car was still parked there. “Oh, sh sh sh,” Becky said, as if I had been the one loudly talking about him being a drug addict.

I had rarely seen Becky like this. She could be flighty, but generally she was too cool to get all hung up on some dude. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “Look at his car. Is he like the richest person in the world or what? It looks like his clothes are manufactured by magic fairies to fit his body perfectly.”

“Jesus, Beck, can you stay focused for like two minutes?”

Graham saw us walking toward the car and waved. We waved back.

“Howdy, neighbor,” I said sarcastically when we reached the car. He was sitting there, clearly staring at Becky. Instead of saying hello he just said:

“Can I film you, Becky? I just want some footage of you smoking.”

Becky paused like some starstruck twelve-year-old. She exhaled a cloud of smoke into the crisp fall air and laughed shyly.

“Why do you want to film her?” I asked.

“I’m making this movie. It’s not a documentary or anything. It’s an art film, but it’s got real people talking about themselves in it.”

“Yeah, sure,” Becky said.

And then he took out the tiniest camera I’ve ever seen and filmed her face really close up, then asked her to say her name and exhale the smoke. He didn’t even get out of his car.

“Beautiful,” he said. “Perfect.” He was completely relaxed and confident in a way I’d never seen him. And Declan was right—his eyes were messed up—not like ours got, bloodshot, but weirder. The pupils were hugely dilated. Sometimes when I saw him they were constricted like little pinpoints but now they were wide, a black void surrounded by a pretty pale-blue ring of iris. But there was no denying he was handsome.

He filmed her for a few more moments. “What’s your address?” he asked, and she replied, smiling at him, pushing her hair behind her ears. “Where do you go to school? Do you like it here?” She answered all his questions and then he took a little notebook from the glove compartment and wrote something down.

“So what are you going to do with all this?” Becky asked when he was done.

“I’m going to use it as part of a feature-length movie,” he said. “An experimental movie. And hopefully bring it to London with me when I go again with my stepmom. She has some artwork at an auction house there and there’s a film festival I want to enter some of my stuff in.”

It was interesting, but I don’t know if I believed him entirely. I thought he might be lying to impress us, or to get Becky to go out with him.

“Well, thanks, ladies,” he said, then put his car in gear. “Bye, Becky.” He waved. “See you at home, Tate.” Then he drove away. He clearly wasn’t planning on going to school that day.

“Uh . . . don’t you think that was a little weird?” I asked Becky.

“No, I think it’s freaking awesome! He seems like a real artist. Oh, and I found out he’s taking studio art, so I’ll see him in there while the rest of you brainiacs are sitting stoned off your ass in Beecher’s bullshit chemistry lab. Ha!”

“If he ever shows up,” I said.

“Oh, he’ll show up, he’s FINE. What the hell is it with you? He does all the things you normally like. If I didn’t know better I’d say you had a crush on him and you just don’t know how to deal. You’re acting like a third-grade boy. C’mon, Tate! This is the coolest kid who’s moved to town in the history of Rockland and he lives right next DOOR to you. You should be psyched!”