You Don't Know My Name (The Black Angel Chronicles #1)(10)

“Come on, Reagan,” Harper says quietly, glancing over her shoulder to make sure Luke is still out of earshot. “You guys are so cute together. He broke up with Hannah months ago. I don’t know what you’re waiting for. I can just tell by the way he looks at you he—”

“Harper,” I interrupt as her words compress my lungs, making each breath labored and painful. I don’t want to hear this. “He doesn’t look at me like anything. I don’t want to ruin our friendship.”

“You know some things are worth ruining,” Harper replies, reaching out to touch my arm with her fingertips, her nails painted a shade darker than my gray cardigan. “You can’t tell me you haven’t at least thought about starting a relationship with him or maybe—”

“There is no relationship,” I cut her off again, pulling my arm away a little faster than I meant to. I snap new gloves onto my hands, pick up the scalpel, and slice into the frog’s heart. “Next stomach.”

“Next stomach?” Harper repeats, scrunching her forehead.

“Next subject.”





FOUR

I push open the science building’s heavy door and walk out onto one of the school’s smaller quads. New Albany High School looks more like a college campus with its deep redbrick buildings, towering white columns, domed roofs, and manicured lawns. I glance at the giant clock on the gym and it reads 2:10. Love end-of-the-day free periods. I have just enough time to finish my calculus homework in the library before the final bell.

I pull on the strap of my messenger bag and step out from under the overhang and into the sunshine. The leaves have turned muted shades of yellow, red, and orange. They’re about a week away from their peak. Out of all the places I’ve lived, Ohio falls are by far my favorite. Apple picking, pumpkin patches, corn mazes, and haunted houses, the kind of unspoiled normalcy you’d find in a Norman Rockwell painting.

As I cross the quad, something catches my eye: a wispy mess of blond hair, a small body cowering in a corner near the entrance to the gym. It’s Claire Weixel, Luke’s little sister. Her tiny hands grip her books. She holds them to her chest like a shield. I squint and hold my hand up to my forehead, blocking my eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun. And then I see them. From behind a white column, three girls emerge and surround Claire. My body stiffens but I watch from a distance, just to make sure I’m not being super overprotective. The leader of the group digs her meaty hands into Claire’s thin shoulder, shoving her into a dark corner most teachers can’t see. Claire’s back hits the coarse bricks and a look of pain crosses her pale face.

“Oh, hell no,” I say under my breath.

“Come on, give it up,” I can hear the tall, thick leader say as I run up behind the group. “Give it to me now or I’ll make you wish you were never born.”

“Seriously? That’s the best line you’ve got?” I say, putting a hand on the girl’s hunched shoulder, pushing her aside. I step in front of a trembling Claire, my hands on my hips, and get a better look at the group. The leader is tall and strong with long dark hair and almond-shaped eyes. She’s got about fifteen pounds on me but could honestly pass as my sister. Same coloring, same build. But that’s where our similarities end. The leader and the rest of her little crew look like they stepped right out of Central Casting with their torn jeans, dirty hair, and I’m-so-tough-you-should-be-scared scowl on their faces. I can’t help it and start to giggle. “Wow, really? What’s it like to be a walking stereotype?”

“What’d you say to me?” the leader asks, looking me up and down.

“I mean, seriously, did you steal all your lines and your wardrobe from a Lifetime original movie or something?” I ask and roll my eyes. “If you’re going to be a bully, can’t you come up with something a little more original?”

“Get out of here,” the leader says, trying to get around my athletic frame.

“Leave her alone,” I say defiantly, my tongue slowly wrapping around each word.

“No, she owes us Spanish homework,” the leader says, adjusting her thick flannel shirt that’s too heavy for the unseasonably hot day.

“Reagan, it’s okay,” Claire’s soft voice says from behind me. “I told them they could copy my homework.”

“That’s right, now give it up,” the leader thunders, reaching around me and punching a book out of Claire’s hand. The heavy textbook lands with a thud on the concrete and papers scatter at my feet. It’s taking a considerable amount of strength not to knock this girl out.

“Don’t you touch her,” I snap, my finger pointed inches away from the girl’s nose.

“Get your finger out of my face,” the leader says, batting away my hand.

“Touch me again, and we’re going to have real problems,” I assert, doing my best to keep my voice cool and calm.

“I’m warning you, Reagan,” she says. “Back off. This has nothing to do with you.”

“She has everything to do with me. She’s my friend. Now you back the hell off and leave her alone,” I say, inching closer to her.

“Fine. I was going to beat her wimpy ass, but instead I’ll beat your skinny ass.” The leader clenches her fists, cracking her knuckles one by one against her open palm.