Bloodlines (Bloodlines, #1)(47)

Micah also jumped immediately to her side when class ended and had a water bottle ready, which she accepted gratefully. I was grateful too, but seeing his concern for her dredged up all my old worries. She was good to her word, however. She returned his attentions in a friendly way, but you definitely couldn’t call it flirting. He made no secret of his intentions, though, and I still worried that it would be better if she didn’t have to deal with them. I’d meant it when I said I trusted her, but I couldn’t help but think it’d be a lot easier on everyone if he laid off in his advances. This would require A Talk.

Dreading what I had to do, I caught up with Micah outside the locker rooms. We were both waiting for Jill to finish up, and I took advantage of the alone time with him.

“Hey, Micah,” I said, “I need to talk to you . . .”

“Hey,” he returned brightly. His blue eyes were wide and excited. “I had an idea I wanted to run past you. If you guys aren’t able to get a note for her, maybe you could see about getting her schedule switched around? If she took PE first period, it wouldn’t be nearly as hot out yet. Maybe it wouldn’t be as hard on her. I mean, she seems like she’d like to participate in some of this stuff.”

“She would,” I said slowly. “And that’s a really good idea.”

“I know some people who work in the office. I’ll ask them to run some options and see if it’s even possible with the rest of her classes.” He faked a pout. “I’ll be sad not to have her in class, but it’d be worth it to know she’s not so miserable.”

“Yeah,” I agreed weakly, suddenly feeling at a loss. He really had come up with a good idea. He was even unselfish enough to give up the chance to be with her in order to promote the greater good. How could I have “the talk” with him now? How could I suddenly say, “Leave my sister alone,” when he was going out of his way to be so nice? I was as bad as Eddie, avoiding confrontation with Micah. This guy was too likable for his own good.

Before I could manage a response, Micah then went off in an unexpected direction. “You really should get her to a doctor, though. I don’t think she has a sun allergy.”

“Oh?” I asked in surprise. “Have you not been watching her suffer through class each day?”

“No, no, believe me, she’s definitely got an issue with the sun,” he assured me quickly. “But she might be misdiagnosed. I read up on sun allergies, and people usually get rashes with them. This overall weakness she gets . . . I don’t know. I think it might be something else.”

Oh no. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” he mused. “But I’ll keep researching theories and let you know.”

Wonderful.

PE also gave me my first glimpse at one of Amberwood’s metallic tattoos in action. Greg Slade was impossible not to watch during class, and I wasn’t the only one who got distracted. Just as Kristin and Julia had said, he really was faster and stronger. He made dives no one else was quick enough to react to. When he hit the ball, it was a wonder we didn’t hear a sonic boom shortly thereafter. This earned him praise at first, but soon, I noticed something. There was a sloppy edge to his game. He was filled with ability, yes, but sometimes it was unfocused. Those powerful hits didn’t always help because he’d blast the ball out of bounds. And in running to make a shot, he rarely considered those around him. When a guy from my English class got knocked down flat on his back, simply for being in the path of Slade and the ball, Miss Carson stopped the game and roared her displeasure about Slade’s aggression. He took it in with a sulky smirk.

“Too bad Eddie’s not in this class,” Jill said afterward. “He’d be a total match for Slade.”

“Maybe it’s better no one notices,” I remarked. Eddie, from what I’d heard, was already a shining star in his PE class. It was part of a dhampir’s natural athleticism, and I knew he was actually working hard not to be too good at everything.

I checked in with Ms. Terwilliger after PE, happy to find my teacher fully stocked with coffee of her own. I spent most of the period going through the book and taking notes on my laptop. Partway through, she came over to check my work.

“You’re very organized,” she said, looking over my shoulder. “Headings and subheadings and sub-subheadings.”

“Thank you,” I said. Jared Sage had been very particular in teaching his children research skills.

Ms. Terwilliger took a sip of coffee and continued reading the screen. “You didn’t list the ritual and spell steps,” she pointed out moments later. “You just summarize them in a couple lines.”

Well, yes, that was the point of note-taking. “I cite all the page numbers,” I said. “If you need to check the actual components, there’s an easy reference.”

“No . . . go back and put all the steps and ingredients in your notes. I want to be able to have them all in one place.”

You do have them in one place, I wanted to say. In the book. Notes were about condensing the material, not retyping the original text word for word. But Ms. Terwilliger had already wandered away, staring at her filing cabinet absentmindedly as she muttered to herself about a misplaced folder. With a sigh, I flipped back to the beginning of the book, trying not to think about how this was going to set me back. At least I was only doing this for credit and not a grade.