Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(44)

For a reason I still don’t understand, he came when no one else did. Discounting my own family, and they kind of have to be there for me when I live in the same house with them. He’s the only one who went out of his way to see me. Not only are my friends not here . . . they are the ones who made sure I got imprinted.

He turns away and gathers the scraps of gauze. “I didn’t say that for your pity.”

“I’m not saying it because I pity you—”

He snorts and rises to his feet. “No? Ever since we first met, you’ve either looked at me with fear or pity.”

“Okay. Maybe that’s true.” I speak hurriedly as he heads for the door, aware that he’s about to leave and I’m going to be alone again, and suddenly I don’t want to be alone. “But you’re not nothing. If you’re saying you’re nothing, then . . . what does that make me?”

He stops. I stare at his back. I hold my breath, waiting for him to keep on walking right out of my room. To leave me without fully explaining why he came here in the first place.

Then he turns. With just a few strides, he’s in front of me. My heart thumps hard and fast as he reaches for my face, cups it with one hand. And then he answers me with one word. Just a breath. A whisper.

My heart seizes in my chest.

I lean forward, savoring against my better judgment the sensation of his hand on my face.

Dropping his arm, he turns and leaves my room. Only the echo of his voice stays behind, lingers on the air, in my head.

Perfect.





UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers ..................................................................



* * *





Juilliard Dance, Drama, Music The Juilliard School, 60 Lincoln Center Plaza, New York, NY 10023


To Ms. Davina Hamilton:

We have been alerted of your recent HTS status and must, unfortunately, revoke our offer of admission. As you know, entrance into Juilliard is extremely competitive. Every year the most talented, most promising students vie for a place at the School, and it is the Office of Admissions’ responsibility to see that only the most deserving gain entry. Clearly, you no longer possess the necessary qualifications to be included among those ranks. . . .





SIXTEEN




I DRAG MYSELF DOWNSTAIRS THE FOLLOWING morning. Dad’s not there but Mom is, sipping from her oversized coffee mug, looking once again her usual put-together self in a pantsuit. Pearl drops dangle from her ears. She hardly looks the mother of someone like me. This strikes me almost at once. How easy it’s become for me to alter my perception of me. It makes me wonder if I really ever knew myself.

I dressed in jeans and a dark T-shirt that Mitchell outgrew—some band I never heard of emblazoned across the front. I finally washed my hair. Still wet, it looks dark brown in the twin braids that hang low across my shoulders.

My imprint is there for the world to see. I don’t try to hide it with my hair or a high collar. When I got ready for school this morning, I kept thinking of Sean. How proud he appears. Unapologetic. And I want to be like that. I don’t want to look cowed or ashamed. I may not want to be this, but I don’t want to be that girl, either. I don’t want to be afraid.

“You’re going to school?”

“Yeah. I kind of have to.”

Mom nods. “Yes. Of course. I’m glad to see you up and moving around.” She fixes her gaze to my face, her eyes strangely wide and unblinking. Like it’s taking everything inside her not to look down. Not to gawk at my neck. At what I’ve become.

She sets down her coffee cup and picks up some papers from the table. Sliding them into her brief bag, she murmurs casually, “You sure you want to wear your hair like that?”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

She shrugs. “It’s just a little . . . young for you.”

This almost makes me laugh. She doesn’t care how young it makes me look. She cares about how much it exposes my neck. “I can’t hide it from the world. Figure I better get it over with and let everyone see it today.”

Her cheeks pink up and I know it’s because I saw through her words. She opens her mouth as if to deny this, but then presses her lips shut. Instead, she nods. Picking up her bag with one hand and her coffee with the other, she nods at the door. “You ready now? Your car is still at school. I can give you a lift.”

“Sure.” Grabbing my backpack, I follow her out.

We’re a little early arriving to school. There are still a lot of kids mingling in the parking lot, gradually making their way to the double front doors. She pulls up to the curb, and I hesitate in my seat.

Mom waits a moment, glancing at the clock on her dash. “Sorry,” she finally murmurs. “I have a meeting.”

“Just take me to my car. I’ll wait inside until the bell rings,” I snap, clearly annoyed. She knows the rules. I’m not supposed to arrive until twenty minutes after the first bell. What does she expect me to do?

Mom doesn’t comment, which only aggravates me further. I don’t say good-bye, just open the door and start to climb out, pausing when she calls out, “I won’t be home for dinner. You can order pizza.”

“All right.” With a grunt, I slam the door shut and punch the UNLOCK button to my car. I’m already sliding behind the wheel as she drives off.