Made You Up(6)

I realized everyone around me was wearing a uniform. Black pants, white button-down shirts, green ties. Gotta love the smell of institutional equality in the morning.

My locker was near the cafeteria. Only one other person was there, his locker right next to mine.

Miles.

Memories of Blue Eyes hit me rapid-fire, and I had to turn in a full circle to make sure my surroundings were normal. As I inched closer, I peered into his locker. Nothing unusual. I took a deep breath.

Be polite, Alex. Be polite. He won’t kill you because of some water. He’s not a hallucination. Be polite.

“Um, hi,” I said, stepping up to my locker.

Miles turned, saw me, and jumped so badly his locker door banged against the one next to it and he almost tripped over his backpack on the floor. His glare burned a hole through my head.

“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

When he didn’t reply, I focused on my locker combination. I glanced at him as I tossed books into my locker. His expression hadn’t changed.

“I, uh, I’m really sorry about the water.” I held out my hand against my better judgment. My mother always said to be polite, no matter what. Even if the other person might have a knife concealed up his sleeve. “I’m Alex.”

He quirked an eyebrow. The expression was so sudden, so perfect, and so obviously right that I almost laughed.

Slowly, so it looked like he thought he might burn himself by touching me, Miles reached out to shake my hand. His fingers were long and thin. Spidery, but strong.

“Miles,” he replied.

“Okay, cool.” We released our grips at the same time, hands shooting down to our sides. “Glad we got that out of the way. I’ll see you later, then.”

Go go go get away get away.

I walked away as quickly as I could. Had I just come into contact with Blue Eyes again after ten years? Oh God. Okay.

It wouldn’t be that bad if he was real, would it? Just because my mother never mentioned him didn’t mean he wasn’t real. But what if he was an *?

Screw you, brain.

It wasn’t until I got to the stairs that I realized I was being followed. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, and I grabbed for my camera as I spun around.

Miles stood behind me.

“Are you doing that on purpose?” I asked.

“Doing what on purpose?” he replied.

“Walking a few steps behind me, close enough so I realize you’re there but not so close you look creepy doing it. And staring.”

He blinked. “No.”

“It sure feels like you are.”

“Maybe you’re paranoid.”

I stiffened.

He rolled his eyes. “Gunthrie?” he asked.

Mr. Gunthrie, AP English, first period. “Yes,” I said.

Miles pulled a paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and held it out. His schedule. There, at the top of the page, was his name: Richter, Miles J. His first period was AP English 12, Gunthrie.

“Fine,” I said. “But you don’t have to be such a creeper about it.” I turned and stalked the rest of the way up the stairs.

“Sucks being new, doesn’t it?” Miles appeared beside me, a weird edge lacing his voice. Shivers worked their way up my arms.

“It’s not so bad,” I said through a clenched jaw.

“Either way,” he said, “I think you have an inalienable right to know that dyeing your hair is against the dress code.”

“It’s not dyed,” I snapped.

“Sure.” Miles quirked the eyebrow again. “Sure it’s not.”





Chapter Four




When I walked into first period, all I could see of Mr. Gunthrie was a pair of thick-soled black boots propped on a class roster. The rest of him hid behind this morning’s paper. I did a quick scan of the room, then twisted my way through tight rows of desks and stood in front of him, hoping he’d notice me.

He didn’t.

“Excuse me.”

A pair of eyes topped by a heavy line of eyebrow appeared over the paper. He was a stout guy, probably in his fifties, with close-cut, steel-gray hair. I took a step back from the desk, my books in front of my chest like a shield.

He lowered the paper. “Yes?”

“I’m new. I need a uniform.”

“The bookstore sells them for about seventy.”