Lies I Told(5)

A bell rang somewhere inside the building, and I walked purposefully toward the entrance, their eyes on me every step of the way.





Four


I picked up my schedule from the main office and headed to Precalc, fingering the Chandler High ID card in the pocket of my capris. It was way out of line, and I knew it. Not just a random memento that could be picked up at any souvenir stand in any big city, but a photo ID with my picture. I wasn’t sure why I’d chosen something so incriminating, but I couldn’t stand the thought of destroying it. I promised myself I would only keep it for a while, just long enough to let go of the people I’d met in Arizona, the life that had been on loan. Then I’d put it back in the wooden box with all the other stuff I wasn’t supposed to have.

And someday I’d have a souvenir of Playa Hermosa, too.

The high school was different than I’d expected. Instead of one building, the school was made up of multiple structures connected by a series of outdoor walkways. I hurried across campus in the dry autumn heat, a fragrant breeze scenting the air with the jasmine that seemed to grow wild all over the peninsula.

I wasn’t surprised by the whispering of my new classmates. Playa Hermosa was a public school, but the town was small and exclusive, one of a handful of communities that were home to Southern California’s elite. It would be a while before anyone approached me. First they would observe me, like an exotic new animal in their familiar menagerie. This was doubly true for the girls who had been standing around the BMW in the parking lot. They were a pack, and Rachel Mercer was their alpha female. Winning her over was the quickest way into the group. There were others, but they would require more finesse, more time. It would be easier to work with Rachel than around her.

I made mental notes throughout the morning, keeping track of the classes I had with Rachel’s posse, the hallways I saw them in the most, the lockers they seemed to congregate around. It was always good to know where to find your players in case you had to stage an “accidental” meeting.

By fourth period, I was feeling better. My first-day jitters had subsided as I became more familiar with the school, and I made my way to AP Euro totally unprepared to see Rachel Mercer occupying a desk near the back of the room. I stood at the front of the class, playing the part of self-conscious new kid while the teacher, Mr. Stein, checked his seating chart. A moment later, he pointed to the desk next to Rachel.

“You can take that seat there.”

I made my way to the empty chair, careful to keep an expression of calm boredom on my face. Still, I had to resist the urge to stare as I slid into my seat. Up close, Rachel was stunning, with deep green eyes and skin so pale, so perfect, it was almost translucent. Her hair, a true, natural red, fell in a satin sheet almost to her waist. Confidence emanated from the straightness of her back, the tilt of her chin. This was a girl who had gotten what she wanted for a very long time, and I was willing to bet she wasn’t going to let that change anytime soon.

Or ever.

We were halfway through Mr. Stein’s lecture when something scratched noisily next to me, slowly at first and then more urgently. I looked over at Rachel, who was making inkless circles on her notebook, trying to get her pen to work, while Mr. Stein droned on, leaving her further behind with every passing second.

She finally gave up, digging around in her bag before letting out a sigh of frustration, looking helplessly at her paper while Mr. Stein babbled about the Weimar Republic. I felt her pain. This was the third AP Euro class I’d been assigned to in the past year, and one thing was true in all of them: without notes, you were screwed for the AP exam.

Reaching into my bag, I pulled out an extra pen and handed it across the aisle, careful to keep my smile a little cool. Seeming desperate for the attention of a girl like Rachel was the kiss of death. In high school, any high school, there was a fine line between friendly and needy.

She took the pen, flashing me a brief but appraising smile. I pretended not to notice her eyes skimming my hair (loose, beachy waves), makeup (a little mascara and tinted lip balm, in keeping with California natural), clothes (silk drawstring capris and a snug white tee), and shoes (gold sandals). Usually, that kind of appraisal didn’t bother me, but I had to fight not to squirm under the weight of her stare. I had the sensation of being laid bare. Of being really seen for the first time in ages.

And not in a good way.

I was relieved when class ended and she left without a word. Hopefully, I’d done enough to pique her interest, but only time would tell. It was hard, the waiting, the patience required to let a mark come to me, the deliberate positioning to make it look natural while being careful not to draw the wrong kind of attention.

But I was good at it. Good at drawing people out, getting them to like and trust me. It didn’t matter if they were popular kids or misfits. It wasn’t difficult to find a common thread with all of them. I tried not to think about the implications. About what kind of person it made me and whether or not it was a gift or a curse. It had to be done, and Parker wasn’t exactly a candidate for the job.

I was heading to the cafeteria for lunch when I spotted Logan Fairchild, he of the dark hair and brown eyes, leaning against a bank of lockers, goofing off with some of the guys he’d been with in the parking lot.

I slowed down. Logan was my mark, but only acceptance by the group would earn me concentrated time with him. And Rachel Mercer could speed up that acceptance by a mile.