8- the bus stop
It’s a little jarring to see Reece at the bus stop Monday morning. He looks so normal standing there, leafing through his U.S. history book like he’s perusing a catalog. He’s wearing jeans under his wool coat. The morning sun glints off hair that appears still damp from a shower. He hasn’t been here since his first day, last Tuesday, but I’m surprised yet pleased to see him. Today begins my official surveillance of this boy. Considering the encounters I’ve had with him, it won’t be long before something bizarre or scary happens. I’m prepared for either.
The lone crow with that one white feather perches on the lamppost across the street. It’s beginning to feel normal, seeing it around all the time. However, if I’m dealing with harbingers of death, like I read about last night, it’s not a good sign that I’m being followed by one. The crow lets out a sharp caw. I startle at the sound, but Reece doesn’t so much as twitch. My palms go cold and damp. I don’t even know how to stalk anyone.
He finally looks up when I’m standing right in front of him. His face is pinched, his skin pale. Shadows sling under his eyes, as if he didn’t sleep well. That’s only fair. Thoughts of him ruined my sleep all weekend. His brows dip low, just shy of a frown. “Hey, Angie.”
“Hello, Reece.” I’m determined to keep this casual, light, despite the beady-eyed crow watching me. Despite the nerves crawling up my throat. “Cramming for the history test today? It’ll probably be multiple choice. Mrs. Bryan usually alternates essay and multiple choice, and the last test was essay, so…” I shut my mouth. Shut it, Angie.
He looks up again with narrowed eyes. “I’m prepared. Are you?”
No, not at all. “Yes.”
“Good.” A tight smile pulls at his mouth. “It’s good to be prepared. Quite an interesting mine you have back there. I went exploring a bit after you left. Brought you something.” He digs something out of his pocket and holds up a deep purple amethyst, smoothly faceted and wide as a quarter. Light fractures through the translucent stone as he turns it in the sunlight.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, genuinely charmed by the thing. “You found that in the mine?”
“Yeah.” He takes my hand and places it in my palm with a wink. “You like purple, don’t you?”
My fingers close around the crystal. I’ve been receiving a lot of interesting “gifts” lately. I’m not sure I want them. I drop it in my pocket. It’s going straight to my glass bowl with the other goodies I’ve been given. “It’s lovely. Thank you.”
I don’t think I’m imagining the knowledge curling in the set of his lips, the glint in his eyes. Do I like purple? This is ridiculous. He knows exactly who I am. He’s deduced I’m the purple-haired DJ he saved from the man with the shifting face. He saw me close up, without my glasses. He called me Sparo, not Angie, but that just means we’re playing an elaborate game of psychological chicken, and he’s waiting for me to crack. This gift—like everything else about this boy—holds double meaning.
“So.” I take a deep breath, frantically groping for the rules of this game. This is beyond my skill set. “What did you think of The Strip Mall?”
“You were there?”
I roll my shoulders. Keep it casual. “Everyone goes there.”
“If you had been there, I would have noticed.”
What does that mean? That I stick out or that he finds me noticeable?
Maybe he really didn’t recognize me. It’s possible, I guess; maybe he has bad eyesight. “My friend Deno works there. You may have seen him. He was assisting the DJ. I stopped in to say hi.” My words crackle like plastic to my ears. I can only imagine how fake they sound to him.
“Oh yeah. Deno.” He shrugs. “The show was okay, I guess.”
“Okay?” My pride thins like an overinflated balloon. “People say Sparo is the best DJ around.”
“She was okay.” He enunciates into his history book. “But compared to some other clubs I’ve gone to, her set was missing something.”
My throat closes up tight—a clear signal to stop right there. But, no. “Missing what?”
“I don’t know. Originality? Authenticity? It doesn’t take a genius to spit out other people’s music. When I go to a show, I like to hear something new, be surprised. That didn’t happen.” He snaps the book shut and glances over my shoulder. “The bus.”
I turn to see Mrs. Pierce’s yellow monster turn the corner and begin lumbering up the hill.
Warning bells clang in my head, but my mouth still opens. Words come out. “You know, I know Sparo, and I can tell you she works hard on her sets.” My voice is full of sharp, personal affront. The opposite of casual. The opposite of normal. “Her original music is good, too. She’s just waiting for a better venue to debut it.”
“Oh, you know her, do you?” He laughs and shakes his head. “Look, your friend’s problem isn’t the venue.” Reece’s lips tilt into a crooked grin. “Or her talent, I’m sure. And she’s hot up there on stage—seriously. The stuff she played was just…limited, you know? She plays it safe.”
The crow caws again. It sounds annoyingly like laughter. But honestly, I ceased coherent thought after—She’s hot.
Okay. He actually said that. And “hot” has a very clear meaning in that context, unlike the “adorable” I got on Saturday morning. My mouth feels stuffed full of cotton. My heart pounds like a kick drum. I grasp the handrail and get on the bus.
What do I do next? Oh yeah, find a seat.
I must look off, because Mrs. Pierce’s eyes narrow on me. She flicks a suspicious look at Reece’s retreating back and leans toward me. “That boy bothering you, honey?”
I blink at her, surprised and—oh hell, embarrassed. “Uh, no.”
She raises a brow and shuts the door behind me. “Must’ve been running, then. You’re mighty flushed.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Reece swing into a seat. He looks up at me. His mouth isn’t smiling, but his eyes are.
Fantastic. If my face was red before, it’s in flames now. I duck my head and practically dive for the first empty seat. It’s a three-seater, diagonally in front of his.
Reece Fernandez thinks I’m hot. I heard him say it.
Just then, the boy in question leans forward and taps my seat. “Hey. Angie.”
My stomach flips over. What now? “Yeah?”
“Tell your friend Sparo to watch it outside that club at night. I saw a sketchy-looking dude hanging around.”
Is he serious? I open my mouth, but some last remaining shred of sense closes it. “Sure.”
He gives me a wide grin. “Thanks. Hey, maybe one of these days, you can introduce me. She kind of blew me off on Friday.”
And…that’s all I can take. I turn away and clamp my hand over my mouth before hysterical laughter bursts from me like a geyser. Reece retreats to the safety of his own seat with raised eyebrows.
Despite my aborted laughter, nothing about this is funny. There’s an inherent problem here. Unless he’s pretending to not know I’m Sparo—very, very possible—Reece would like me to set up an introduction for him with myself.
Maybe he really does have bad eyesight. He does squint a lot. Or he’s not as smart as I thought.
Either way, I had not anticipated this little wrinkle.
And it’s not even the worst part.
I don’t even know for certain if the boy I’m trying to stalk is a human being.