Sweet Venom

Ignore him. Ignore him, ignore him, ignore—

I feel a tickle against my left ear, and when I jerk around at the sensation, I find a folded piece of paper waving before my eyes. I snatch the paper, throwing Nick a quick glare, and turn back to face front. I don’t need Mrs. Knightly calling me out for note passing, especially not because of him.

For several long seconds, I sit with the note clasped between my palms, resting in my lap. Don’t be curious, I tell myself. It’s only going to annoy you anyway.

In the end, of course, curiosity wins out.

Carefully, so I don’t draw any attention, I unfold the note and slip it beneath my textbook. When I’m sure Mrs. Knightly is focused on the board, I slide it down to read: Can we talk after class?

Frankly, I’m a little disappointed. My imagination came up with so many better ideas for what the note might say. Like You fight giant scorpions often? Or Can we be more than friends now? Or even Thanks for leaving me with a concussion.

Can we talk? seems so tame in comparison.

I quickly scribble No on the paper and slip it under my arm and onto his desk.

Seconds later it comes flying back over my shoulder. I slap my hand down before it sails off to the floor.

Mrs. Knightly glances up at the sound, and I force a very interested and attentive look on my face. When she looks away, I open the note: Coward.

I write back: Brain-dead idiot.

He chuckles when he reads that, and I find myself smiling in return. I have to admire a guy who can laugh at being called an idiot. He must be pretty self-confident.

When he doesn’t return the note right away, I catch myself anxiously waiting for the next installment. Get real, Gretchen. I turn my attention to the board and start copying the academic notes I should have been writing all along.

I’ve almost forgotten his presence—almost—when the note slides back over my shoulder a few minutes before the bell.

I nonchalantly open it over my notebook and see that the message is longer this time. Like half a page long.

I’m sorry for whatever happened on Monday. I don’t remember the whole thing, but I know you were upset and for that I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again. I think you’re a different kind of girl—

I have to snort at that. He has no idea how different I really am. And he can’t know. I keep reading.

—and I like that. But if you want me to back off, I will. Even if I don’t want to. (BTW, in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t want to.)

The bell rings. I don’t say a word, just fold the note up and slip it into my backpack along with my notebook. I half expect him to stop me as I get up and head for the door. I’m relieved. And, to be honest, a little disappointed.

He’s backing off. That’s exactly what I’ve wanted all along, and I refuse to let myself be annoyed that it’s finally happening. This is a good thing. And I’m really glad I didn’t transfer out of biology . . . because I like Mrs. Knightly.

Chapter 14

Grace

Our next unit in English class is on mythology. Like I haven’t had enough myth showing up in my life lately. As Mrs. Deckler starts handing out unit outlines halfway through class on Friday, I can’t help a giddy giggle at the thought that I am myth now.

I accept the papers from the girl in front of me, take one, and pass the rest behind me.

“Something funny, Miss Whitfield?” Mrs. Deckler asks.

I bite my lips and shake my head. “No, ma’am.”

“While you read over the unit plan,” she says to the class, “I’m going to set up a quick introductory PowerPoint to prepare you for Monday’s lesson.”

I scan the topics—everything from Homer to Edith Hamilton to some contemporary fiction about teens descended from gods.

“As you can see from the list,” Mrs. Deckler says as she walks to the light switch, “we will be studying, in depth, the heroes, gods, and monsters of ancient Greece.”

I bite my lips again to keep from laughing. Between Gretchen’s training, the creatures I see on the street almost every day, and studying the binder contents as I digitize them, I think I’ll be the definite authority in the class when it comes to mythological monsters.

Not that I’ll be able to admit why.

“I think you’ll find that Aristotle was a nice introduction.” She gives the room a big grin before flipping out the lights. “But now we’re getting to the good stuff.”

As the PowerPoint begins, my mind kind of drifts. I think about the monsters I’ve seen and the training Gretchen and I have been working on. I wonder if any of the monsters I’ve studied, seen, and fought will be part of the unit.

“You will learn about hideous creatures.”

I look up as the slide changes.

“Like the Minotaur.”

There, on the screen, big as life, is an extremely accurate drawing of a minotaur. So exact, I can almost smell the rotten odor of—

I feel something slide against my upper lip. From the inside.

“Shoot,” I whisper.

But since my fangs just decided to make an appearance, it sounds more like Ssssoot.

I slap my hand over my mouth and jump out of my seat.

“Problem, Miss Whitfield?”

This isn’t the first time my fangs have dropped on their own. Ever since Gretchen first got my fangs to engage, they keep popping down at really awkward times. Like when Thane snuck up on me while I was brushing my teeth. Or when the Rottweiler down the hall escaped his leash and I barely slammed the apartment door shut in time. But this is the first time at school, and I never know how long they’re going to hang out.

I rush to the front of the classroom.

“Misssesss Deckler,” I say from behind my palm, “I need to—”

She takes in my horrified look and the hand over my mouth and draws her own conclusions. “Go,” she insists. “Don’t worry about a bathroom pass.”

Thank goodness. I nod and race out of class, heading for the girls’ room.

I’m almost there when someone calls my name. I spin around to see Ms. West hurrying toward me. My hand is still clamped over my mouth, so I just wave.

“Why are you outside of class?” she demands. “Do you have a pass?”

“No,” I say from behind my hand. I try to focus on using words that won’t lisp because of the fangs. “Girl twouble.”

Shoot.

“I understand.” Her eyes widen. “Don’t let me keep you.”

I nod and turn to dash into the bathroom. From outside, she calls out, “Please see a nurse if you are unwell.”

Gosh, I appreciate the concern. Doesn’t she have other students to bug?

Inside the bathroom, I check to make sure it’s empty before leaning on a sink to inspect my fangs in the mirror. The bluish glow of the lights above make them shine like pearls. Anyone walking in on me right now would