Jared’s mouth softened into a breathtaking grin. He reached over Brooke and shoved Cameron backwards. Not hard, just enough to let Cameron know he was not welcome.
But Cameron came back. He leaned closer and said, “I’m not leaving until you do, reaper.”
“I’ll see you later,” Jared said. “I’d hate for blondie to stroke.”
Cameron scoffed and stepped back, waiting for Jared to follow.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” I asked.
“Not until I know more.”
“Fine.” I shooed him away with both hands. “Get to class. History awaits.”
He laughed. “I don’t think Mr. Burke likes me.”
“That might change if you’d stop correcting him.”
He raised his hands helplessly. “Your history books are full of errors. I’m just trying to help.”
In science, the class was studying the effects of sugar on cellular structure. I was studying the effects of
Jared’s presence on my nervous system. It was kind of scientific. Jared was the stimulus and I was the test subject. Oddly enough, every time the stimulus was presented, the test subject’s cells flooded with adrenaline. Clearly it was a valid test. I should publish.
But I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened exactly. It would take something very powerful to bring down Jared. He was almost indestructible. Who could do that? What could do that? And his behavior was different. To deny that would be infantile.
But still. That grin.
I was busy replaying that grin of his in my mind for the seven thousandth time when I felt a sharp jab from behind. I sprang to attention. Ms. Mullins was standing in front of the classroom, her expression questioning, her gaze focused directly on me.
“Um, yes?”
She smiled. “You’re right, Lorelei. At least someone studied.”
When she turned back to her slide show, I sank back and rolled my eyes in relief.
Brooke leaned forward from the desk behind me. “Nice save.”
“I’m going to pass out your papers now,” Ms. Mullins continued, “and based on the scores I saw last night, I’m going to present you with a prediction: I predict that at least eighty percent of the class is going to fail the test on Friday if it doesn’t study. These scores leave a lot to be desired.”
When she got to me, she looked down in disappointment. “You can do better, Ms. McAlister.”
I scrunched farther into my seat and took the paper. My grade wasn’t horrible. I wouldn’t be grounded for a 78. But I would get a good talking-to. Mostly from Grandma. She freaking loved A’s. But I’d had a horrid vision that day when I brushed against a senior with bulimia. Surely that counted for something.
“Score!”
Brooke, another A freak, must have aced the assignment. Again. I turned back to her. “I’m totally copying next time.”
“I wouldn’t suggest it,” Ms. Mullins said, coming back through the aisle.
With a startled gasp, I glanced up at her, unable to curb the guilt in my expression fast enough. I laughed breathily instead, trying to recover. “Oh, right. I was just kidding.”
Her sparkling eyes crinkled with mischief before turning back to the class. “Okay, we have ten minutes. I suggest you use that time wisely.”
She brushed past me as I studiously opened my book, going for another save. Was it too much to hope for two in one day? But the contact as Ms. Mullins walked past shifted gravity. Like a wind that blew one direction one minute, then another the next, the world tilted to the side.
In the next instant, I heard a muffled pop. I grasped for my desk, but my fingers slipped on something warm and sticky. My chair disappeared out from under me and I toppled back, arms searching blindly for something to grab on to. I landed hard. My spine and shoulder blades hit the tile floor with a thud a millisecond before the back of my head cracked against the hard surface. I looked around, wide eyed. The desks vanished. Students ran for cover, screaming and crying, and I found myself lying next to the prone and lifeless form of Ms. Mullins.
THE AVALANCHE
I realized instantly I was having a vision, but it hit like an avalanche, knocked the breath out of me, and stung my eyes like an arctic wind. I’d never had a vision so vivid, so uncontrollably real. I could feel the slickness of blood as I slid in it, struggling to get to Ms. Mullins. I could hear screams and cries of absolute terror as students rushed for cover. I could hear the splintering sound of gunshots, could smell the gunpowder and see the smoke.
Suddenly Mr. Davis came into view. He was trying to get to us, to Ms. Mullins. He glanced around, wild eyed, and came face-to-face with the shooter a split second before the gun went off again, hitting him in the chest. It didn’t stop him. He barreled forward, determination locking his jaw. It took five bullets to bring him down. He spun toward me and sank to his knees, his tie, a brilliant red, matching the stains spreading across the front of his shirt, his face frozen in shock. My bloody hands shot to my mouth in horror.
In all the chaos, I never got a clear view of the shooter. I saw a wrist. A hand. A gun. My line of sight stopped there, because the barrel was turning toward me and I couldn’t seem to look past it. A boy stepped into view, but he was simply the blurry backdrop for the gun, hazy and out of focus. When he pulled the trigger again, I could almost make out a sneer on his face before the bullet hit its mark right between my eyes. My head jerked back with the force as pain exploded inside me, splintering my skull and my thoughts; then everything went black.
“Lor?”
I heard Brooke’s voice—so casual, so unfathomably calm amid such devastation—as I fell back in my chair. My arms reached blindly until my head bounced off the concrete floor.
“Lor! Are you okay?”
Brooke was beside me in an instant. I’d tipped my chair back, and a few kids were laughing as I looked around in shock. I lifted my hands—turned them over, searching for blood—then glanced up at my classmates’ faces, suddenly untrusting of them all.
“Lor, what happened?”
Despite the pain in my head, sharp and hot, I scrambled to my feet and turned on the class, searching for the culprit. But I hadn’t seen him. Not clearly enough to pick him out.
“Lorelei,” Ms. Mullins said. She was sitting behind her desk but rose slowly, watching me with a wary expression. Like she knew I hadn’t just randomly fallen. She glanced at the other students as well, and their faces turned from entertained to confused.
Before I could gather myself, a wave of nausea washed over me, the smell of blood and gunpowder so vivid in my mind. I doubled over and emptied the contents of my stomach, the adrenaline rushing through my veins too much for my body to handle. I left my breakfast on Ms. Mullins’s floor. It was very unappealing.
“Oh, man,” I heard one kid say. Nathan Ritter. He jumped up and put as much distance between himself and the acrid pool as he could, as did everyone else close by. A few students gagged. A few others groaned in disgust.
Ms. Mullins, who wasn’t much taller than Brooke and me, took one of my arms and helped me toward the door. “Nathan, go get Mr. Gonzales to watch the class. This is his prep period. And get the custodian.”
“Anything to get out of here,” Nathan said, jumping to do her bidding.
After threatening the class with dire warnings of quizzes and extra homework should they misbehave, she walked me to the nurse’s office. Brooke gathered our stuff and followed. She didn’t say anything, clearly understanding what had just happened, but Ms. Mullins kept asking me questions, wanting to know if I’d had a fever that morning or if I felt dizzy.
I stopped and looked at her. At the concern in her eyes. She’d been lying there beside me, her skin ghostly
