Poison Princess

His expression turned menacing. “Are you even listening to what I’ve been saying, you?”

“You don’t prepare,” that imaginary boy murmured sadly. “I go over the edge, the dog at my heels, but the moon is waxing, Empress. You must be ready. Field of battle. Arsenal. Obstacles. Foes. It begins directly at the End. And the Beginning is nigh.”

Empress? The word dredged up forbidden memories of Gran asking, “Does Empress Evie want some ice cream?”

Outside, the landscape was changing. The school’s gardens had been incinerated. Everything was dead. I might as well have been looking at the surface of the moon. Nausea churned.

“Behold the field of battle,” the boy said, motioning toward the wasteland of cinder. “Arsenal?” he queried in a hopeful tone. “Obstacles? Foes? No? Ah, you listen poorly!” Then his face brightened. “Next time I’ll talk louder. And louder. And louder.”

He—and the entire scene—vanished.

Louder? I couldn’t handle this, much less louder! I clasped my shaking hands in my lap as I struggled to hide my panic. Had Jackson just said something else?

Again, I told him, “We’ll get new partners.”

He was silent for long moments before grating, “You doan think I can do the work, doan think I’m smart enough?”

My third day of school. The apocalyptic visions had returned. I was insane.

Two years and out? I wouldn’t make two weeks. I gave a bitter laugh.

“You’re laughing at me?” He clenched those big, taped fists like he was just dying to hit something. Most likely my face.

“What else would I be laughing at?” I questioned sharply, defensively. It took me a second to realize that I’d just insulted the hell out of the Cajun.

I felt like sobbing. The medicine wasn’t working, I wouldn’t make two years till college, and I’d just been hideous to Jackson, even if I hadn’t completely meant to be.

Maybe I could apologize later, tell him I hadn’t been feeling well—

“Tu p’tee pute,” he sneered to my face. You little bitch.

I stiffened. Scratch that apology.

Unable to help myself, I glanced at the window again. That boy was gone, and the sun had returned to shine over green grass and achingly brilliant blooms.

Maybe I’d dreamed that wasteland. Maybe all of this day was a dream! A side effect of my medicine was a sense of being outside one’s body.

I felt a million miles away.

Or maybe that scene was like a residual hiccup from last spring—a sign, a test—to see how committed I was to being normal.

If this was a trial by fire, I’d pass. I’d excel.

Jackson scowled at me, clenching that pencil in his fist until I thought it would snap. The tension between us groaned as I battled the urge to take out my journal, to draw that cryptic boy’s face.

The clock on the wall ticked like a bomb.

How would I manage to hide this latest development from my eagle-eyed mother during one of her interrogations? For most of my life, Karen Greene had been the ideal mom—funny, kind, hardworking. But lately, it’d seemed like a stranger had taken her over, one determined to bust me for something.

If she discovered I was hallucinating again, I had no doubt my mother would lock me up in a place like CLC indefinitely.

Because she’d done it to her own mother eight years ago.

At last the bell rang. Once the rest of the students had filed out of class, Broussard pronounced to Jackson and me, “The assignments stay the same. You two have to work it out.”

Jackson’s pencil snapped in his fist.

* * *

Brandon was waiting on me at my locker, casually eating an apple, so blissfully immune to drama or doubts. Between bites, he said, “What’s the matter? You look like you’re about to freak out.”

Ding, ding, ding. Then I reminded myself that what I’d just suffered was a mere residual vision. So what was there to freak out about? “I’m fine. I just got partnered in history with Jackson Deveaux. Broussard won’t reassign me.”

“Deveaux shoved his shoulder into mine yesterday,” Brand said. “Don’t know what his problem is. You need me to talk to him?”

Brand was a lover, not a fighter. “I don’t want you to do anything that will get you kicked off the team.” Plus, I suspected Jackson would mop the floor with him. “Those Basin kids are driving me up the wall.”

He nodded. “I hate those four punks.” Startling words from Brand. Normally, he was like me, getting along with everybody. “The girl seems all right, though.”

Does she, then? Yesterday after biology, I’d smiled to find Brand waiting for me, but he’d turned, agog, as a braless Clotile sauntered past—before I cleared my throat with an arch look.

Even more embarrassing? Jackson had seen the whole thing, smirking over the rim of his flask.

Now Brand seemed to be awaiting something from me. What? My brain was soup.

Jackson stormed up to his locker then, Lionel following him. As Jackson tossed his history text inside, he shot me a killing look. I slitted my eyes before I turned back to Brand.

“I’ve got an idea I want to run by you,” he murmured, his lids growing heavy.

Oh. Back to that. Ever since I’d returned, I’d been avoiding the subject of My Promise, hoping Brandon would take a hint.

In texts, he’d actually begun counting down the days left until my birthday—like he had a cherry countdown widget.

When I caught him sneaking a glance at my chest, his expression one of longing, I remembered a movie where one of the heroines had likened boobs to smart bombs. I’d laughed. Now I marveled at how right she’d been.

I scraped up a placid smile. “Let’s talk after practice.”

He leaned in. “Spence’s parents are going out of town, not this weekend but the next. So it’d be after your birthday . . .”

Jackson was too close, could overhear this private conversation!

“. . . you can tell your mom you’re spending the night with Melissa, then stay with me.”

“Brandon, we’ll meet later. I’ll let you know then.”

“Okay. Yeah, sure.” When his friends called for him, he dipped down to give me a peck on the lips, then jogged off.

As I collected my books, I heard Lionel say in French, “Surprised you didn’t make a run at that one.” He indicated me with a jerk of his chin. “She’s not your type, but she’s pretty.”

Jackson’s type? He probably preferred drunken Bayou Bessies who put out before the crawfish boil.

“She’s ice-cold and she’s a conceited bitch,” Jackson replied in French, his voice rumbling with anger. “Just a useless little doll—pretty to look at and not a damn thing more.”

While Lionel snickered, I gritted my teeth, determined not to let them know I understood.

Oh, I’m more than a useless little doll, Cajun. I’m a damaged one. And if you knew what went on inside my mind, you’d make the sign of the cross and run the other way.

Yet Jackson was sharp. His gaze took in my stiffened shoulders and clenched jaw.

With narrowed eyes, he faced me while continuing to address Lionel in French, “You should make a run at her, and be sure to take her down a peg while you’re at it. Never met a girl who needed it more.”

I tried to school my reaction, didn’t know if I succeeded.

When the bell rang and Lionel shuffled off, Jackson grated to me, “Tu parles le Français