Poison Princess

But thinking of Mel, I knew I would agree to go—

“And you Sterling girls make fun of Clotile for wearing short skirts?” Jackson said, striding across the courtyard, raking his gaze over me in my cheer uniform.

I hastily closed my journal, putting it with my other books.

“Um, um, UM, Evie. Just seeing you in that getup makes me feel more . . . cheerful.”

When I’d walked into homeroom this morning, he’d taken one look at me and smirked over the rim of his flask. He’d accused me of being like a doll. As I’d gotten ready for school, putting on my bright-red skirt and V-neck vest, with an oversize hair ribbon to match, I’d kind of felt like one.

Over my shoulder, he said in a goading voice, “Je t’aime en rose.” I like you in pink. Then he sat uninvited beside me.

Huh? I wasn’t wearing anything pink. Nothing but my bra—

He’d been looking over my shoulder, straight down my top! Did he have no boundaries?

And I couldn’t say anything about it, or else I’d lose our battle of wills. I didn’t need this! But I refused to leave my table, to give in to this bully.

“Tell me how you learned our tongue,” he said, sounding . . . not irate.

“Once again, I don’t understand that ridiculous gibberish you keep murmuring. And more, I’m done talking about it.” I began to text my answer to Brand.

“You typing to that beau of yours?” Again Jackson got that frustrated look on his face. His moods were so changeable.

“Texting. Yes.”

“He doan want to fight me after I called you a bitch?”

Sounds goo— My thumbs paused on my keyboard.

“Of course, I said that in French,” Jackson continued. “But now I’ve had to go back and think of anything else you might’ve understood.”

I tried to keep my expression neutral. “Whatever. All I know is that Brandon won’t fight you.”

“Because he knows I’ll hand him his ass.” Jackson gave me a mean smile.

“No, because he actually has something to lose by fighting.”

Jackson didn’t like that comment at all. His gray eyes blazed.

I realized where I’d seen that color before. On my bedroom wall.

Those ominous clouds in my mural, the ones aglow with lightning . . . that gray was the color of Jackson’s eyes when he was angry.

“You think you and Radcliffe and all your stuck-up friends are so much better than everybody else.” His fists clenched, his hands swelling. Tape ripped on one, revealing a deep gash across his fingers. All around it, grisly scar tissue had formed.

Our fight forgotten, I cried, “What happened to your hand?”

With a cruel look in his eyes, he pinched my chin and eased his other fist toward my face like he was throwing a punch in slow motion. “The teeth,” he sneered, baring his own. “They cut like a saw blade.”

He’d been in so many fights, he had scars growing over scars. I jerked back from him with a gasp, and he dropped his hands, his expression suddenly unreadable.

But I’d received the message loud and clear. This boy was dangerous. I turned away, finishing my text.

Jackson snagged my sketchbook, shooting to his feet, putting distance between me and his new prize.

As I scrambled from my seat, he opened the journal, frowning as he tilted a page to a different angle.

“Give it back, Jackson!”

“Ah-ah, bébé.” He held it above my head, walking backward, taunting me with it. “Just let ole Jack see.”

“I want it back—NOW!”

Suddenly he staggered, barely righting himself before he fell. The journal flew out of his grasp, landing on the ground.

I darted forward and scooped it up. “The bigger they are!” I snapped at him.

Lucky for me he’d tripped. Maybe he’d backed over the monkey grass.

My lips parted. Strands of it were still coiled tight around his ankles, dropping to the ground one by one.

Behind him that line of green was rippling, though there was no breeze. Jackson didn’t seem to know why he’d tripped, but I did.

Those strands had shot out and bound his ankles. The plants were interacting with another person?

Plant movement had been my crazy—confined to my reactions, my confusion. I’d found it utterly terrifying to see.

But were they helping me? Like last night, when the cane had caged me in protectively?

Now the monkey grass had nearly felled my foe, saving my sketchbook.

I started to laugh. Helped a girl out, did you?

Jackson again thought I was laughing at him. A flush spread over those chiseled cheekbones of his. He straightened to his full height, gave me a threatening scowl, then stalked off.

Once he was gone, I knelt in front of the grass, wanting to fan my fingers over it, but still too scared to. I stared at the daisies, then the roses.

Because I was round the bend again, I could ask myself some truly bizarre questions.

What did the monkey grass want in return for helping me? Did the ivy have an agenda? Roses: friend or foe?

One way or another, I needed to figure out what was happening to me.

I decided that once I got home, where no one could see me, I was going to test out the cane.

* * *

When Brand dropped me off at my house after school, he parked out of view of the kitchen window. “Is everything all right, Eves?” He drummed his fingers on the stick shift. “You’ve been acting weird ever since you got back.”

“Everything’s fine,” I said, impatient to get to our field.

“Good deal,” he said simply, taking me at my word, though my demeanor screamed, Everything’s futhermucked!

He rested his hand on my thigh, high enough to make me frown up at him. He had a smile on his face, but it was strained. He traced circles above my knee.

“So have you thought about us going to Spencer’s next weekend?”

“Probably not as much as you have.”

“My brain’s on shuffle,” he said, tapping his temple. “Evie, football, Evie, football.”

“At least I come first.”

“Always,” he said easily, flashing me his movie-star grin.

“I’ll tell you my answer sometime this weekend, I promise.” Giving myself less than forty-eight hours to decide?

Once he’d driven off to get ready for the game tonight, I headed toward the cane before I lost my nerve. I was determined to get to the bottom of this. Two equally catastrophic results awaited me. Either I was delusional. Or . . .

I didn’t even want to go there.

Squaring my shoulders, I swallowed, and reached for the cane.

And damn if it didn’t reach back.

I staggered away a few steps. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. You’re focused. Centered.

I forced myself to reach for it again. Once more, it stretched toward my hand. This time it gently closed around my palm.

That curling leaf hadn’t already been curved. It was moving. Like an infant grasping a parent’s finger.