Poison Princess

made up to an embarrassing degree with glaring fuchsia lipstick.

The skinny boy who’d been driving her removed his own helmet. He had dark-blond hair and a long face, which wasn’t unhandsome but still reminded me of a fox.

He revved his motorcycle, startling two passersby, and his friends laughed.

Or rather a weasel. Strike feeling sorry for them.

Finally, the big one reached for his helmet. I waited. He yanked it off, shook out his hair, and raised his head. My lips parted.

Mel voiced my thoughts: “I kind of wasn’t expecting that.”

A tangle of jet-black hair fell over his forehead, with jutting tousles above his ears. His face was deeply tanned, with a lantern jaw and strong chin.

He looked to be older than eighteen. Overall his features were pleasing, handsome even. Though he couldn’t hold a candle to Brandon’s Abercrombie looks, the boy was attractive in his own rough way.

“He’s gorgeous,” Catherine said, her eyes lighting up with interest. We called her Cat-o-gram because she could never hide her reactions, displaying them for all to see.

People passed us in the doorway, speculating about the newcomers:

“My maid comes from Basin. She said all five of them are juvies with records.”

“I heard the tall boy knifed two guys in the French Quarter. He was just released from a year’s stint in a cage-the-rage correctional center!”

“The blond boy is a sophomore for the third try. . . .”

Weasel and the big one started for the entrance, leaving the other two and the girl to smoke, right out in the open.

The big one dug a flask from his back pocket. On school grounds? I noticed his fingers were circled with white medical tape for some reason.

While Weasel sneered at everyone he passed, his friend just narrowed his eyes with an unnerving resentment, as if he was disgusted by the kids at this school.

As the boys neared, I could make out some of their words. They spoke Cajun French.

My grandmother had taught it to me—before she’d been sent away—and for years I’d listened to the farm help speak it. As they’d stomped through Haven’s fields in their work boots, I’d followed in my miniature boots, eagerly listening to their wild tales of life deep in the bayou.

I understood the dialect well. Not that this was something to brag about, since I could barely understand proper French.

I saw Weasel glowering at a nearby group of four JV cheerleaders. As he stalked closer, the girls grew visibly nervous; he yelled, “BOO!” and they cried out in fright.

Weasel snickered at the girls’ reaction, but the other boy just scowled in their direction, muttering, “Couillonnes.” He pronounced it coo-yôns. Idiots.

Any tiny lingering inclination to be friendly to the new students—as was my usual way—died. They were messing with my khaki tribe.

Then Weasel zeroed in on me with a smirk. “Ain’t you dat jolie girl in dat Porsha?” His Cajun accent was as thick as any I’d ever heard. “Turn around, you, and hike up dat dress, so I can tell for true.”

My friends’ shocked expressions had me squaring my shoulders, refusing to be cowed by either of these boys. They’d come into our domain, acting like they owned the place.

With a sunny smile, I said, “Welcome to our school.” My tone was part bubbly, part cutting—a mash-up of sugar and snide so perfected I should TM it. “I’m Evie. If you need assistance finding your way around our campus, just let someone—else—know.”

If possible, Weasel’s leer deepened. “Well, ain’t you sweet, Evie. I’m Lionel.” He pronounced it Lie-nell. “And this here’s my podna Jackson Deveaux, also known as Jack Daniels.”

Because of the flask? How delightful.

Jackson’s eyes were a vivid gray against his tanned skin, and they were roaming over my face and figure like he hadn’t seen a girl in years—or hadn’t seen me minutes ago.

Lionel continued, “We doan need no ass-is-tance finding our way, no, but there’re other tings you can ass-ist us with—”

Jackson jammed his shoulder into Lionel’s back, forcing him along. As they walked down the hall, the big Cajun snapped under his breath, “Coo-yôn, tu vas pas draguer les putes inutiles?”

My eyes widened as understanding hit me.

Catherine said, “Did you see the way that boy was looking at Evie?”

“I didn’t understand a word of that gibberish they were talking,” Mel said. “And I just got back from Paris.” She turned to me. “So what’d the big one say?”

Grace asked, “You speak Cajun?”

“A little.” A lot. Though I didn’t particularly want everyone in Sterling to know I spoke the “Basin tongue,” I translated: “Idiot, you’re not going to chat up one of those useless bitches?”

Catherine gasped. “You lie.”

As I watched Jackson striding down the hall, I noticed with amazement that the flask was not the only thing he kept in a back pocket of his jeans.

I could clearly make out a knife, a folded blade outlined in faded denim.

Then I frowned. Was he heading into my homeroom?

Grace said, “Wait a second. What did that boy mean about you hiking up your dress in a Porsche?”

3

DAY 5 B.F.

For lunch period, Mel and I were lying out on a blanket in a sunny spot in Eden Courtyard, sleeves and skirts rolled up.

All around us, roses and gardenias bloomed. A marble fountain gurgled. Brand and Spencer were playing a pickup game in the adjoining quad with other boys, laughing in the sun.

And Jackson Deveaux?

He was loitering just outside our courtyard with the other Cajuns, sipping from his flask while the rest smoked. And he was staring at me.

Ignore him. I was determined to enjoy the rest of lunch relaxing with my best friend; never would I take for granted this precious freedom.

I exhaled. Okay, so maybe I wasn’t precisely relaxing. I’d been on edge since I’d woken this morning from another nightmare of the red witch.

In each one, I seemed to be present with her, watching from a short distance away, forced to witness her evil deeds. Last night, she’d been in a beautiful golden field, surrounded by a group of cloaked people, all on their knees. She was tall, towering over their bowed heads.

With a laugh, she’d cast bloody grain in front of them, demanding that the people lap it up, or else she’d slice their flesh to ribbons and choke them in vine.

As she’d bared her claws, sinister purple ones that looked like rose thorns, her victims had wept for mercy. She’d given them none.

In the end, their flayed skin really did look like ribbons. . . .

Eager for distraction, I turned to Mel, but she had her earbuds in, absently singing an angry female rock song. She loved to sing; her voice sounded like two cats in heat sparring in a traffic cone.

With the right makeup and lighting, her face looked stunning, all haughty cheekbones and flawless skin. Right