And of course, it would be my luck that the History Hall sat adjacent to the West Belltower. I gave it a wide berth, utterly disinterested in seeing any lingering stains on the concrete. I’d also avoided all emails and notices sent out about the dead girl over the past few days. Authorities made statements to placate the locals and confirm that the school remained safe for attendance. Otherwise, little to no information had come out about the incident.
All the better for me to ignore it and stay focused, as callous as it seemed.
“Hey, blondie,” an amused masculine voice called out, “you lost?”
I knew at once he was calling me. A muscle in my temple jumped at the interruption, but I gritted away my annoyance. I wasn’t the best at making friends and only had a handful I’d fought to make in England. They were long distance now. Being friendly was in my best interest, especially when, yes, I was a bit on the lost side. What could it hurt?
Obscured as they were in shadow and mist, I turned and almost missed a rickety old picnic table nestled between two red brick buildings. I thought I saw four figures at the table at first, but as I walked closer, the fog shifted. I stepped into the weakamber glow of a light nearby, making out three students around my age claiming the table as their territory.
The guy sitting on the wooden surface with his boots on the bench winked at me, confirming he was the one who shouted. His clothes hung baggily on his lean, muscled frame, with artfully placed rips as if the material was well worn and not purposefully dappled with holes. He had dyed-blond braids along his scalp, and a charming smile that had appeal.
“Oh no, I just figured I’d take the scenic route,” I said, summoning a smile I was too tired to mean.
His was genuine as he gave me a long once-over. “Right, and how’s the view?”
I shrugged, feigning disinterest. Which wasn’t hard with only half my coffee in my system. My mouth opened to reply when a girl next to him cut in.
“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see,” she said, fluttering her lashes at him. Her green hair hung to her shoulders in a shaggy wolf-cut, and she was pale as if she spent most of her life underground. She had eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man, and I appreciated the skill it took to hone that impressive wing and smokey eye.
“Thoreau?” He raised a brow and grinned at her.
She shrugged, smirking haughtily before leaning on the edge of the table. Then her gaze cut to me, dark eyes with an even darker expression. Her brow flicked as if to say,your move.
“That’s not Thoreau,” I said.
Her face fell as her two friends snickered behind their hands.
She huffed, cheeks tinting.
“That’s a misquote from his journal. The correct line is ‘The question is not what you look at, but what you see.’ It’s a slight difference with nearly the same intention, but the language matters when it comes down to his voice. And fans of Thoreauare usually sticklers for accuracy.” My voice faded out, weakened under their stares. It was enough to make me sigh internally as I recognized the expressions of people disinterested in my ramblings about accuracy. Exactly how I lost the interest of potential friends’ time and time again.
“Fan of Thoreau, are you?” the third person chimed in. They tipped their head, showing off their shaved scalp and long neck adorned in gold chains and strings of pearls.
I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, feeling a sudden chill drip like ice water down my spine. “Um, I just took a class where he was one of the major focal points of our discussions.”
A tense beat passed.
“I’m sorry, how rude of me, I didn’t even get your name,” the one with blond braids asked. His features were open, friendly, if a bit curious. He flowed from the table, his lean body moving with a fluid grace that spoke of easy poise. “I’m Moth.”
I accepted his handshake, enjoying the warmth of his skin against the bite of the breeze and drizzle. He had the same practiced grip as most of the rich kids lurking in the hallowed halls of knowledge.
“Moth?” A chuckle escaped me.
“Timothy, but that’s not a very cool name in my circles.” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Ah, I see. Well, I’m Ophelia Ashcroft.” We broke apart, and I hugged my travel mug to my chest, clinging to the remaining heat. The chill seeped through my coat, regardless.
“Nice to meet you, Blondie. History major, then?”
“History and Literature.” I almost grimaced at being read so easily, but kept the smile plastered on. “And you?”
“Sociology,” Moth answered. Then he gestured at the green-haired girl. “And that’s Niffy; Psychological Sciences.” Finally, he pointed to their third. “And that’s Talon; Computer Sciences.”
They didn’t look like they would be popular. More like the grunge outcasts smoking laced cigarettes during gym class. Yet there was an air about them that spoke of understated magnetism.
Talon rose from the table, piercing me with gunmetal blue eyes. “Ashcroft? Why is that name familiar?”
Oh God, I was going to hurl.
