He’s managed to capture the curve of my neck. The slope of my cheek. The shape of my eyes and the shadow under my bottom lip. I can tell that’s me and not some random drawing of a girl. He’s so good.
We do another round, and this time I lean into my terribleness. His eyes are exaggerated circles, and his nose isa triangle with aspirations of greatness. I don’t care what my picture looks like as long as I get to see his drawing of me again.
“I look like a clown,” he declares when I show him my progress.
“I’m capturing your inner child, obviously.” I shrug, though I’m smiling. “You make me look better than I actually do.”
It’s true. He’s added more fine detail to my face by shading in my quirked lips and fanning my eyelashes. My expression is flirtatious. Almost knowing.
“This is what you look like, Billie.” His voice is soft, and when I meet his gaze, I see how serious he is.
My heart flutters, and I wave a hand at the sand timer. “Flip that thing. Let’s keep this going.”
I feel like a jerk as I continue to draw him because he looks more like a balloon animal than anything else. And when the last grain of sand falls and we’re flipping our sketch pads toward each other, all the breath gathers in my throat at what I see.
It’s a fresh page in his notebook, and it says “Go out with me?” in blocky script at the top. He added a quickly sketched and perfectly beautiful bouquet of flowers below.
I don’t say anything at first. It’s like all the words I’ve ever known turned into wispy white clouds and got blown away. Nothing but clear blue sky in my head.
I use the silence to study the face that has become so dear to me in the short time we’ve known each other. It’s the first time today that I actually regret not having the ability to draw him. I wish I could capture this moment, this boy,us, on paper.Maybe then I could keep them—this moment, this boy,us—for a little while, instead of giving it all up when Connor figures out who I really am.
I lean over and flip the sand timer, our gazes never straying from each other.
It’s intense, the way he watches me. Waiting patiently for my response. I stare back, unable to look away, my heart pounding so hard I’m worried it might fly out of my chest. The rational side of my brain reminds me we’re moving too fast. I barely know him. But the romantic part of my brain? Can’t deny the connection. The attraction. The chemistry.
The problem?
I still don’t trust it—the connection. Or him. Not fully. I don’t think he’s responsible for what happened to Emily and Isla, so it’s not like that. More that I’m worried what might happen if I fully give myself to this boy. And how mad he’ll be when he finds out I lied to him.
That’s the worst part. The lies.
Swallowing hard, I finally tear my gaze from Connor’s and flip to a new piece of paper, my pencil scratching across the pristine surface. And when the minute is up, I show him my new sketch. It’s simple. One word. Three letters.
Yes.
…
I’m floating on air when I enter my dorm room and become even more buoyant with the discovery that I’m alone. I shut the door and lean against it for a full minute, letting myselfbask in the memories of what happened last period.
Connor and I are officially a couple. We kissed for the rest of class to seal the deal. I like him so much. He’s the only person I can be myself with here, even though I never fully let myself go. I hate that I have to watch what I say and do around him, but I can’t expose myself completely. I’ve halfway convinced myself that it’ll all work out in the end because the heart wants what it wants, right?
That’s what I’m going to manifest, at least.
I’m about to push away from the door when my gaze snags on the bulletin board that hangs above Priya’s desk. It’s always crooked, which makes no sense. Her side of the room is always immaculate, so why is that board off-center? Doesn’t she notice it?
Marching over to the wall, I nudge the bottom left edge of the corkboard, which sends it tipping over dramatically on the other side. I nudge it back into place, but it’s still crooked.
What the hell?
I rise on tiptoe and pluck the board off the wall completely, flipping it over to find a dry erase board on the other side. It’s covered with names and lines and arrows. Columns and what looks like code words and dollar amounts. Excuse me,poundamounts.
What is this? She’s clearly keeping track of something, but I don’t know what. Most of the names listed are unfamiliar to me, but two stand out: Emily and Isla. Someone—Priya, I guess—has drawn lines through their names. It can’t be a coincidence that two girls who are no longer on campus have been removed from whatever record this is. But no, not removed—crossed out.There’s something eerily violent abouttheir names remaining here, but struck through.
Alarm races down my spine, raising goose bumps along my back and leaving me cold. What is going on with Priya? This is some serial killer–level recordkeeping, according to every thriller flick I’ve ever watched. She has questionable taste in girlfriends, for sure, but I’ve never thought of her as inherently dangerous.
Maybe I should have.
I grab my phone and take photos of the board. My brain is screamingthis is evidence!But evidence of what? Priya’s always seemed too uptight for a life of crime, but maybe I should’ve suspected her from the start.
