Headphones on, I mute the world beyond my safe hiding place and slide out my notebook from beneath my textbook, then press it against the wall of the bathroom stall. I open to the last page—the boy. I run my finger across his forehead, the stray pieces of his dark hair. I glide my pencil along his temple, shading in his earlobe, then falling to his chin, his mouth… but I don’t know the exact shape of his lips. I wish I could see him again, up close, get a better senseof his eye color, the shadows made by his eyelashes, the slope of his jawline—before I lose the memory of him completely.
But I haven’t seen him in the halls. He wasn’t in the crowd before the bell rang—I would have noticed him. But if he doesn’t go to Cutwater High, then who is he? And why was he in the parking lot yesterday, reading a book against a tree?
I fill in the parts of him Icanremember: the broad angle of his shoulders, the paperback book in his hands, the easy way he perched against the tree trunk as if he were a million miles away, lost to the story unfolding in the pages before him. Time slinks away from me, until the bell chimes in the halls again, second period over.
I listen to the rush of students slamming their locker doors as they head for the cafeteria or the front lawn, footsteps echoing off the brick walls. When only a few voices remain, I slip silently from the bathroom and reach my locker without anyone spotting me. I retrieve my bag and push through the double doors, breathing in the crisp spring air—grateful to be free of the school.
There are fewer students scattered across the lawn than there were yesterday. Perhaps the rest have chosen to spend their lunch hour in the foul-smelling, dimly lit cafeteria—away from me.
But I don’t make it more than a step toward the lawn before I feel a hand on my shoulder. I flinch away, my heart instantly a piston, but the figure moves even closer, forcing me back against the brick wall of the school. I blink, trying to refocus, but a face—Gabby Pines’s—is suddenly right in front of me. Like she can’t get close enough. Her strawberry hair is pulled up into a bun, and a piece of some unknown candy is pressed against the inside of her left cheek. “Do you have more?” she asks, tone hushed, secretive, her breath smelling of mint and watermelon.
“What?”
I’m shocked that she’s this close to me. Surprised she would risk it.
“The tulips,” she presses, more insistent now, eyelashes no longer blinking over her glassy blue eyes. “The ones you grow behind your house.”
I take a step to my right, but she mirrors my movement, the side of her lip twitching as she shifts the candy from one cheek to the other. “They say it was the flowers all along—they’re the reason people fall in love with you each spring.” Her nostrils swell, like she’s uncovered all my secrets—like she sees what I really am.
My heart starts thudding against my eardrums. Panic claws at my thoughts, causing everything to blur—even Gabby’s face.
Locals in Cutwater have always known there is somethingoddabout the Goodes. Witches or demons or monsters. But they’ve never understood why they fall madly in love with us as the season melts from spring into summer. They feel the enchantment to be near us, but they don’t understand its origin. Its source.
But now… I can see the look in Gabby’s eyes. Like she’s figured it all out. And my head begins to pound, my fingers shaking at my sides.
“People like to tell stories… but it’s not true,” I say, but my voice is weak, unconvincing.Shit.I just need to get away from her, away from the others who have slowed as they walk by, eyes watching me, straining to hear Gabby’s words.
“I’ll buy one from you,” Gabby adds, voice low as her eyes dart to the left like a bird watching for scavengers. “I have cash.”
I shake my head at her, my breathing starting to tighten in my lungs. I feel caged in. Trapped.
“Please…,” she hisses. And in her eyes I see something else, a shift: she’s too close to me. She’s starting to lose control of her own heart—her eyelashes flit, her mouth parts just a little—and I can see the lovesickness taking shape in the features of her face, in the strange rhythm of her breathing.
I swallow, the cold brick wall of the school against my back, and I know I need to get out of here. I turn before she can tip any closer, breaking away from her stare, and scramble down the front steps of the school.
I start across the lawn, but my eyes catch sight of something.
Some…thing.
Snow-white blooms.
White and fearful.
Awful red streaks burned across each petal, winking luridly beneath the midday sun.
I squint, certain I’m mistaken.
But the green stem is held in the hands of Mac Williams—one of the boys from the fight this morning. I’m surprised he wasn’t sent home, suspended for the last few days of school. But his best friend, Tobias Huaman, is nowhere in sight.
The group of friends surrounding Mac stare down at the delicate flower, talking as if it were some rare artifact, discussing its worth, its intended use, like thickskulled anthropologists.
And I know…. It’s undeniable.
Mac holds an infamous, whispered-about-but-never-seen-up-closeGoodetulip.
My heart slams into my stomach. Fear roils up into my chest, like I’m going to be sick.
One of the Goode tulips is no longer safely contained within the garden.
