Page 39 of Sinister

“Hello?” Sin calls out again, gingerly stepping inside the shed. “Someone put a note in my locker, so here I am.”

When he gets no response, Sin starts looking around a bit before running his fingers across the various tools in the shed near the entry door.

“Seriously, was that note supposed to be some kind of bait?” he says to the air. “Are you going to kill me? Please don’t kill me! I’m too young and good-looking to die.”

He chuckles, and I almost, almost, follow suit.

I can see his profile from this angle; the familiar lines of his face look relaxed now that he doesn’t have to smile and entertain a crowd of admirers. He looks almost like a little boy, delighted and intrigued by the display of tools, watering cans, and other implements in the shed.

As he moves toward the back area of the room, I am forced to press myself further into the wall, willing myself to disappear.

Looking at his handsome face and full lips, my heart sinks.

What was I thinking? Why did I ever believe this would work? My inner cynic is back in full force, chastising me for assuming Sin would want any part in this charade.

He’s the most popular guy in school; everybody wants a chunk of his time.

And me? I’m the most disliked person among our peers, the perpetual grump who has her nose buried in her iPad and headphones in her ears.

One could argue that opposites attract, but from personal experience, that saying only applies to magnets with opposing polarity. Period.

After a minute or two, Sin moves away from where I am trying to vanish inside a patch of darkness. As he walks to the far end of the shed opposite me, I inch toward the front door.

Of course, given my luck, I manage to step on a rake and then skitter away into a small bundle of spades. This results in a loud crash, and Sin’s head snaps in my direction.

“Petra?” he exclaims with a dumbfounded look on his face. “Petra!” he repeats while I desperately try to smooth down my mauve-colored school skirt and blazer. When I look up, he’s standing right before me, hands on his hips and his eyes twinkling with joy. “It is really you!” he continues. “Wait, did you leave that note in my locker?”

“Umm, note? What note?” I respond, trying to come up with an excuse for being inside the shed at the exact time mentioned on the note. “I usually come here to chill by myself. What brings you here?”

“Oh, come on, Petra!” Sin replies brightly, leaning against a wall with the casual air of a guy who always feels comfortable in his skin. “You expect me to believe that?”

“No, really,” I shoot back with, I hope, my usual hauteur. “Ask the head gardener, Mr. Jones. He’ll tell you.”

“Fine, let’s agree to disagree, okay?” Sin says before giving me a curious smile and pointedly falling silent, as if waiting for me to fill up the wordless gap between us.

But my mind is already roving ahead of me. I don’t know how I’m going to hide the pregnancy. It’s only a matter of time before people start noticing.

“So, designed any more posters recently?” Sin asks in a tentative voice, and I’m shocked that he remembers what we talked about.

“Yeah,” I reply, seizing the lifeline. “I’m putting together a creative portfolio for my applications to SVA and Parsons.”

“Damn, Petra! Do you ever take a break?” Sin’s teasing voice shifts into one of interest as he continues, “Will I get to see them if I say ‘please’ like, a thousand times?”

Despite everything, despite the horrors of my current situation, I can’t help but smile a little. “Maybe. Depends on if I like it enough to show it to others.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, okay? I’m sure you’ll knock it out of the park.” Sin’s words sound sincere, like always.

We both laugh, the sound awkward but relieving. It’s a fleeting moment of normalcy.

“So, are you looking forward to the fall dance?” Sin asks next, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“Not really,” I reply, my tone casual. “School dances aren’t my thing.”

“Yeah, I get that,” he says, nodding. “They can be pretty boring.”

The conversation stalls again.

We look around, study the floor beneath our school-mandated tan-brown Oxfords, the dents and chips on the wall, the serrated edges of the gardeners’ tools.