Page 50 of Sinister

“Then who was it?”

Just then, the bell rings, and the sounds of people putting away their plates and gathering up their things fill up the tense space between us three.

“I will find out one day, Daphne.” I almost hiss out the words at her. “And you will regret that you didn’t confess sooner. You will regret everything you’ve ever done.”

Daphne and François look too stunned at the relentless fury coloring my face and stiffening my limbs. But they don’t know how that unceremonious dive into the pool had triggered an avalanche of life-changing moments, how I’m still dealing with the fallout from that night.

Without waiting for more mediocre jabs from the duo, I walk out of the lunchroom, feeling lighter. Confronting those two makes me feel stronger, more in charge, and less helpless. What compounds my joy further is realizing that it’s time for my first art history class.

Ms. Matthews is one of the most sought-after classes at St. Anselm Hall. Having gotten her MA and PhD from Yale and Stanford, respectively, she is an outright genius when it comes to the subject.

Her office is decked out with photos of her chatting and chumming it up with famous artists like Louise Bourgeois and Olafur Eliasson. She’s a rockstar, and I want to be like her when I grow up.

By now, I have reached her classroom, so I stop to smooth my skirt and adjust my hair before entering. Despite my efforts to contain myself, a wide smile settles on my lips when I step in.

And just like that, the grin slips right off my face when I see that Sin is here.

He’s lounging against a desk, his blazer draped rather precariously over his chair, and his sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscular forearms.

As usual, a cluster of girls and guys surrounds him. Laughter punctuates their conversation, and his light blue eyes glimmer when he tells—or retells, by the look of it—some inside joke I’m not part of.

He’s a magnet, drawing everyone in.

But did he have to take this class, too? I would never have pegged him as someone interested in the evolution of art through the ages, but what do I know?

Just as I am stewing in a complicated mix of bitterness and excitement, he catches my eye and nods ever so slightly.

As if he were hitting pause on the pretense of “popular guy” to be “Petra’s friend.”

Once again, I’m amazed at the ease with which he steps in and out of the many roles people expect him to fill.

I nod back clumsily as my heart pounds harder. I don’t want to think about the shed, about his smile, or what I’m keeping from him. I just want to get through this class.

Why couldn’t I have just this one thing for myself?

Further hand-wringing and lamenting will get me nowhere, so I start looking for a vacant seat, moving toward the front of the classroom almost instinctively.

Still, I can feel the weight of his gaze pinned to my body—without even looking directly at him. Of course, I don’t want to keep looking at him, so I don’t turn around to confirm my suspicions.

In the end, I slide into an empty seat somewhere in the middle row, dropping my bag onto the floor beside my chair. My hands are shaky as I pull out my iPad to take notes.

I don’t dare steal a glance back at him. All I can do is focus on the clock on the wall, willing Ms. Matthews to arrive and completely claim my attention. For the moment, I am content to let the murmur of conversations around me seep into my awareness.

“Anyone see the new art installation in the lobby?” a girl near the window is saying to her small group. “I can’t believe the school actually invested in something so modern.”

It’s an original Damien Hirst, I want to add but don’t.

“I know, right?” one of the guys in her group replies. “It’s like, finally, they’re catching up with the times.”

Behind me, a deep-voiced guy is grumbling over something. “Man, I just hope this class isn’t a total snoozefest. I heard the project is like, half our grade.”

“Yeah, but Ms. Matthews is supposed to be really cool,” another guy chimes in. “She lets you work on whatever inspires you. I’m thinking of doing something on street art.”

It’s a comforting feeling, this passive way of listening to the opinions and perspectives of others, and I let their words float around me, a background noise that keeps my mind tethered to reality.

I fidget with my stylus almost instinctively, the motion calming my nerves a bit.

Just then, another conversation catches my ear. “You know that party at Elias’s place?” says a girl. “I heard someone fell into the pool.”