I close my eyes and swallow hard. Feeling so humiliated I wish I could just vanish into thin air—disappear. No, actually it's much worse than that—I feel mortified, disgraced, horrified, dishonored, and everything else that defines wanting to slink off in shame.

"It's not what you think," I say, meeting his gaze and silently urging him to believe it. "Despite whatever stories Damen might've told you, it's not at all what it appears to be," I add, hearing Mr. Robins sigh along with the thoughts in his head. How he wishes he could share how lost he felt when his wife and daughter walked out, how he never thought he'd make it through another day—but fearing it's inappropriate,which it is.

"If you just give yourself some time, focus your attention on something else," he says, sincerely wanting to help me, and yet afraid of overstepping his bounds. "You'll soon find that—" The bell rings. I shift my backpack onto my shoulder, press my lips together, and look at him. Watching as he shakes his head and says, "Fine. I'll write you a tardy pass. You're free to go."

Chapter Twenty-One

I'm a YouTube star.

Apparently the footage of me untangling myself from a seemingly never-ending string of Victoria's Secret bras, thongs, and garter belts has not only earned me the oh so clever nickname of Spaz but has also been viewed 2323 times. Which just happens to be the number of students enrolled here at Bay View. Well, with a few of the faculty members tossed in. It's Haven who tells me. Finding her at her locker after barely making it through a gauntlet of people shouting, "Hey, Spaz! Don't fall, Spaz!" she's kind enough not only to fill me in on the origin of my newfound celebrity but to lead me to the video so I can watch the spectacle of myself spazzing out right there on my iPhone.

"Oh, that's just great," I say, shaking my head, knowing it's the least of my problems, but still.

"It's pretty fuggin' bad," she agrees, closing her locker and looking at me with an expression that could only be read as pity—well, pity on a time crunch with only a few seconds to spare for a spaz like me. "So—anything else? 'Cause I need to get going, I promised Honor I'd—"

I look at her, I mean, really look at her. Seeing how the flamered stripe in her hair is now pink, and how her usual pale-skinned, darkly clad, Emo look has been swapped for the spray-tanned, sparkle-dress, fluffy haired ensemble of those same cliquey clones she always made fun of. But despite her new dress code, despite her new A-list membership, despite all the evidence presented before me, I still don't believe she's responsible for anything she wears, says, or does at this point. Because even though Haven has a tendency to latch on to others and mimic their ways—she still has her standards. And I know for a fact that the Stacia and Honor brigade is one group she never aspired to join. But still, knowing all that doesn't make it any easier to accept. And even though I know it's useless, even though it clearly won't change a thing, I still look at her and say, "I can't believe you're friends with them. I mean, after everything they've done to me." I shake my head, wanting her to know just how much that hurts.

And even though I hear her response a few seconds earlier, it does little to soften the blow when she says, "Did they push you? Did they shove you or trip you or make you fall on top of that rack? Or did you do that all on your own?" She looks at me, brows raised, lips pursed, narrowed eyes focused on mine. As I stand there stunned, mute, my throat searing so hot I couldn't speak if I tried. "It's like—lighten up already, would you?" She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "They meant for it to be funny. And you'd be a helluva lot happier if you could just unclench, stop taking yourself and everything around you so damn seriously, and fuggin' learn to live a little! I mean, seriously, Ever. Think about it, okay?"

She turns, merging seamlessly into the crowd of students, all of them heading for the extra long table in their new lunchtime exodus, while I make a run for the gate. I mean, why torture myself? Why hang around just so I can watch Damen flirt with Stacia, and get called spaz by my friends? Why have all of these advanced psychic abilities if I'm not going to exploit them and put them to good use—like ditching school?

"Leaving so soon?"

I ignore the voice behind me and keep going. Roman's pretty much the last person I'm willing to talk to at this point.

"Ever, hey, hold up! Seriously." He laughs, picking up his pace until he's right alongside me. "Where's the fire?"

I unlock my car and slide in, yanking the door and almost getting it closed, until he stops it with the palm of his hand. And even though I know I'm stronger, that if I really wanted I could just slam the door closed and be on my way, the fact that I'm still not used to my new immortal strength is the one thing that stops me. Because as much as I dislike him, I'm a little reluctant to slam it so hard I sever his hand. I'd much rather save that kind of thing for when I might need it.

"If you don't mind, I really need to get going." I pull the door again, but he just grips it tighter. And when I combine the amused look on his face with the surprising strength in his fingers, I feel the strange sting in my gut when I realize those two seemingly random things support my deepest suspicions. But when I look at him again, watching as he lifts his hand to sip from his soda, exposing a wrist that's free of all markings, bearing no tattoos of a snake eating its own tail—the mythical Ouroboros symbol which happens to be the sign of an immortal turned rogue—it just doesn't add up.