Three

I go to Sebastian Clover High School. It’s one of the top schools in the district and very private and expensive. They didn’t want me, of course. At least, not in the beginning. It took a lot of persuasion and a few recommendations from both my old school and an appointed government caseworker who follows my life from a distance. They pushed the “pity this poor child who is really a victim and not at all a drug abuser” spiel.

So in the end, they changed their minds. They wanted me. Everyone wants a sinner.

They even gave me a scholarship, and as long as I maintain my grades I can continue to attend school. As long as I don’t resort to my old druggie ways.

I am a blank slate.

I don’t have problems with school. It’s easy. All I have to do is listen. All I have to do is write down what they expect me to write. I sit in the back and silently take notes. I very rarely raise my hand, preferring to keep to myself. But I like school. There’s only one right answer and I find comfort in that. I wish life were that easy. My grades are very good, although most of the teachers still seem wary of me.

In school I wear a uniform. A pleated dark-blue skirt and white blouse. Knee-high socks or tights and black Mary Jane sneakers. My face is scrubbed clean until it shines and I pull my long dark hair back in a ponytail. Makeup is not allowed. No dangly earrings. I look normal. Like everyone else. Well, almost.

No one ever waits for me at my locker. I don’t have friends. That’s just the way I like it too. Friends complicate things. They want to do things with you after school and on weekends. They expect you to go with them to movies and hang at the coffee shops, pretending to study. They want to know your feelings and share gossip and whatever else girls do when they’re together. I don’t belong to that world. It confuses me. I don’t understand why such mundane things can be so interesting. How can something as simple as a brand-new outfit or sky-blue eye shadow work girls into such a frenzy?

Some of the girls pretend to be friendly but I try not to encourage them. Besides, they’d probably end up asking questions that I’m not prepared to answer. This is something I’ve been explicitly told to avoid.

There were rules when I joined this school. Rules that were created specifically for me and I have to follow them.

Rule one: I am never, under any circumstances, to reveal to the other students that I have overdosed on Heam. I’m not to mention that I ever tried Heam nor can I ever mention the drug’s name, even in a lesson.

Rule two: Under no circumstances am I ever to remove my clothing in the presence of other students. They must never see my scars and I must never mention them. Because of this, I have been given special permission to skip gym class. A lie was created stating I have terrible asthma and because of this I am excused. Instead, I am to spend the period in the library studying. Even while off the school grounds I should take precautions with my clothing by wearing shirts that cover my chest completely. Not that I’ve ever had to worry. The kids at Sebastian would never dare to step inside my world.

Rule three: There are to be no relationships with students of the opposite gender. Although it was never stated, I believe it has a lot to do with rule number two. I’m also advised to keep my friendships formal at best. Keep my socializing down to a science.

Rule four: I am never to talk about my parents. If prompted, I am to say that both parents died in an accident—even though the administration knows my mother is still alive. Although I’d never say it to the school’s face, to say Dad died accidently is closer to the truth than anything else.

Rule five: Maintain good grades and never criticize the school. I am to constantly remember that I am a guest here. And even the nicest visitors sometimes overstay their welcome.

There are consequences to my actions and if I break these rules, I’m gone. They won’t give me a second chance and I doubt there’s a single school in the district that will take me if I mess up. Most schools have a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to Heam usage. There are no second chances. There are some groups that try to fight the stigma associated with Heaven’s Dream—Heam’s official name—but they’re fighting a losing war. Hardcore users will always be ostracized.

But even with all these rules, I like school. It’s a chance for me to be normal, well, at least pretend to be normal. I get to wear the school uniform and walk down the halls. It’s amazing I ever made it this far.

As I sit in the back of the classroom, the teacher drones on about the importance of algebra but I’m not listening. I’m thinking about Chael. Is it a coincidence that I’ve met him twice in less than twenty-four hours? Is he following me? It’s possible that I screwed up somehow, let down my invisibility guard, and now they’re aware I exist. There’s even a chance they might recognize me although I’ve gone to great lengths to disguise all traces of the child I once was. With the exception of the soapbox preacher, I’ve never gone out of my way to let anyone see my scars. Could someone have seen me in the crowd last night and tattled on me?

No. That’s impossible. Even if someone did recognize me, I’m still nothing but a single girl in the crowd. A hardcore Heam abuser who managed to go straight.

Not a threat.

Not yet.

I’m so involved in my thoughts I don’t hear the teacher call my name.

Not the first time.

Not the third time either.

What I do hear finally are the giggles. When I look up from the doodle on my notebook, they are all looking at me. Several pairs of eyes. Lots of smirks.

“Um. Yes?”

“The answer would be appreciated, Faye.”

I look at the board. There are scribbles of x’s and y’s and a bunch of numbers. I have no idea. The silence grows and all I can hear are the sounds as people fidget in their chairs to get a better look.

“Forty-three?” I finally say. Of course it’s wrong; there’s no way I can possibly be correct. A huge breakout of giggles confirms it.

“Silence,” Mr. Haines snaps.

No one listens.

“Can I be excused?” I ask. When Mr. Haines raises his eyebrows, I give him the best pity face I can muster. “I’m not feeling well today. Sorry.”

He waves a hand at me and I pick up my binder and pencil case. There’s only five more minutes left of class so it’s safe to assume he doesn’t expect me back. I hear the murmurs from behind my back as I walk down the aisle and toward the door.

In the bathroom, I go into the stall and lock it behind me. I sit down on the toilet and rub my temples with my fingers. I wasn’t lying when I asked to be excused; I’m really not feeling great. My head is suddenly pounding and I wonder if I inhaled too much smoke earlier.

The bell rings and instantly I hear the muffled noises as the kids gather in the halls to rush to their next class. The door opens and a girl comes in, stopping in front of the mirror. A few seconds later I hear a thud as someone else enters, kicking at the door.

“Get out of here,” the girl hisses. “This is the ladies’ room, idiot.”

A low throaty chuckle. “Give me the money you owe me and then I’ll leave.”

Inside the stall, I perk up my ears and hear the girl as she steps back against the wall. “I told you, I don’t have it. You need to talk to Jesse.”

“Maybe I’d rather talk to you.”

“Leave me alone.”

It only takes me a second to decide that today, I’m going to break some rules. Unlocking the door, I step out into the middle of the action. The girl is Paige LeBlanc, one of the more popular girls, and she’s backed up beside the hand dryers and staring at a guy I’ve never seen before. He’s not a student; the leather pants he wears are not part of the school-issued uniform. He’s greasy too—hair, face, probably even underneath his jacket. His clothes are expensive but dirty; he screams “dealer” from miles away. He definitely doesn’t seem the type that Paige would hang out with, even if she was being daring and trying to shock her rich parents.

I walk over to the sinks and carefully put my binder and pencil case down on the porcelain counter.

“The girl asked you to leave her alone,” I say. “I suggest you listen to her.”

The guy looks me over and I can see the delight in his eyes. He’s finding this hilarious. Two pretty Sebastian Clover girls. He’s going to enjoy tormenting us.

I smile back, nice and proper.

“Get out of here, girlie,” he says to me. “Go take an exam or something. I’ve got business here.”

I step between them. Technically I’m not breaking the rules. I’ve been told not to interact with the other students. Since he obviously doesn’t go to school here, I’ve got a solid defense for my actions. “Make me.”

The guy laughs like he’s just discovered a pile of gold under his mattress.

“She asked you to leave,” I say again. “Now, I suggest you listen to her or I’ll have to force you.”

“You?” The guy can’t stop smiling. I’m looking forward to watching that grin disappear from his greasy face. Paige continues to cower behind me, but I can tell she’s completely shocked. I doubt we’ve ever said a single word to each other. She probably doesn’t even know my name.

“Try it,” I say. “It’s okay. You can hit a girl. I know you can. I give you permission.”

The guy steps forward to brush me aside, but I move to the left, grabbing his arm, bringing my leg right in front of his. It’s a simple maneuver; he’s still smiling stupidly as he trips, crashing against the sink, and falling hard on his knees.

“Bitch!”

Now I’ve got his attention. He gets up on his feet, looking at me with surprise, still pretty sure I’m not something he needs to worry about. The idea that a girl could kick his ass is completely beyond his comprehension. He swings at me with his right. I block it, and give him a sharp jab back, straight in the nose. His head snaps back, hitting the hand dryer, sending Paige scrambling to the other side of the bathroom stalls.

Now he’s concerned, but it’s too late. I punch again, another jab to the nose. Something breaks. He screeches, grabbing his injury with his hand, shocked to find blood pouring down his face. When he lunges at me, I step back and to the side, grabbing his arm and using the force of his body to propel him forward. He’s moving too fast and he can’t stop from crashing against the wall.

“Open the door, please,” I say politely to Paige. She complies.

I pick the greasy guy up and toss him out the door like he’s nothing but a rag doll. Walking back over to the sink, I wash my hands carefully. Who knows when that guy showered last?

I pick my binder and pencil case up off the sink and head out the door, which is still being held open by Paige.

Thirty seconds later she catches up to me. The shock has worn off.

“That was amazing,” she says. “How did you do that?”

I shrug and keep walking. Continuing this conversation can get me in real trouble. I glance around, but there isn’t a teacher in sight to witness my naughtiness.

“I mean, really incredible,” she says. “I’m sorry about all that. Trevor is a real jerk. He shouldn’t even be here. And I don’t owe him money. I can only imagine what you’re thinking. I’m not that kind of person.”

“What kind of person is that?” I ask.

She pauses. “Not the kind to hang out with gutter rats like that.”

“He’s not a gutter rat,” I say. “He’s a dealer.”

“Yeah, whatever, they’re one and the same, aren’t they?”

“No.”

“I didn’t realize you were such an expert.”

I stop walking and turn toward her. She’s looking at me curiously, trying to figure out what my story is.

“Dealers are scum,” I say. “They destroy lives. They want to become dealers. They’re greedy bastards. They earn money off of death. Gutter rats are victims. They have pain. Problems. Issues. They may choose Heam, but they don’t always pick their path. Sometimes it’s forced on them. Sometimes they just don’t know any better.”

She studies me, finally deciding that her disagreement isn’t worth the fight. “I suppose,” she says. “I never thought about it that way.”

I turn and walk off. I’ve got English next period and I’m going to be late if I don’t hurry.

“Hey!” Paige just won’t leave me alone.

I keep walking.

“Hey, hold up.” She runs up and falls into step with me. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I really didn’t mean to offend you. You’re Faye, right?”

I nod, surprised she knows my name.

“Thanks, really,” she continues. “I’m having a party Friday night. Would you like to come? I can introduce you around to a few people. It’ll be fun.”

“I’m busy,” I say. Parties? The school would have a fit. Technically there is no rule about who I hang out with in my free time, but I’m sure that would change if I ever started. Besides, what on earth would I do? I may have the body of a teenager, but my mind is old. How would I talk to any of them? I’ve already proven, in the past five minutes, that I can’t even hold a conversation without becoming hostile. Could I really sit for an evening talking about boys and clothing?

Not a chance.

“Okay, well, think about it,” Paige says. She writes something down on her notebook as we walk, impressive considering she can barely keep up with me. Tearing the sheet loose, she shoves it into my hands. An address and phone number.

She’s not going to take no for an answer. I can see the problem already forming.

She stops at her classroom. Mine is just a few doors down. The bell rings and I start running.

“See you,” she calls back.

I should throw the address out. I have no business keeping it. But I find myself slipping it into the pocket of my skirt for safekeeping.

It might be nice. Being normal.

The rest of the day goes by quickly. I always eat alone at lunch but it doesn’t take long before I notice Paige sitting a few tables down. She’s with a group of her friends and they’re all looking at me intently. Especially her boyfriend, Jesse, the one who apparently owes the greasy Trevor money. Of course she told them. Suddenly I feel like there’s a great big red flag flying over my head.

But the teachers don’t notice. No one pulls me into the office to ream me out.

Jesse goes out of his way to walk past me at the table. I look down at my book, making it obvious I have no intentions of talking with him. He slows down, even pauses for a second to take a better look. I continue to ignore him. Finally, he walks off, but not before caressing his hand gently across my shoulder. A quick move, probably missed by everyone except me.

What does he want from me?

After class I head home. If I’m quick enough, I can put in a few hours of training before homework and dinner.

I need to stick to what I’m good at. Focus. Everything else is just another distraction.

The silver liquid touches my tongue and I’m happy that it tastes like strawberry candy. Such a perfect flavor, I wish there were more of it. Like a glass of soda. I’m very thirsty from all that crying.

The men around me are laughing. One of them bends down until he’s inches away from my face. His eyes are beady and dark. I don’t like them. When he smiles, I see his teeth, white, behind his stubble. But there’s nothing happy about him; his eyes don’t sparkle, and they remain dead and cold. It makes me nervous and I begin to sniffle again.

“Your daddy was a bad boy,” he says to me. “And since he doesn’t have any money, we take our cut out of blood instead.”

“Hey, leave her alone,” someone else says. I think it’s Christian but I’m not fully sure about anything anymore.

The man grins again. His teeth are very white. I can’t stop looking at them. They grow in size. If he opens his mouth, he might swallow me.

But things are changing. I can hear my heart beating in my chest, pounding against my temple, with each beat; I’m worried that it might explode. At eleven years old, I’m not entirely convinced this can’t happen.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

I look over and I see that they’ve got Christian down on the ground. He’s struggling with them but he’s too weak and they’ve got his arms pinned behind his back. Another man, the one with a long scar along his forehead, has Christian and he’s pried open his mouth with his fingers. Someone else pours some of the strawberry candy onto his tongue and it splashes against his teeth. He’s no longer pleading. He’s staring straight ahead, and our eyes meet. I can’t look away. I want to but I can’t. His green eyes are full of hatred. Sorrow. Confusion. Too many emotions. It hurts my head.

The strawberry taste is now rancid on my tongue. I swallow, trying to get it out, but it’s like syrup coating my throat, and it won’t go away. And everything is growing hazy. My eyelids have grown heavy, weighted down by the buckets of tears I’ve cried. Suddenly my legs are no longer supporting my weight, I tilt to the side, and in slow motion I see the ground reach up to meet me.

And I’m lying on the concrete, staring up at the stars.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

The man with the scary smile leans over me. “Have a nice trip,” he says.

A billion colors light up the sky, like fireworks Mom once took me to. I watch them, trying to decipher the colors I don’t recognize but there are simply too many. I think I’ve stopped breathing; my chest is no longer rising and I’m slightly aware of the burning sensation inside my lungs. But I see blue and pink and red and silver. Lots of silver.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

I want to reach up and touch the colors as they float down toward me, taunting me to pick them up and put them in my pocket. But I can’t move my arms; they’re no longer under my control. It’s okay. I don’t need them anyway. The sky is dipping down to meet me.

Everything is beautiful.

Pound.

And suddenly it stops.

No more heartbeat. No more sky. Nothing but blackness.

And then … fire.

A pounding at my door.

“Faye?”

Another knock.

I sit up, the dream falling away, tangling myself in my bedsheets. I look at the clock. Almost seven. It’s dark outside.

Shit.

Gazer is at my door, knocking again.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Just fell asleep.”

A soft silence.

“Dinner is on the table. Come down when you’re ready.”

“Okay,” I say.

I wait till I hear his feet recede back down the stairs. Climbing out of bed, I head straight for the bathroom, cursing myself in the mirror. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep. That was stupid. Now I’ve gone and missed practice and I’ve still got a ton of homework to do before I can go out tonight.

These late-night hours are starting to wear me down. I’m a teenager; I’m supposed to be in my prime. So why are there heavy circles under my eyes? I splash water on my face and wet down my hair.

I head downstairs to try to eat something. I’ll need my strength for what I have planned tonight.