19 Quinn #2
“Isn’t she flirting with him?” I watch River grab Joey’s cup and cross the room to fill it with beer.
Joey’s gaze stays glued to him. When it’s obvious I’m not going to respond, Marissa says, discreetly, “Does it make you wonder what they’re up to?
” She pauses, looking down into the drink in her hand.
As she swirls it, red liquid splashes up the side of the cup and slides down in slow streaks.
“Not really,” I say.
“Oh,” she says. Then, without moving her eyes from her cup, “I think Tanner cheated on me.” She fiddles with the chain of her necklace. “I think it was Sophie.”
Indignation draws a laugh out of me. “That’s insane. Sophie would never.”
Marissa whispers urgently when she says, “They send messages to each other. Did you know that? Like graphic messages.”
I do know about the messages. They exist, but they only go one way, from Tanner to Sophie, and they’re entirely unwelcome. I think of the dick pic that Tanner sent and the way Sophie hid from it, shamefaced, like it was somehow her fault.
A laugh that’s short but loud pulls my attention to the corner of the couch.
River stands above Joey, who uncrosses and then recrosses her legs and tries to smother a smile.
She looks up quickly as if she knows I’m watching her, then away again, this new awkwardness between us like another person in the room.
“Just saying,” Marissa says. “Be careful who you trust.”
I study her eyes, which she has now locked with mine.
They are laced with hope and seem to be asking a silent question.
I know exactly what it is. She wants to know if I will turn on my friend and join her little broken-hearts club.
She has tried a hundred times to winnow into our group, and I’ve always felt bad for her.
Suddenly, I feel an incredible surge of unexpected power.
I have access to magic, and she doesn’t.
There are people who would give anything for that.
“Sorry, hun,” I say, handing her my cup. “Sophie’s not hooking up with Tanner.” I stride to the front door without looking back and swing it open.
Outside, the air is fresh, and I feel energized. I start to walk up the hill. But I don’t take five steps before distant voices float toward me from behind the trees at the end of the block. I advance toward the tree line as the voices grow louder. An argument intensifying.
“It’s over,” a man is saying. The voice is familiar but out of context. I can’t place it. Silence fills the cool night air.
“It’s not,” says a woman. No. Not a woman. Elena.
I freeze, hardly breathing. I’m close enough to hear, but it’s very dark, and they are obscured by the trees. Then, there’s a rustle of something and a deep, masculine moan.
“Stop.”
“Stop what?” I have to strain to hear her voice because it’s soft and sultry, and then there’s another moan.
“I said stop.” His voice is sharp, as sudden and cutting as a slap.
“I could tell everyone about us,” Elena says with forced bravado. “I have pictures. I could make it very bad for you.”
There is a long pause, and I can’t hear what’s happening. My pulse quickens.
“Get the fuck off me,” says Elena. Urgently, I scan the dark ground, searching for a way into the trees.
I find the beginning of a trail between the trees and take two steps toward it.
Before I can go any farther, I hear running in my direction.
In another second, a body collides with mine.
I fall backward, and Elena is there, groaning, grabbing her nose.
The collision has thrown her hair into her face, and she looks at me the way a deer looks at an oncoming car.
She glances back to the woods where another set of footsteps grows louder.
Her eyes fall back onto mine. “What are you doing here?” she asks.
It’s the first time I’ve ever seen shame on her face, and it jars me.
I want to say something, anything, but she doesn’t give me the chance. She just turns and scrambles away.
I barely have time to stand before a figure steps out of the shadow of the trees.
Mark Collingswood. English-teaching, chinos-wearing, friendly-with-students Mark Collingswood.
His needle eyes find mine, and he holds my gaze, maybe assessing how much I saw, how much I heard.
I give nothing back, just blink at him in the dark, doing my best to hide my surprise.
I know Elena is wild and impulsive and unbound by social expectations, and I know she talked about him like that, but I never thought it was true.
I just assumed it was her brand of raunchy, over-the-top humor, meant to shock.
Mr. Collingswood is our teacher. And at least twenty years older than her.
“Miss Winter,” he says, interrupting my thoughts.
It’s a mundane, monotone greeting. He doesn’t seem nervous or caught out.
Instead, he’s strangely confident. I dip my head in a nod, not sure what I’m acknowledging exactly.
He thrusts a hand out, gripping the top of my arm with a suddenness that stops me.
The cold denim of my jacket presses against my skin.
He tries to make eye contact with me. I can feel it, but I avoid his face.
I can hear his ragged breath. Eventually, without saying anything else, he lets go and brushes past.
I don’t move. Instead, I stare into the gap in the trees, my heart skittering. I’m trying to make sense of it.
Mark Collingswood.
Mr. Collingswood.
And then, unexpectedly, the shock slowly morphs into something else. The darkness of the woods in front of me like a mirror, reminds me—for the second time tonight—of my power. I inhale deeply and recognize a sudden insatiable desire to do something about this. To fix it for Elena.
But what?