Chapter 6
INTENSE ENCOUNTERS
Of all the places in Foggy Hollow, my least favorite is Foggy Hollow High.
It has nothing to do with the institution of learning and everything to do with the building itself.
For a town so steeped in history and lore, our high school resembles a factory—an industrial-looking concrete block with boxy windows, gray lockers, and cheap desks marked with doodles from decades of students who probably felt as trapped as I do.
Tacky motivational posters line the walls, all stamped with our mascot.
The phoenix, a brilliant bird from ancient mythology.
Yet somehow, here, it’s been reduced to lame looking stock art.
Today, though, a different vibe hangs in the air.
A new classmate has injected our Monday doldrums with an arousing energy. The first bell hasn’t even rung yet and the student body is wide awake.
I’m in an alcove off the main hallway with Naomi Kapoor and Harper Mahoney, the third and fourth members of my four-person friend group.
Naomi and Harper have been best friends since Hickory Grove Elementary.
Twig and I bonded with them in junior high gym class, mostly over our shared ineptitude with all things sports.
Naomi’s parents are from India, making her one of the few students of color in Foggy Hollow—a second connection between her and Twig.
A third is their shared expertise in robotics.
Harper comes from a big family and shops secondhand like me.
We both have speaking parts in this year’s reenactment.
At the moment, Twig’s missing from our usual foursome, which is probably for the best, given our current fixation.
“He is absurd,” Naomi says in a low voice.
“More like unreal,” Harper adds.
The three of us are staring at the profile of Jude Vandenberg as he opens his locker.
Perfectly tousled golden hair. Dark, brooding eyebrows.
Full lips. And a lean, athletic frame dressed in clothes that scream old money.
I tried catching a glimpse of him yesterday, when he arrived just before sunset in a black Mercedes Benz driven by a chauffeur, but all I got was a very distant, mostly obstructed view.
A pair of freshmen boys mosey past.
Naomi shifts. “I can’t believe you get to live with him.”
“I don’t live with him.”
“You share an address.”
“Different mailboxes. Separate roofs.”
But Naomi isn’t listening. Neither is Harper. They’re too busy gawking as Jude removes a binder from his bag. He’s pushed up the sleeves of his Ralph Lauren quarter zip pullover, highlighting tan forearms and a leather wristwatch.
For a brief moment, I consider telling them about Jude’s cousin, Rafe the Rake. But something tells me that particular encounter would give them both an embolism. It nearly did Twig, and he had zero interest in Rafe’s good looks.
Jude hitches his backpack over his shoulder and shuts the locker. Every eye follows him as he walks down the hallway—in our direction—with his brow drawn low, a muscle in his chiseled jaw ticking ever so slightly, like he’s annoyed to be here.
He passes Lainey Sikes, a notorious drama queen who thrives off theatrics.
She catches Kate Calloway’s attention across the hall and fans her face like she might swoon.
Kate giggles. Lainey’s boyfriend, Griffin Tate, doesn’t look so amused.
He glares after the new guy, his chest puffing like a bull in rut.
Meanwhile, Sterling Bogaard comes around a corner into Jude’s path, but avoids collision with a quick step to the side.
Sterling walks the halls with his face locked in permanent discomfort, like he’s being forced to mingle with the commoners.
One might think he’d be glad to have another of his pedigree.
Strength in numbers and all that. Instead, he watches Jude like a wary jackal.
Jude strides closer, paying no attention to any of it.
I pinch Naomi’s elbow and mutter under my breath, “Stop staring.”
She gets the hint. Perhaps a little too enthusiastically. She grabs our arms in an attempt to feign conversation only to knock Harper’s phone from her hand.
It clatters to the ground.
Jude’s attention flicks in our direction as Naomi and Harper bend over to retrieve it.
Our gazes collide.
And—oh. His eyes aren’t just brown. They’re the color of late autumn leaves dappled in sunlight.
A flush creeps up my neck, because he’s not looking away. His gaze remains locked on mine as he passes, steady and unflinching. There’s no hint of amusement. No wicked gleam. No cocky smirk. He may be as gorgeous as his cousin, but something tells me they are very different.
The first bell rings, shattering the moment.
Jude looks away, leaving me to stare at his retreating back, heart pounding as Harper and Naomi stand up straight, having no idea what just happened.
To be honest, I’m not sure I do either.
I don’t catch another glimpse the rest of the morning. But I do hear plenty of whispered conversations—in class, in the hallways, in the girls’ bathroom.
It’s getting ridiculous.
I grab a cafeteria tray and slide it along the metal lunch counter, where steam curls from unappetizing food options.
“Has anyone actually talked to him?” I ask, snagging a slice of pizza. “The poor guy’s being treated like some weird mixture of Messiah and leper.”
Twig hands me a chocolate milk and grabs himself a yellow Powerade. “I still can’t believe his cousin tried to kiss you.”
I swipe my student ID at the cash register. “Me neither, but I can’t fault him for something his cousin did.”
Twig swipes his ID, too.
We stand together, holding our trays aloft.
The cafeteria is a large, open room filled with round tables, some crowded, others empty.
A few students loiter on the edges, leaning against beige walls while voices hum and trays clatter and backpacks thud against industrial carpet.
A cacophony of sound interspersed with the occasional burst of laughter, usually from Lainey.
In the midst of the organized chaos sits the man of the hour. He doesn’t have a tray or a lunch box. Just a steel thermos, the contents of which he mindlessly stirs while reading from his book. He sits by himself at a table, but he might as well be the center of gravity.
I tip my mouth toward Twig. “If we had superhuman hearing, how many of these conversations do you think would be about him?”
“If I had to make a bet, I’d say all of them.”
I twist my lips to the side. Beneath all that obscene perfection, he’s just another student, stuck in this cafeteria, forced to breathe the same air as the rest of us.
I glance left, toward our usual table, and make eye contact with Harper.
The moment I square my shoulders and turn toward Jude’s table, her eyes go buggy.
“Selah,” Twig hisses, following sheepishly. “What are you doing?”
“Being hospitable,” I hiss back.
All eyes follow our approach. By the time I set my tray in front of the seat beside Jude, a hush has fallen.
I stick out my hand. “Hi, I’m Selah. I live in your carriage house.”
He looks up from his well-worn copy of Macbeth and blinks at my outstretched arm, ribbons of steam curling from his thermos.
Coffee, by the looks of it. Probably some super expensive, French blend his stepmother brought with them from Europe.
When it becomes obvious he has no interest in shaking my hand, I pull out the chair and sit.
If he recognizes me as the girl he made intense eye contact with earlier, he doesn’t let on.
“Did you know actors won’t say that name in a theater?” I nod at his book. “They call it ‘The Scottish Play’ because the production is supposedly cursed.”
“If you believe in that sort of thing,” he says.
“Oh, I relish that sort of thing.” I open my chocolate milk. “But I guess we’re not in a theater, so we should be safe. This is my friend, Twig.”
Jude quirks an eyebrow.
“Spencer,” Twig says, his voice cracking mid-syllable as he drops awkwardly into the seat next to mine.
“But everyone calls him Twig.”
Except his family.
And my dad.
Twig stuffs his mouth full of mystery meat.
Jude stirs his coffee.
I take a drink of my milk and resign myself to being the carrier of this conversation. “So, you’re a fan of tragedies?”
“I’m a fan of classic literature.”
I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of his schedule, which sits on the other side of his thermos.
We share a class. U.S. History, final period.
“Well, then,” I say, “I’m happy to report AP Lit will be right up your alley.
You missed Of Mice and Men, but you got here right on time for The Scarlett Letter. ”
Both classics.
Both tragic.
“If the trajectory continues, we’ll be reading The Bell Jar by the end of the semester. Mrs. Cannery loves herself a depressing tale.” I take a bite of my pizza.
Jude continues brooding.
I had hoped this little meet and greet might act as a sort of olive branch, an apology on behalf of my classmates. We are capable of treating him like a normal person. At the moment, he’s not making it easy.
“So,” I say, throwing my voice into a lower register, “what kind of literature do you enjoy, Selah?” I tilt my head in the other direction and speak from the opposite corner of my mouth. This time, in my normal voice. “Oh, so nice of you to ask, Jude.”
He narrows his eyes.
“If we’re sticking with Shakespeare, I’d have to go with The Tempest.” Magic. Spirits. Strange happenings on an island. It’s definitely my cup of tea. “If we’re straying from the playwright, I’d probably go with The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.”
“Small-town folklore,” Jude says.
“And a headless horseman.” I take another bite of my pizza. Mostly to keep from verbalizing another defining feature of the classic—mysterious disappearances. That seems to strike too close to home where Jude Vandenberg is concerned.
I set my elbows on the table. “We should carpool.”
“What?”
“Carpool. Here, to school.”
“Why?”
“We live on the same property. Might as well use it to decrease our carbon footprint.”
He doesn’t respond.
“I met your cousin,” I say.
Twig coughs. I think my declaration made him choke on his Powerade. It definitely changed something about Jude’s demeanor. I’d love to read into it, but the bell rings. He rises to his feet like he can’t get away fast enough.
“See you in history,” I say.
For a second, I think he’s going to leave without acknowledging me at all. But then he caps his thermos and our eyes connect all over again.
It comes with a jolt.
A zinger of heat.
A strike of lightning.
Like his gaze and mine are live wires touching.
His golden brown eyes smolder with something like intrigue, like he feels it, too. But then Twig coughs some more, and Jude walks away.