The reversal and match were surprisingly easy. Deya found Beach Rat a match so quickly, I could almost be embarrassed that I didn’t see her. If I cared. She owns the coconut stand that Beach Rat makes a point of exercising by. Poor Fifteen was arguing with her parents that she and Beach Rat were made for each other. He was arguing the same thing in rapid Portuguese when Deya made me shoot the reversal arrow. A quick prompting had him looking at the coconut stand owner. I matched them in an instant, and it was like nothing ever happened. They won’t remember a thing.
Whoop-de-doo.
So we’re just in time for lunch when we transport ourselves from Rio to Ben’s high school in Flagstaff.
The smell is the first thing I notice. I step into the gray girl’s bathroom at Ponderosa High, wrinkle my nose, and push open an orange stall door that bears the message, “Jake Edwards is a skank.” The stall door next to mine opens a moment later, and out walks Deya. She looks more like a runway model than a high school student, but this is as much as she’ll water down her beauty.
We both glance in the mirror to do a once over. In my standard mortie uniform of jeans, a concert T-shirt, and Vans, I feel comfortable. For all my famed glory, I love playing mortal. I darken my too-bright blue eyes, turn my honey-blonde waves into shoulder-length curls with a bit of frizz, and add freckles to my naturally tan skin. For fun, I give myself an eyebrow that arches more than the other and a nose slightly too big for my face. I smile at the result. Cute, but forgettable, exactly as I should be. Even Deya is forgettable to mortals. It’s part of our anti-glamour, so to speak. We’re as pleasant and attractive as we need to be to blend seamlessly into any circle. The moment someone’s attention is off of us, though, it’s like we never existed.
“You ready to finish your job?” Deya’s reflection asks mine. “The bell should ring any moment.” She raises a finger and lowers it at the exact moment the bell rings.
“Yes, mother,” I mumble.
The gray and orange from the bathroom bleeds into the hallway. Students pour from classrooms, sneakers screech on the vinyl floor. Posters and banners practically scream at us to join this club or sign up for that dance. It’s like a full-body cacophony. Add in some wine and a little nudity, and you’d have yourself a good old-fashioned Dionysian revel.
We pass the teacher’s lounge, where I see Mr. Gunner, the twenty-something PE and World History teacher who is Ben’s favorite. Rumor has it he’s quite the archer himself, which naturally piqued my curiosity. But looking at him now, I’m arrested by the sadness that clings to him. Resignation pulls at the corners of his brown eyes in a way that pricks my heart.
What did the Fates do to him?
A nudge in my ribs pulls my attention from Mr. Gunner to Deya. She gestures down the length of the hall to Ben, who’s coming this way.
My stomach does a little flip in a show of nerves. I haven’t felt these flutters over a match since the Thunderclap.
“So who’s his match?” Deya asks.
“Oh, um . . .” I do a quick glance around the hall. “She’s not here. I’ll just come back later.”
She grabs my arm before I can port back to Olympus. “You don’t think you should wait for a couple of minutes? She’s probably talking to a teacher, or something. You can’t tell me you don’t know her schedule and habits after five weeks.”
I very heroically do not huff, choosing a smile instead. “You’re right, Deya. Thank you so much for imparting your endless wisdom to me.”
I expect an eye roll—which I kind of deserve—but I get a concerned look instead.
“Kal, I know the last year has been hard on you. Everything with the Thunderclap and with Hector.”
“Don’t,” I say, feeling like the ichor in my veins has turned to lava. “Don’t bring that up now.”
“I’m not trying to bring anything up. I just hope you know I have your back. Matching takes a lot out of a goddess, even without everything you’ve been through.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “I understand why you’re mad at the Fates. The Oracle, too. If you’d been called as something else, say as a muse . . .” She stops herself. “Anyway, if I can help, I will. Always.”
Emotion tugs my lips tight, so that I’m neither frowning nor smiling when I say, “Thanks, Deya.”
She looks back into the hall, and I see her eyes land on Ben, whose eyes are on someone else: Zoe. She’s a bold, warm, ambitious, and adorable cheerleader whose only nervous habit is twisting her spectacularly red hair. She and Ben were friends growing up, but her family moved to Sedona a few years ago and just moved back last summer. My research tells me that Ben has had a lot of first dates since Zoe got back into town. A few second and third dates, too, but nothing more. Coincidence? Not even remotely. When Zoe sees Ben between the swell of students, she heads straight toward him. Instead of holding her gaze, Ben looks away, and a flash of doubt and pain wrinkles his brow.
“Oh, wow,” Deya whispers. “I know I can’t soulgaze like you and your dad, but he’s hurting, isn’t he?”
She’s right. I don’t need to use my gift to see the raw need for love that hovers over him like a broken dream. I want to protect him. This beautiful, brooding, remarkably talented bass player with hair that falls in front of his eyes when he’s embarrassed and who longs for someone to put him first the way his father never has.
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