Luke was at my elbow, saying, “I think I’m going to have to leave early. I think I might have to go now.”
I was about to protest or beg unabashedly for his number when I realized the clapping had gone quiet. The voice crackled on the speaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s six o’clock, and as promised, we’re going to announce the winners of the grand prize. Thank you everyone for competing and sharing your talent with us. The judges would like to congratulate the grand prize winners for this year’s arts festival—Deirdre Monaghan and Luke Dilling.”
Luke whispered into my ear, close enough that his lips brushed my hair. “Tell me you want to see me again.”
I smiled.
three
Hey psycho, what’s up?”
I rolled back onto my bed, cradling the phone on my shoulder. “Nothing much.” I caught sight of the clock on my bedstand and groaned. “James, it’s not really ten o’clock, is it?” He didn’t have to answer. I could tell from the fierceness of the sun coming through the white curtains that it was late.
“I hear,” James said, “that introverts have to sleep a lot after stressful encounters with people.”
I sat up. “That’s true.” It was also true that I’d spent way too much time last night unable to sleep. Thinking about winning the whole freakin’ grand prize of the competition. Thinking about Luke. Thinking about Thornking-Ash. Mostly thinking about Luke. I didn’t mention that part to James.
“So. Today’s your birthday.” James made a sound like he was chewing something. “Sorry, hangnail. Anyway. Today! The celebration of the first day you screamed.”
“Yesterday was my birthday,” I corrected, getting out of bed. I pulled a T-shirt out of a drawer and found some jeans, cradling the phone on my shoulder. “I’m getting old.” I checked my pants from the day before for any money, and instead found the four-leaf clover that had been stuck to my phone. Good luck.
“You were busy yesterday. I’m designating today your birthday. You can’t stop me.”
“Okay, fine. It’s my birthday. Want to make something of it?”
“Actually, your mom already did. In typical overbearing fashion, she’s invited me and my parents to your house for dinner and cake this evening. Normally, this is the part where I’d complain bitterly about how you let your mom arrange your life for you, but since I really like her food, I’m not going to say anything.”
I made a face. Trust Mom to throw me a kiddie party. She’d apparently missed the memo where I officially became an adult, or maybe the memo that said you don’t arrange a teenager’s birthday like a catering event. Come to think of it, I think she missed most memos.
“Boy, thanks, Mom,” I said.
“Well, you could just tell her you wanted to hang out with me unofficially,” James suggested. “You’re the birthday girl. Snap the fingers. Make it happen.”
Ha. Make it happen. It reminded me of Luke last night, of what he’d said. You know how some people can do anything? They want something, they make it happen.
“I like that idea better,” I said slowly, distracted. I set the clover down on my bedside table, studying it—the way the sun cast a perfectly clover-shaped shadow behind it. “But you do like her food.” I cupped my hand on the edge of the table, a few inches away from the clover.
James moaned. “Oh, it pushes me over the edge, baby.”
Some people can do anything. Come here, clover.
The clover fluttered in an invisible wind. Then, leaves billowing out like a miniature ship, it scuttled across the desk into my palm.
Oh crap.
“What, not even a laugh for that? Wow, you’re never allowed to sleep late again. You’re crankier than a fat guy in stilettos.”
James voice brought me back to reality. It made me realize that the air-conditioning vents in the room were roaring; the central air had just kicked in. The blast from the vent had sent the clover rushing into my hand. Nothing more.
I was oddly relieved.
“Dee?”
“What—yeah—no—sorry.” Movement caught my eye from my window. Down below, an unfamiliar car was pulling into the driveway. “I’m really sorry, James, but I’m totally crazy right now. I think I need breakfast or caffeine or something. Can I call you back?”
“Yeah, of course. I’ve got practice today, but I’ll be around this afternoon.” His voice was concerned. “Are you okay?”
I bit my lip. I had never kept anything from him before. Duh, you’re not keeping anything from him now, either. There’s nothing to keep. “I’m okay. I’m just like you said: all introverted and worn out.”
His tone warmed slightly. “Poor Dee. Go get victuals. I’ll be ’round when you need me.” The phone clicked and I went closer to the window, pulling the curtain to the side to see who it was. I jumped slightly as I realized the driver of the car was looking up at me, craning his head out the window. Luke. How the hell did he know where I lived? Did I care?
I scurried away from the window and tore off my T-shirt. A quick and untidy dig through my closet netted a better shirt. I’d keep the jeans. They made my butt look awesome. I put the clover back in my pocket and tore down the stairs, where I encountered the first defensive lineman: Delia.
“That flute player is here. Who is he, anyway?”
Good question.
“Luke Dillon,” I said. I tried to edge past her into the kitchen but she followed, coffee cup in hand. Caffeine was her secret weapon. To foil Delia was to separate her from her coffee. It wasn’t going to happen in time to save me this morning.
“Does he go to your school?”
My lie wouldn’t have convinced Mom, but it worked for Delia. “He has friends there.”
“He was quite good-looking.”
True enough.
Mom’s voice sounded from the kitchen—more defenders, not good—and Delia shuttled me in to be finished off for good. “Who’s good-looking?” Mom was holding the coffeepot; she refilled Delia’s cup, not realizing that she was topping off Delia’s head-demoness powers by doing so. I tried to see out, past the yellow-checked curtains above the sink.
“The flute player who just pulled into the driveway,” Delia replied.
Mom spun toward the window. “I didn’t see anyone come up! He hasn’t knocked, has he?”
I said firmly, “I’m going outside.”