13. Belt, Bra, and Stalking

Rose had lived with Walter Avery in the quiet dust of his red brick home for two weeks in August without incident. But the day before school was to begin, Rose made a mistake. Avery's boss had come for dinner, and Rose answered his questions politely, but reticently. She was generally distrustful of people, especially strangers, but the man was friendly, so she allowed her defenses to slip. And for that, she was beaten. Whipped with Avery's belt. And Rose had made her way into school that day five months ago, blood and pus oozing through her shirt, shaking and grateful to be away from him.

Now, it was pure unfiltered fear that made her step into the director's office and sit down next to him. She knew what he was capable of, and she really didn't want to experience it again. At best, they would send her back to California if she spoke up. He had treated her worse than any home there, but she had fallen in love with magic, with the school. She didn't want to leave it, to go back to where everyone thought she was crazy. No. Never. So she shuffled straight-legged into the room and sat gingerly on the edge of the empty chair next to Avery, ready to bolt if need be.

"Very well, thank you for giving up your time to come in today, Mr. Avery. Rose is an outstanding student. She has made excellent grades since coming to Whitman."

Avery patted his pudgy belly. "Well, well. That's nice to hear."

"I'm told she stands out in English and math as a top student. Her Arts teacher is equally impressed. Indeed, she seems to have a love for learning that we as educators yearn for from all our pupils," Olivier continued.

Rose stared out the window behind the director's head while he spoke, her eyes trailing a pair of old ladies walking by. She kept her face impassive. Hearing praise directed towards her was rare. But she was confused. A top student in English? She had earned a B last quarter, not exactly a nerd. Nevertheless, Rose appreciated it, valuable and priceless all at once. And it set her a bit more at ease. She released the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

"We do have some concerns about Rose we'd like to share with you, though," the director gestured at Dean Whitley to take over. Rose clenched the wooden arms of chair. Did they know? Alastair must have informed them about her injuries, she realized. He would have to as a student officer. She steeled herself for what was coming.

The dean cleared her throat, "Yes. Well, as Dr. Olivier said, we have some concerns. For one thing, it has been extremely cold, and Rose has no winter coat. Secondly, we have noticed that her uniform and street clothes don't fit, as you can clearly see. We feel that her basic needs are not being met."

Rose flushed with relief. It seemed obvious Alastair hadn't told them, or they would have led with that. But now she wanted to crawl under the desk and never come out. Was there anyone who hadn't noted her awkward, ill-fitting wardrobe? She flinched as Avery answered.

"Well, I'm not sure how much Rose has told you," his voiced dripped. His clammy hand came to rest on Rose's arm, "but..."

Rose wanted to retract her arm, but she was frozen in place.

"Wait, she speaks with you at home?" interrupted the director. "It is my understanding that she is unable." He frowned down at a manila file that Rose assumed was her record. He fluttered through the pages, then looked up expectantly.

"Of course, she doesn't speak," Avery cast Rose a triumphant, satisfied glance, his grin sickening her. "I merely meant, I didn't know how much she had communicated to you. You see, Rose has only been in my custody since late July. I have been a good guardian in that time, haven't I, Rose?" he patted her arm.

Rose nodded stiffly. Her stomach was boiling, bubbling. Saliva flooded into her mouth. She wished more than anything in this moment for him to move his hand.

"I had no idea she didn't have a coat, as her aunt had already taken her shopping, and of course I haven't seen her since school started, so I had no way of knowing she had outgrown her uniform. Obviously I would have tended to these needs had I been aware."

"Well, that is exactly why we called the meeting, sir, to make you aware of these issues," Whitley pushed.

Avery leered at Rose, making her skin want to flee from her body, get a fake ID, and start a new life on someone else's bones in Tahiti or Zimbabwe or something. "I can certainly take her shopping." That thought was way too creepy.

"Actually," said Whitley, leaning forward, her fingers lacing together. "I was going to suggest that you provide funds from her trust, and I will take her. It would be best for a woman to take her shopping at this age," insisted Dean Whitley.

Avery was clearly annoyed, his fleshy hands clenching and unclenching spasmodically, Rose's arm finally freed from his grasp. She folded her arms across her chest.

"Of course, yes. Very well, I will have the lawyer send money straight away, but of course, today being Saturday, it will not be until Monday," Avery said, standing to leave. "Unless there's anything else, I really should get going."

This last part gave Rose pause, wondering if she had heard correctly. What trust? What lawyer? What money?

"Thank you, that was it," said the director. "As I said, we certainly do appreciate your time."

Dr. Olivier stood and reached across the desk to shake Avery's hand. Rose watched as her middle-aged guardian sidled out of the room. He was average height (in fact Rose thought she might be taller than he at this point) and doughy, with a soft face and mousy brown hair just going gray. Walter Avery looked deceptively kind, she decided as he left the building, like a malicious Mister Rogers.

"Okay, Rose. Well, I'd like to take you shopping today. We will go ahead and buy you new clothes and a coat today and get reimbursed by your guardian."

Rose nodded, trembling as her fear drained away, her spine relaxing into a rounded slouch. She wished she could find a way to push the surfacing memories back down, bottle them and cast them out to sea for someone else to find.

"Rose?"

She looked up at Whitley's expectant face.

"Are you all right?"

Rose conjured paper and reached for a pen, writing her lie quickly: Just a little embarrassed. And like every good lie, it was partly true.

Whitley nodded, reaching her hand out to Rose's shoulder, "Let's go."

They left the school immediately, walking the half-dozen blocks to Macy's, Rose wrapped in an extra coat of the dean's. The store was huge and beautiful, still done up for Christmas. Glittery garlands drooped around the counters, and fake snow-covered trees stood sentinel in the middle of the main aisles. It smelled like cinnamon and perfume.

They rode the escalators up to the fourth floor. Rose was ready to run all over again when she saw where the dean led her. Seriously? I have to buy underwear with this lady watching? she thought. Could she not read my writing? E-m-b-a-r-r-a-s-s-e-d.

Whitley found a clerk to help them. "She needs to be fitted for some supportive undergarments," she said, gesturing toward Rose.

"Huh?" the clerk looked puzzled.

"A brassiere."

"What?" the girl tipped forward as if she misheard.

"A bra," Whitley said impatiently.

"Oh, a bra! Okay," the salesperson began digging under the counter and pulling out a measuring tape.

Whitley turned to Rose, "Here," she thrust a wad of bills into Rose's hands. "Get what you need. I'll be back in about fifteen minutes."

Rose was pretty sure her face must have been purple, like the ripest plum. Did she just tell that lady to fit her for a bra? What exactly did that entail? It couldn't possibly be good. She stood in humiliation as this strange woman pulled up her arms, wrapped measuring tape around her chest and muttered calculations. I really cannot believe this is happening to me, she thought.

She had heard girls in the dorm bathroom talking about their bra size and was surprised by the number and letter combination the girl said in the end. Her body had changed so much, as if the consistent meals and magic at Whitman had sent her rocketing into womanhood in hyperdrive. The clerk wound the tape around her hips, then helped her find bras and underwear in the right size. She chose inexpensive cotton sets, wanting to be frugal, handing more than half the money back to Dean Whitley as she arrived.

"Oh, I meant for you to spend it all. Did you get enough for at least a week or two?"

Rose nodded, thinking that she never wanted to talk abut her underwear with the dean again.

"Okay, let's go find you a coat and some street clothes. We'll go to another store for the uniform on the way back."

They spent over an hour shopping, the dean choosing interesting tops and dresses for Rose. They were really grown up and feminine, flattering her shape in ways that made her seem older. Rose preferred t-shirts and jeans. But, she liked the way she looked in the stuff the dean chose, so she ended up buying a mix, her style turning out schizophrenic, half rocker tomboy, half sophisticated socialite. She got a heavy oversized coat, and a set of gloves, hat and scarf.

Rose was surprised when Whitley took her to the shoe department, figuring her shoes were fine. "We'll need to get you some cute flats for those dresses." And they did, along with some new Chuck Taylors and heavy boots.

On their way out, Dean Whitley pulled Rose aside at the jewelry department. "I want you to pick anything you want, Rose. This will be my birthday present to you," she placed a warm hand on Rose's back.

Rose didn't know what to think. Here she thought no one knew or remembered her birthday, which was tomorrow. She smiled but shook her head.

"Rose, let me buy you something nice," she persisted. Rose shrugged and the dean directed her towards the displays.

There were so many racks and glass cabinets to view, but Rose headed straight for a tall spinning shelf that had silver, pewter and marcasite, all of which looked sort of rocker-ish. She knew what to get immediately when she walked over. There was a dark gray pendant on a long chain, a marcasite-crusted rose winding around to a stem with thorns and leaves, in a sort of twisted figure 8. She held it up for the dean.

"Lovely. How about the rose earrings too," she pointed out a pair of rose studs with marcasite accents.

She got both and wore them out of the store, leaving with several huge bags of clothes and shoes, all of which were far nicer than anything she had owned before. There was no way Avery was sending this much money to the school, Rose was certain.

At the uniform shop, Rose selected skirts and tights instead of pants. She got five white button-down shirts, two new blazers with the school's logo on the pocket, and a couple of navy cardigans. At the dean's urging, she added one pair of uniform pants that were just a little too long, in case she grew again.

She returned to school that afternoon completely overwhelmed. This day had been so strange... Shopping, getting her first bra. And wow, she had skipped over the training phase of bras; hell, she pole vaulted over it! What exactly, she wondered while she rode to the ninth floor, got trained? Was she going to have some future issues for not having sent her boobs to boot camp? She shook her head, laughing through her nose at the picture playing in her mind.

This day had not been all good, though. Seeing Avery sitting in the director's office had scared her. But, she had faced her demon and survived. Not to mention, she learned that somewhere there was a trust in her name. As she unpacked and changed into her new clothes, she wondered how much money there was, and how much of it Avery had spent. She heaped her old clothes that didn't fit on the bed, gathering the pile in her arms to throw away as she left for lunch.

««•»»

Late Saturday morning, Alastair was awakened by another call from an unknown number. He rolled out of bed sleepily and searched for the phone in the living room. Its ringing seemed to get louder, as if the phone were annoyed that he hadn't picked it up yet. Finally, he found it buried under the couch cushions. It was the same number that had called before.

"Dad, you need to leave us alone." He hung up, glancing at his mother's closed bedroom door. She was home, and she was ignoring him. Still.

The phone rang again a minute later, the same number.

"I told y--"

"Is this Alastair Silver?"

Now he was really confused. He had no idea who was on the line. "Oh, uh, yes."

"Hey, sorry about the calls. I'm a friend of Keira's. She asked me to call you."

Keira Ortiz, the punk girl who smacked her gum. "You have called my house about a hundred times over the last three weeks. What the hell is going on?"

There was laughter on the other end. And a knock at his door.

He was about two steps away from his front door, so he pulled it open quickly. There stood Keira, that guy Jonathan who had been with her the first time, and a much shorter one with a cell phone in his hands.

"Hi," he said into the phone. "I'm Cesar."

"What are you guys playing at, huh?" Alastair was in no mood for their bull.

"Calm down," Keira smacked, striding past him into the living room. "I remembered how smart and cool you were in school, so I wanted to hang out with you."

"So you stalk me? How did you even get my number?"

"Not stalking," Cesar chuckled. "I have some, let's say, advanced computer skills, which allowed me to get your number from the school's files. I just needed to call it a few times to track you down."

"That's pretty much the definition of stalking," Jonathan rolled his eyes at them.

Alastair couldn't help but laugh. "Well, listen, I'm sorry to have to say this, but I have to head back to school, so you guys have to go. But maybe some other time."

"Yeah, all right," Keira walked back out to the hallway. "Another time."

Alastair liked Keira's friends well enough, but there was something about her that was off. The dilated pupils. The way everything was so casual and funny to her. It creeped him out a little. He shook his head and began packing to return to school.

Alastair was set to return a couple of days early, as all other student officers must. There were preparations that needed to be made for the spring semester. So, Saturday afternoon, Alastair returned to school without a tearful mother waving goodbye, but with one still shut up in her room and in anger. Alastair arrived back at school that afternoon in time for lunch. The dining hall reopened for the return of the student officers, and he greeted them with an awkward smile. As he loaded his tray with food, he caught a glimpse of a tall, beautiful girl walking into the room. He looked back with a blink, and saw that it was Rose.

"Damn," Maggie whispered at his side. "She's like a model."

He nodded. She really was. She had traded her unflattering, small clothes for ones that fit, and it aged her from thirteen to twenty. She was leggy and long, and as she walked closer, he estimated her height at five foot nine. Her jeans hugged her hips pleasantly, her t-shirt rounded out...

Whoa, oh god, Alastair thought, flushing red. Now I'm the cradle robber. She's just a kid.

He waved a friendly hello to her, and turned away to find his table with Maggie, feeling dirty for looking at her that way. But, he couldn't help himself; he snuck a look back over his shoulder. She looked just as good from the back.

He sat down to eat, remembering Rose kneeling next to him, retching bile upon blood, her arm gluing itself back together. She would make an excellent character for my comic, he thought, already picturing what the character would look like. He couldn't wait for a chance to draw. Large dark eyes framed by long dark hair, he imagined, tight black superhero outfit. Giant... uh... powers.

The student officers had their leadership team meeting right after lunch, and Alastair was eager to get it started. He had spent a good portion of his break wondering about all the strange events this year.

"All right everyone, let's begin," said Dean Whitley.

"Where's Dr. Olivier?" asked Miguel, a sophomore SO.

Whitley turned to him with irritation, "He is tied up at the moment, but he'll be along shortly. Let's begin," she said sternly. "As you no doubt recall, after the incident at MoMA, we decided to send the license plate information and description of the van to Geraldine Noble up at the governor's office."

The congregated leaders nodded their agreement. It had been quite a debate, half the group preferring to leave it for the police to handle, half wanting to keep it among practitioners. In the end, the latter half won.

"We had hoped that she would be able to track down the registration, giving us an idea who may be involved. Unfortunately, she was not able to find a match. In other words, no vans had a similar license plate. So we are no further along than we were before."

A discouraged rumble passed around the room, which quickly dissipated as the director walked in.

"So sorry, folks, I got held up with a phone call. Where are we, Dean?"

"I've just caught them up about the van."

Dr. Olivier pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture Alastair read as frustration, or maybe fatigue.

"Very good. Okay, well, let me share the information that has just come in."

He sat down heavily at the head of the table. Alastair didn't like the look of this. He knew there was no such thing as a premonition, yet at the same time, he had a bad feeling. This was his eleventh year at Whitman, and he had never seen the director so ruffled.

"We received an abundance of letters and phone calls over the break," Olivier paused. Alastair assumed that he must mean from parents, so he was surprised when the director explained. "A number of fellow practitioners have learned of the intrusion both here and at the museum. Many of them feel we should become more, um, aggressive with our approach."

He looked around the room, seeming to gauge the reaction of the staff and students before dropping the bomb.

"Indeed, a consortium of dark practitioners has begun to assemble for just that purpose. In an anonymous phone call, they just stated that they will do whatever is necessary to stop these Secret Seekers, including taking out one of our own if we stand in their way." He went on to detail more of what they said.

The crowd burst into sound, everyone talking agitatedly, even Daniel Choi letting out a string of cuss words that was out of character for him.

Alastair watched the eruption without comment, disturbed and frightened by the director's latest news. He had heard the dark incantation that day at the museum, so he had no doubt that they really would harm someone in order to stop the masked figures. He was terrified at the thought of it. He had felt the darkness overtake him before, and he knew what happened inside him when he lost Control. But dark practitioners were not known for their organization. In fact, their very nature was that of disorder and chaos. They had lost Control. They were more like strung-out junkies than the militaristic formation the director seemed to be fearing.

Once the meeting settled down, the director continued, "Well, we have what can only be described as a crisis. This situation could get out of Control quickly if we don't determine the identity of the intruders soon. We cannot afford to have dark practitioners running loose around our little ones. So, how do we prevent this catastrophe?"

"I'm not sure we can," sighed Dr. Fitzhugh, hobbling into the room with the aide of a cane.

"Marty! So glad to see you back, my friend," Bennett went to shake the history teacher's hand, assisting him to his seat. Fitzhugh patted Bennett's hand affectionately.

"The men who seek our secrets are ruthless," Fitzhugh continued. "But dark practitioners are far worse. We cannot hope to stop what's coming, so the best we can do is brace for it. We will have to be vigilant. Let's reinforce our defenses, restrict access to the school, encourage everyone to stay with another person at all times."

The room had fallen silent at his assessment of the perils facing them. He knew better than any of them. Alastair was shocked at his appearance. Dr. Fitzhugh had clearly lost a great deal of weight, and his face was sunken and sallow. He did not look at all well.

"We will continue security patrols, and little ones will be escorted by a teacher or older student at all times," Whitley added. "What about the parents? Are we at the point that we should inform them?"

"I have already done so. The field trip caused a stir among the students, and rightly so. It was traumatic, I have been told, to see the blood from Mr. Silver's injury," Olivier paused as the students and teachers who were present nodded in assent. "I had no choice but to alert the families. As I'm sure you can imagine, some of them may well be joining our misguided counterparts."

"And what about these dark practitioners? What's our plan?" asked Coach Jensen, the burly athletics director.

"We prepare to fight, to defend," rasped Fitzhugh. "It's all we can do."

The meeting melted to a close with preparations for the new quarter. Alastair was pulled from creative writing for patrols, as each junior and senior SO gave up an elective in order to bolster the school's protection. Meanwhile every magic class would spend time reviewing basic defenses with the students. The staff would handle the rest of the security on their own.

««•»»

And with that, January fled, leaving a frosty February in its place. Perhaps it was these new defenses or the blast of ice that winter dropped on the city, but there were no incidents from the unknown assailants. Rose was excited by the new focus on defensive magic in Incantations and History of Magic; she wanted more than ever to learn how to defend against attacks, no matter the source.

Cain began teaching them different protective incantations, like Rebound, which returns a dark incantation on the person who cast it. They only practiced it with regular, harmless spells like Levitate, but the effect was still cool. Even though everyone knew that they were practicing this defense, there was no shortage of surprised faces when their own incantation swept over them, lifting them off the ground.

"This will only protect you against dark magic, guys," Cain cautioned them. "If you come across non-magical people with traditional weapons like guns, this won't do anything at all. Their bullets will not, I repeat, will not boomerang around and shoot them instead of you."

Anxiety bubbled among the students, as a nervous rustle of voices and shifting bodies filled the otherwise quiet room.

"I don't mean to alarm you, except that I do, I guess. We have real enemies emerging out there, unfortunately, and we have to be prepared. When it comes to guns or knives or even fists, we have to use other means. Object Manipulation is a great option. Fling something at them, assuming there's something to fling."

Rose scribbled a question in her notebook and showed it to Ellie.

"Can you use OM on the gun or knife?" Ellie asked in her stead, without bothering to raise her hand.

Cain seemed to be intrigued by the idea. "Ya know, it has been rare that we've had the unpleasant chance to find that out. I don't know whether anyone has tried it, but I would venture to guess they have. So my answer, Rose," he grinned at her, "is I don't know. I'll have the staff run some experiments and get back to you."

Rose nodded back, appreciating that when he didn't know, he said he didn't know. She hated when teachers just made stuff up to cover when they didn't have the answer.

««•»»

For Alastair, the weeks swept by while he worked on two big projects. First, he found ways to add his new character into the developing plot of his comic. A healer. A hot healer. He sketched so fast, he ended up with pencil smudged all over his palm and the paper. She was the defense against bullets and bayonets in his story. He named her Phoenix, as she and those she healed rose from the fire, reborn, then he added flames to the front of her skin-clinging bodysuit. He found some of his original squares of action and added her in, flying down to save Hannah and Robert. But like Rose, Phoenix didn't speak. He was inspired, adding fictional powers for his likeness as well, like mind reading, so Robert could communicate with Phoenix. What an awesome power that would be! To read minds. To know what these crazy girls were thinking...

The second project was a painting to give Sarah for Valentine's Day, a sort of thank you for his birthday present and love letter all in one. It was a scene from his memory, a beautiful day from their childhood. They had played all day at Central Park, running and rolling, barking at the sea lions at the zoo. They ate ice cream and played with boats and climbed statues. He had loved her, and she had loved him, and all was right with the world.

He wanted to remind her of that time. That time before she and her parents had moved away to Brooklyn, before Mason had spoiled her heart, before he had railed at her with his hands leaking evil. Alastair wanted more than anything for her to know he still cared, would always care. But he was hesitant as he painted. He wasn't sure he wanted to layer it with love. There was no question in his heart, he loved her. He loved her like he breathed, automatically and unceasingly. But, to tell someone that, to show her. That was a scary thought. He held back on the Empathic Magic, only letting little smatters of his feeling onto the page.

And, early on Valentine's Day, Alastair found Sarah in the Familiars lab, which was where she spent most of her time. She had told him from the day they met that she wanted to be a vet, and with all the time she spent tending to the animals, he knew she would. It was one of the things he loved about her; she had such a delicate hand with them, maternal even. She would be a great mother. He wanted her to be the mother of his children. Not yet, of course. Someday. But for now, he would happily settle for practice. He smiled at the thought.

She looked up from the injured kitten she was feeding as he walked in. Her green eyes made his stomach twirl and swoop, like a nerve-wracking waltz. It made him dizzy, but it was such a beautiful dance. He wanted her to dance with him.

"Hi," she spoke so quietly, he almost didn't hear her. She lowered her eyes back to the ball of fur squirming in her hands.

"What happened to him?" Alastair asked gently.

"Idiot kid surged too much power from him," she said acidly. She finished administering medicine, then placed the little creature back in its habitat.

The lab wasn't as cold as it sounded, like a place where they do testing with metal tables and wire cages with a towel to sleep on. Instead, it was a large room divided into several smaller habitats for the animals, complete with furniture, grass, trees, whatever it was that the animals might want. For sick and injured animals, there were smaller environments that were still warm and comforting. Of course, these areas were closed off, not to keep the animals in, but to keep each other out. The birds wouldn't want cats coming in and eating them, and so on.

"You're really great with them," Alastair smiled. "Still planning to become a vet?"

Sarah turned away, her back to him. "Yeah, but the best schools are Cornell and UC Davis. Cornell is too expensive, and Davis is too far away. So, I don't know." She shook her head as she fiddled with stacks of paper.

"I'm sure you'll get scholarships, Sarah."

She shook her head again, "I'm not even sure I have the grades to get in."

Alastair was filled with the desire to touch her, to hold her. He stepped forward, reaching his hands out. He found her hair, her shoulders, her arms. He breathed in the scent of her shampoo, fruity and sweet.

"What are you doing?" She yipped and pushed him away, storming out of the room.

"Wait, I, Sarah--" he chased after her.

She had already rounded the corner and was waiting in front of the admin wing elevator. She paced in agitation, her arms folded across her chest.

"Please. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. You seemed upset. I just," he fumbled for his words. "I wanted to give you this."

Rose exited the stairs Saturday morning planning to drop off some books she had borrowed from Bennett. Her Myths class had ended with the last quarter and had been replaced with Play Production, which she learned was the class that would be putting on the spring musical. That first day, she had shuffled into the auditorium timidly, completely unsure what to expect. What she found was chaos. There were people everywhere, standing around, singing, dancing, talking. As far as Rose could tell, there was no teacher. Every day since, she sat in the back while masses of dancers and actors argued over what play to choose.

This morning as she stepped out onto the fourth floor, she paused hearing Alastair's voice pleading with someone. She moved to where she could see. Alastair's hands shook as he held a drawing out to an angry blonde girl. The girl took it, and her expression changed as she stared down at the page. She half-laughed, shaking her head.

"I wanted to thank you for the art supplies you gave me for my birthday, so I painted this for you."

Rose's heart began to pound. So this was her. Sarah.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, the elevator opening behind her. "I didn't give you anything for your birthday."

The jerks who threw food at Alastair got out of the elevator, and Rose watched with dread. There was no way this could go well, she knew, remembering how Tommy and Alastair nearly fought before the vacation.

"Is this loser bothering you again, Sarah?" the shorter one asked, puffing his chest like a cartoon bird.

"No, Mason, come on, forget it," she simpered.

He poked Alastair in the shoulder. "I'm pretty sure I've made it clear to you. Leave her alone."

Tommy reached out a hand and pulled Mason back. "Hey, let's just go. Come on, man."

Rose was surprised to see Tommy restrain his friend when he had been so vicious earlier in the year. It reminded her of his drumming in class, calming, soothing. He was trying to calm Mason, it seemed, who just shrugged him off.

"Sarah, you're so much more than this, a puppet on his strings. Please," Alastair implored. "Please, I miss you. I luh--"

Sarah stepped toward Alastair, holding his painting up before him. "I. Don't. Like. You," each word punctuated with a tearing of the page. Rose felt her heart falling with the scattered paper, heard it pounding in her ears as time seemed to slow, like wading through muddy water. "I don't like you, and I could never love you."

Alastair turned without a word and left, walking right past Rose without seeing. His face was blank, like an unplugged television. She jumped as he slammed the door to the stairwell. She couldn't believe that this girl could be so mean.

"Wow. That was harsh," Tommy breathed out, as if he had been holding it.

"Naw, dude, that's the only way he'll ever get it," said Mason, throwing his arm over Tommy's shoulders. He wrapped the other around Sarah's waist and began to steer them away.

"Happy Valentine's day," Sarah said.

"Oh, yeah! Happy v-day, Babe," Mason replied nonchalantly as they moved out of earshot.

Rose stood in shock. Why on earth did he love her? This girl was as cruel as the boys she skipped off with, shredding Alastair in front of the kids she had to know regularly bullied him. Either there was more to this situation, or Alastair was really shallow, caring only about her looks. From everything Rose knew of him, it had to be the former.

Alastair took the stairs up two at a time until he reached the dorm. He was decimated. Annihilated. Burned beyond recognition. He was nothing now but ashes. His face flamed red with anger, humiliation, agony. He had worked for weeks trying to make it perfect, to show her he cared. How could she look at that painting, at their friendship, then tear it up in his face? Okay, he had yelled obscenities at her two years ago, but shouldn't their history mean something to her? More than this at least. He crawled into bed, pulled the covers over his head in self pity, and didn't emerge until dinner the next day.

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