October 21st

Cleaning out my new room was a constant treasure hunt, always ending with something beautiful and vintage. I'd been excited when I first found the little brass clock hidden among the junk in the closet, but now, as I lay in the dark, the ticking felt like the prelude to my execution. I imagined myself smashing the alarm clock against the wall.

Breathe.

Most of the night had been spent like this—suffering first-day jitters for the third time in one semester. It wasn't humane. My mind time-warped to Paris, reminding me how pathetic I'd felt lying in my dorm room, terrified of the sun rising. I'd been so jealous of my roommate, who lay peacefully asleep while my pulse raced. But Paris was different: over there, everyone had just cause to prejudge me. I was the foreigner invading their land of wealth and glamour. Feeling like a foreigner in my hometown was so much worse.

5:12 a.m.

I rolled over, groaning. The cute, little alarm clock went flying into the wall.

"Shit!" I sat up. All three lamps snapped on.

I hope it's not broken. I looked at the clock lying on the floor and then over at the corner where a small pile of things I'd destroyed over the last week had accumulated. This parlor trick—ability, whatever you call it—was out of control and one more reason I had new-school anxiety.

Now that my nerves were fired up, I conceded to the day's events. Standing. Stretching. Forcing my skin to embrace the chill in the air.

***

Legs shaved, skin moisturized, and hair tamed, I pressed the power button on the boom box, not caring that it was too loud for six in the morning. I didn't care if it woke my father; he had no reason to be out all night given the curfew. Plus, as far as I was concerned, me having to go to the Academy was entirely his fault.

"Add one more tally to the dead-body count," the DJ said, and I turned to look at the speaker. "The NOPD still doesn't have anything to say about these recently reported crimes." Then he went on about the lack of aid from the federal government.

Ugh. Listening to people rant about our demise wasn't going to help my anxiety. Without moving, I spun the tuner knob to the next station, but it was just more people shouting at each other, as was the next station and the next. I spun the knob until the shouting was drowned out by a boy band crooning about how beautiful I was. I walked to the full-length mirror for a self-assessment:

A little skinnier than usual . . . easily attributed to my meager diet of oatmeal, canned soup, and coffee. I hadn't eaten a piece of meat or a vegetable since my transatlantic meal on the plane, if that even counted as real food. Hanging loose, my waves fell several inches past my shoulders now, much longer than they had been at the beginning of summer—before the Storm, when life was normal. Back when Brooke and I were still planning out our junior and senior years.

I moved to the metal garment rack usually reserved for in-progress designs. Now there were just two hangers: on one hung layers of tulle covered in hand-stitched beading, and on the other hung various layers of blue, white, and gray. Three months ago I would've had trouble guessing which one was my Halloween costume.

We can't buy milk or find someone to fix our wall, but Sacred Heart has managed to get me monogrammed uniforms.

I shimmied into the scratchy polyester skirt and buttoned up the collared shirt. Over went the navy blue cardigan with ALM embroidered over my heart.

I'd never worn a uniform in my life. Even my boarding school in Paris didn't require one, hence the multiple shopping sprees with ma grand-mère. On the bright side, the uniform should make it easier to blend in. Taking cues from an old Britney Spears video, I pulled on a pair of white kneesocks and laced up the saddle Oxfords. Hmmm . . . I actually kind of liked the contrasting black-and-white leather shoes.

No amount of concealer dabbing was going to cover the dark circles under my eyes, nor had my prayers been answered about my battle wound miraculously fading overnight. My hand shook as I swept powder over the hideous pink line on my cheek. Today, the scar looked ten times longer and thicker than it had yesterday. It's not a scar, I told myself. It's going to heal. I forced myself to put the makeup brush down so it didn't end up looking worse.

Two layers of black mascara. Light-pink lip gloss. Silver chain. I knotted my hair up into a messy bun on top of my head and started to feel more like myself.

I tucked the gris-gris underneath my shirt. Am I even allowed to wear jewelry? I picked up the little velvet box, trying to suppress the angst that rose whenever I thought about my mother. It's an heirloom from Dad's side.

I popped the box open.

Light caught the milky, iridescent stone as I slid the ring onto my middle finger. The metal was warm against my skin. What era is it from? I suddenly found myself silently thanking my mother. Maybe it was the pop music (though I never would have admitted it) or the residual effects from the warm bath, but I felt a bit better. Maybe I'll actually make friends? Maybe I'll forget about Émile . . . I drew the navy-blue tie under my collar and snapped it into an X.

When I went back to the mirror, I waved my hand just to make sure the reflection belonged to me and then messaged a photo to Brooke so she could get a good laugh upon waking—maybe it would get her to call me back. I hadn't heard from her since our initial call, despite there no longer being an ocean and several time zones between us. She was probably mad at me for not moving to L.A., or maybe she had adjusted to her new life and already forgotten about me.

I tossed my notebook, Kafka, and some pens into a black canvas tote bag and felt unusually light not being weighed down with art supplies. My keys flew from across the room and fell gently into my palm. That was it. There was nothing else I could do to procrastinate. The day was officially starting. I slipped out the front door to hold up my end of the carpool deal. Coffee.

***

Small flames flickering in the gas lamps on houses led the way through the low-hanging fog, not that I needed them. I could do the walk to Café Orléans in my sleep. Regardless, it felt strange to be out in the dark after being cooped up every night since we'd been home. A glance at my watch assured me the sun would soon make an appearance. The silence, however, continued to freak me out—no bars closing up, no drunken idiots yelling, no garbage trucks disposing of last night's glut. My familiarity with the route was lost.

Chills invaded my body like a virus, giving me the sense that I wasn't alone. I pulled my cardigan closed and hustled down the last two blocks. Faster. Then to a near jog. By the time I fumbled the keys into the café door and shoved it closed behind me, paranoia had engulfed me.

Calm down. You're just nervous about school.

I twisted the key into the lock and dropped my stuff on the floor and went straight to the giant wall of now mostly empty jars. While I contemplated the only two types of fresh beans we had in stock, the gas lamp's soft light flooding in through the window flickered, as if temporarily obstructed.

A quick glance showed nothing suspicious outside.

I lifted the jar of dark-roasted Kenyan beans, but another break in the light made my heart freeze. The brass dead bolt snapped into the locked position. I walked to the large bay window and scanned the street in both directions. No one, not even a rat.

I hurried through the process of measuring, grinding, and filtering the beans, and then the machine hummed on, leaving me with nothing to do but wait for the coffee to drip.

I glanced out the window repeatedly.

It wasn't until the first rays of morning sun peeked underneath the door and the delicious scent of freshly brewed dark roast filled the air that the knot in my stomach began to untangle.

Wait, what if Désirée doesn't turn up? What if she only offered the ride to score brownie points with Gabe?

My stomach went back to knots. I glugged sugar-free vanilla syrup into one of the cups, as if getting Désirée's coffee order correct might give me some kind of good juju, and then proceeded out the front door. Between my bag and the two warm cups, my hands were full. I willed my keys out of my cardigan pocket and into the lock.

"Voilà!" The door locked, and the keys dropped back into my sweater. "Merci beaucoup."

Each heel click of my brand-new saddle Oxfords seemed to echo louder and louder down the desolate street. My pace quickened as the thought of Désirée arriving early and leaving without me chewed at my nerves.

One block later, I suddenly wasn't so sure whether the clicking on the pavement was coming from my shoes alone.

I glanced behind me.

No one.

But as I continued to walk, the sounds seemed a little sharp for my flats. I stopped short to convince myself it was in my head, but the staccato click lasted an extra step.

I started walking again. Faster.

The second set of steps followed suit, no longer trying to hide under the cover of mine. The rising sun forced me to squint. Lost in my escalating hysteria, my pace quickened to a run.

I turned the corner and smacked right into a tall, hooded figure. I fell backward, dropping everything, but before I hit the ground, his arm swept underneath my back, and he aggressively yanked me into his chest to keep me from falling. My arms reflexively shot around his shoulders.

I regained my balance and tried to back away, but his arms enclosed me, trapping me in the awkward embrace. "Let me g—"

"Shhh!"

All I could see was the blinding dawn over his shoulder. Again, I tried to break away. "Get off—"

"Shhh!" He hissed again, shaking me hard.

In the silence, I realized he was listening.

Like a hunter.

The sharp clicking of heels against cement was still approaching. Fear radiated from every part of my being, but then his intense interest in the person following me brought an unexplainable sense of relief.

I craned my neck sideways and caught the silhouette of a woman with a hooded cloak passing us on the other side of the street. She turned back and flashed a twisted smile, like she meant to taunt him. He growled so low I could barely hear it, but I felt the vibrations in his chest. For a sick split second, I hoped he might drop me and go after her, but then his grip tightened once more. His fingers dug into my rib cage, making me wince.

Then the sounds of her clicking heels faded into total silence.

We were alone.

My fingers clutched the back of his leather jacket so tightly I began to shake.

I couldn't breathe. He didn't stir.

"Scusa," he whispered. His soft words ricocheted off my neck. I forced myself to suck in air, my lungs pushing against his chest. The breath brought in a vaguely familiar scent: leather and soap. His head shifted toward me. "Are you okay?"

All I could do was nod as Niccolò's face showed from underneath the hoodie he was wearing under his jacket.

He finally let me go . . . but not completely. His cold fingers paused at the back of my neck. Chills radiated throughout my entire body as Niccolò's face showed from underneath the hoodie he was wearing under his jacket.

The way he stared down at me blankly made my voice squeak. "Fancy running into you here."

A memory. Or déjà vu. Or something flashed in my head, too fast for me to catch it. Again, I had an overwhelming feeling that I knew him from somewhere before we were introduced.

He inched closer, until our bodies were practically touching again.

My heart pounded with an aggression I'd never felt before. Is he actually going to kiss me? The closer he got, the more peculiar his eyes appeared, almost as if he were in some kind of trance. His expression seemed uneasy, and him being uneasy made me uneasy.

My voice shook. "Have you had any luck finding your family?"

His shoulders tightened. He pressed his incredibly red lips together until they became white. I immediately regretted asking. He would have mentioned good news.

"I shouldn't have brought it up. I'm sorry . . ."

He opened his mouth to reply, but before a word could come out, he snapped it shut again.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

He nodded. The bright morning light washed out his pale face.

"Your mouth . . . I think it's bleeding?"

His jaw clenched. Am I making him nervous? Beneath his pinched lips, his tongue circled over his teeth. Unlikely. He probably just doesn't want to admit he's hurt? He looked like he was struggling not to implode.

"Um, are you sure you're okay?" I raised my hand to his jawline, but he swatted it away and quickly licked his lips.

"You're bleeding." I stood on my toes to investigate. "What happened?"

This time when my hand touched his face, he covered it with his own. I trembled, unsure whether I was terrified or excited by his touch. His head lowered closer to mine.

A loud squawk broke the silence.

He blinked. His gaze slid over to the crow flapping on top of a street sign. The moment, our moment, whatever it was, was over.

He stared at the bird for a long beat, again like a hunter. "Do you think that is your crow? The one who attacked you?"

"Ha. Who knows?"

He forgot to snap his mouth closed—the lines of his gums were stained with blood. When his attention turned back to me, I was staring.

"I bit my tongue, and it won't stop bleeding," he mumbled. "It's not a big deal." Reaching down, he picked up the one cup of coffee that, by some miracle, had not been destroyed in the tumble.

Lights flashed, followed by a prolonged honk.

"Do you want a ride or not?" Désirée yelled from the driver's window. She'd followed through after all.

"That's my ride. I have to—"

But he was gone. As was the crow. It was just me with the single cup of coffee in hand.

My hands trembled as I wiped the drips off the cup with my sweater's cuff. I stepped over a giant java puddle, praying the surviving coffee was the one with the vanilla.

"Was that who I think it was?" Désirée asked as soon as I opened the door.

"Uh, Niccolò?" I handed her the cup of coffee.

She looked at me with one eyebrow raised as I climbed into the giant SUV.

"What?"

"Oh, don't look at me with those doe eyes, sister. Parting ways with one of the hottest guys on this side of town before seven o'clock in the morning?" A wicked smile spread across her face. "I just might have underestimated you, little Miss Adele Le Moyne."

My face burned. "It's not what you're thinking, if that's what you're thinking."

"Riiiight." She tapped her perfectly manicured nails on the steering wheel.

"Well, I'm sure you're going to believe whatever you want," I snapped. The speed in which I slipped back into Parisian boarding school mode startled me, but my defenses were sky high after the bizarre run-in.

"Hmm." Her mouth crooked. "Maybe I really did underestimate you." She put the car into drive. "Whatever. I really don't care if the two of you were having an early-morning romp."

I caught sight of my reflection in the window—a small smile fought my lips. Just the idea that Désirée thought I stood a chance with Niccolò boosted my ego. But it also made me wonder why he'd been out so early. Did I bust him on a walk of shame? Ugh.

It was certainly plausible. In the city's current state, what else was there to do before sunrise? Nothing was open that early. He was certainly hot enough to have met someone so quickly. A droplet of jealousy bubbled. What the hell, Adele? You don't even know this guy.

"What's the deal with his brother?" Désirée asked. "Does Gabe have a girlfriend?"

As happy as I was for the conversation to move from me to her, I worried I didn't have enough intel on Gabe to satisfy. "I don't really know."

Her brow creased.

"I mean, I doubt it. He and Niccolò have only been here about a week." I crossed my fingers I hadn't just dismissed some girl in Italy waiting for Gabe to come home.

Her expression relaxed, and she turned on the radio. "I'm going to take Claiborne."

"Traffic?"

"There's no traffic, Adele. No one is back in the city. They've cleared most of Claiborne, so it's faster. How do you not know this? Don't you drive?"

"No, I was in Paris for my sixteenth birthday." I refrained from telling her I didn't even have a learner's permit.

"Don't you ever leave downtown?"

"Not really."

When we pulled onto Claiborne, I quickly understood what she meant. The multilane avenue was almost completely empty. Despite it being rush hour, we were one of only a handful of cars on the road.

"Jesus, is that . . . ?"

"Yep, the waterline."

Everything we drove past—an abandoned supermarket, a dilapidated bank, a gym, a hamburger chain, a Laundromat, a pizza joint, a housing project—everything had the same distinct mark of the Storm left on it: the waterline. As we moved from block to block, the five-foot-high line continued alongside us.

Neither of us said another word for the duration of the ten-minute ride.

When we turned down Napoleon Avenue, the houses became bigger, the cars fancier. Even the plants seemed greener. It was like we had entered another world.

No matter how many times I went uptown, its beauty never escaped me. Even in the aftermath of the Storm, St. Charles looked like a scene from an oil painting. Giant oak trees created a canopy over the long avenue of historic mansions, further preserving the exclusivity.

Most of the damage on this side of town had been from the wind tossing cars around or ripping roofs off, and since St. Charles sat atop a natural levee, there'd been less flooding. More people had been able to return home. Uptown being far livelier than downtown was a weird role reversal—the lack of damage to the Lower Garden District shocked me almost as much as seeing the areas of the city that were destroyed. I was overjoyed for these residents, but it was frustrating that the people with the most money seemed to have experienced the least amount of damage, although I'd have to bury that thought if I wanted to survive my junior year at the Academy.

Désirée easily maneuvered the sprawling SUV into the school parking lot and cut the engine.

"So, do you have any advice for me?" I asked.

"You only need to remember one thing to survive at Sacred Heart," she said without looking my way. "Stay away from Annabelle Lee Drake."

"Who is Annabelle Lee Drake?"

"My bestie." Her fake tone was back to accompany her fake smile. It was as if she had switched on her uptown persona. She grabbed her bag and exited the car, slamming the door behind her.

As soon as I shut my door, a beep signaled the activated alarm. I took it as a sign that I was now on my own. My heart sank a little, but what had I expected? That Désirée Borges and I would walk onto campus, arms locked, as she shouted introductions to all her friends? I took another peek at my reflection in the car window and tried to wipe the terrified expression off my face.

"Here goes nothing," I whispered and followed the gaggles of uniformed teenagers toward the large iron gate that surrounded the campus, protecting the city's finest youth from the proletariat.