Glimpse: Book One of the Glimpse Quartet, page 1
Glimpse
Book One of the Glimpse Quartet
Faye Mitchell
Copyright © 2018 - All rights reserved.
It is not legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental.
For Karin Anderson
Who taught me how to let go and be brave.
Contents
Chapter One
Blair
There is exactly one high school Biology teacher in Ash Wood, Oregon. And I cannot decide if he is a boring shell of a man because he grew up here, and therefore never had a chance at developing a personality, or because he is actively trying to punish this godforsaken town for its own existence.
Mr. Parker stands at the front of the room, dressed in the same collared shirt and lumpy sweater vest combo he wears every day as he drones on about genetic drift for the third time this week. Of all the subjects he could ruin, it’s a shame he had to pick Biology. Every second of my attention requires more willpower than I can conjure as he draws a diagram on allele frequency.
“Psst,” I hear from the seat behind me, and I can’t stop the smile that creeps onto my face. Gia Halstead, unlike our insufferable teacher, is inarguably the best person in town.
Leaning back in my chair, I cock my head so she has better access to my ear.
“Jamie Lewis is so wasted.” She giggles into her hand. I sneak a look at Jamie, her head in her hands while she not-so-subtly rubs at her temples. The huge black sunglasses she wears make her pallid skin look gaunt and worn—even paired with her platinum blond hair.
My first reaction is pity; substance abuse is nothing to laugh about. But it’s hard to hold onto concern for someone who lives in one of the palaces on the coast and regularly cheats off my tests.
“Poor thing. It’s only Tuesday,” I whisper to Gia over my shoulder.
“You know Jamie. Never too early to start the weekend.” She laughs again and I wince, prepped for Mr. Parker’s lecture before he zeroes in.
“Ms. Halstead. Since you’re so eager to chat, why don’t you tell us the name of this formula?” He slaps a ruler against the whiteboard with unnecessary force.
“The, uh, genetic drift formula?” She shrinks in her seat, garnering smirks and chuckles from around the room.
He rolls his eyes and folds his arms, the picture of impatience and condescension. “Try again.”
“Umm…” She pages through her notebook, which has long been dedicated to doodles and cursive practice.
“It’s the Wright-Fisher model.” I don’t have to look at my notes—which are copious and highlighted, as per usual—to know the name.
“Thank you. Ms. Halstead ,” Parker says, eyeing me. “Pay attention, ladies.” He goes on about the equation for another unending five minutes until the bell finally frees us and he is drowned out by the stuffing of backpacks and scuffling shoes.
I really do want to like him. But watching him angrily erase the board only reinforces his unpleasantness.
“Thanks for bailing me out.” Gia sits on my desk, handing me my pencil. Her dark box braids hang past her shoulders, accentuating the soft curves I’ve always coveted.
I shrug, scooping the rest of my belongings into my bag. “No problem. Parker was out for blood.”
“Right? I’d pay more attention if he wasn’t so boring. I don't see how this is my problem.”
“You could try taking notes.” I shake my head, knowing full well I wouldn’t take them either if I didn’t have to. But I don’t expect to stumble into valedictorian on accident.
She pouts. “It’s not my fault Biology is stupid. I miss chemistry.” We have to weave through the hallway, squeezing past the small but robust crowd of Taft High. Who knew six hundred people could take up so much space? It’s not unlike herding cattle.
“Yeah,” I nod, “I’m sure it had nothing to do with Alex.”
Her nostrils flare at the mere mention of his name. “If I never see that jerk again it’ll be too soon.”
“What jerk?” Alex Braun pops up beside her, appearing out of nowhere like the phantom he is.
“Look, he heard you.” I shoot him a look that could wither any living thing, but since Alex doesn’t have a soul, it has no effect.
Gia gives him an aggressive shove, her tall frame giving her more power. “Get lost.”
“Come on, you’re not still pissed, are you?” He flashes his dimples. You’d never know by looking at him that he’s slept with half the student body and crashed a grand total of four cars in his short lifetime. I resist the urge to jump in, knowing Gia is more than capable of handling herself.
“Whatever.” She surprises both of us by turning on her heel for the bathroom, tears threatening in her eyes. My blood chills, those first nights after the breakup fresh in my memory.
“So, Blair.” He sticks his hands in his pockets and flashes me his signature smirk, mismatched against cherubic features and dark green eyes. “Got any plans this Friday?”
My jaw clenches, followed by my fists at my sides. If it wouldn’t get me thrown out of school, I’d go full bitch slap. But a wiser instinct tells me he’s not worth it.
“Not on your life.” The words don’t have nearly the bite of a good slap, and I can see the light of victory in his smile. Ass.
“You know I’ve been meaning to find out how the other half lives. We could meet at your place. Maybe tag some buildings together.”
My fists ball. The next few days run through my mind; the inevitable suspension after I hit him, followed by a knock on my door when the police come to arrest me on the assault charges he would no doubt file, coward that he is.
I’m about three seconds from deciding it’s worth it when I think of Gia in the bathroom. Every muscle in my body resists when I turn for the door, leaving Alex and his obnoxious sneer behind me.
“You’re too good to cry over him.” I lean against the counter where she sniffles over the sink, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.
“Please don’t say I told you so.”
I did tell her so, of course. Not that I’d ever say that to her face. Whatever possessed her to date that two-timing dirt bag is beyond me. But a thorough heart stomping seems punishment enough.
I pull her braids back behind her shoulder and rub her back. “I’m sorry, G.” Even if part of me thinks she should have known better. In any case, I regret missing my chance to beat the living daylight out of him, suspension or no.
“Screw him. I’m not going to let him see me cry.” She squares up and looks in the mirror, dabbing at a smudge of mascara on her cheek. “Is it obvious?”
Her warm brown eyes are a little red, the skin underneath them slightly puffy. But nothing can hide her obvious beauty, and her dark complexion helps to dampen the redness in her cheeks.
“Nah. You look fierce.” I hold my arm out and she weaves hers through mine.
“I’m swearing off men for the rest of the year,” she says as we rush down the hall to English, dropping in our seats seconds after the bell. The room is set up seminar style, with the desks arranged on three sides of the room all facing each other and leaving nowhere to hide.
Ms. Yates cleans her glasses at her desk, taking her time before she stands to face us. Her short blonde hair adds a couple of years, but she is the youngest teacher in the school by more than a decade. She must be in her late twenties.
“I hope you all picked up your copies of Hamlet . We’ll start with a little reading to get used to iambic pentameter.” She paces at the front of the classroom, her smart shirt and pressed pants at odds with her easy-going personality. “I need readers. Who will be our protagonist?”
Fixing my eyes on my desk, I will myself to become invisible in the uncomfortable silence that follows. Beside me, Gia feigns fascination with the ends of her hair. But when the silence stretches on, I risk a peek to see what has captured everyone’s attention, some sixth sense telling me the room has shifted.
A student I don’t recognize stands behind Ms. Yates, a single sheet of paper in his hands—although “student” isn’t the right word. Maybe he’s a student-teacher? He looks too old to be a senior, though the backpack slung over his shoulder marks him as one of us.
“Oh. Are you my new student?” Ms. Yates turns and greets him with a bright grin. He returns a warm smile and nods, his light brown skin accented by mid-length hair that is darker than night.
“The front office told me to give you this.” He hands her the paper and saunters past her like he owns the place. My eyes run the length of his body, taking in his tight jeans and black high-top boots. His black V-neck shirt clings to the considerable muscle in his shoulders.
My gaze remains glued to him as he walks to the only empty seat on the opposite side of the classroom, sliding into the chair with what can only be described as grace.
“Welcome to class, Mr.,” Ms. Yates scans the paper in her hands, “Kayes.”
“Thank you.” He nods, that same smile lighting up his olive-toned face. Ms. Yates, clearly as distracted as the rest of us, has to clear her throat twice before she can cont
“Now then. We need a reader for Hamlet.”
Crickets again. New guy glances at me and I can’t avert my eyes fast enough. He definitely caught me staring. His lips twitch up on one side in a knowing smile and I stare at my book, wishing my shame could shrink me into the pages. I can feel my heart tap-dancing against my ribcage.
“Come on, there has to be at least one brave soul out there.” Ms. Yates sighs.
“I’ll read for Hamlet.” New guy raises his hand casually. His voice is deep, almost raspy, and when he speaks, the ambient sound of the classroom vanishes. Where the hell did he come from?
“Thank you, Liam. And who will be our Ophelia?”
Liam. Even his name rolls off the tongue. I resist the urge to volunteer, knowing I may as well drown myself here and now after stare-gate.
Thankfully his response has garnered some interest, and Ms. Yates has no trouble assigning the rest of the roles. Alicia bends so far over her desk to press her cleavage together that she nearly falls over the front when she volunteers to read for Ophelia. I wonder if she knows how the story ends.
Pathetic as it is, it’s all I can do not to steal another look at him. I let my long black hair fall over my shoulder, shielding my face so I can take stock of all my flaws, as is only natural in the presence of someone so unnaturally attractive. I’ve moved on from my small chest to my unpainted fingernails when Gia elbows me in the ribs.
“Holy hell.” I can’t look at her, either. The redness in my ears and cheeks is almost as embarrassing as getting caught stalking.
“Let’s get started with Act One, Scene One,” Ms. Yates interrupts my obsessive cataloging. Her volunteers begin to read without any sense of rhythm, stumbling over words at every verse. It feels akin to trudging through deep water until, at last, we reach Hamlet’s first line in scene two.
“A little more than kin, and less than kind,” Liam reads in a silky baritone. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by his comfort with public speaking; he looks like the kind of guy who’s had an easy ride. I’ll bet he rides horses in his free time on some pretentious ranch where his parents sit on the porch and smoke cigars.
Our classmates keep reading, but when Liam reaches the first longer stretch of lines, I can’t help it. My head springs up and I am staring once again at his striking face. His jaw is well-defined and rigid, a hint of stubble stretching down to his neck.
My focus roams to his lips and I am stuck there, watching Shakespeare’s words flow seamlessly. He makes it look effortless—I swear he’s not even reading the page in front of him.
As if he can tell I’m staring, his eyes flash up to mine. But this time I can’t look away, caught in the depths of his irises. Electricity courses through my veins and I try to tear my focus away before I die of sheer embarrassment.
“These but the trappings and the suits of woe,” he recites without looking at his book. I jerk my head when the bell rings, ripped from the privacy of my imagination.
“Oh my god. He’s coming over here,” Gia says through her teeth. Bells sound in my head. Is it too late to run away? Definitely. He’s already walking toward us, backpack slung over his shoulder. Up close I can see that his eyes are grey, the color of polished metal. And they seem brighter than they should be. His thick eyebrows knit together in concern.
“I know you don’t know me, but I thought someone should tell you.” He leans closer as he speaks, each word melting into the next with the consistency of honey.
“Yes?” I hold my breath on instinct, anticipation dripping into my bloodstream and making everything move in slow motion.
“You have toilet paper stuck to your shoe.” He nods at my feet, where a rather long piece of toilet paper has hitched a ride on my tattered leather boot. I look up at him, mortified once again, but he’s already walking away, leaving only a sweet, musky scent behind him.
My lungs deflate, my whole body sinking into the chair. Scraping my foot against the floor until the intruder comes loose, I drop my head on the desk with a groan.
“Yes.” Gia fans herself, adding an unnecessary sultry tone to her reenactment. “Oh, honey. Can I get you some water? You look pale.”
“Never breathe a word of this.”
“Hey, I don’t blame you. That boy is gorgeous.” She fans herself again.
Gorgeous or not, I can never speak to him again after today’s epic fail. “I thought you’d sworn off men.” It’s impossible to keep the bitterness out of my voice. If it had been her, she’d have turned it into a meet-cute.
“I’m reconsidering my position.” She knocks her hip into mine as we head for the parking lot.
I laugh, momentarily distracted. “I knew it wouldn’t last.” Gia hasn’t been single for more than a month since she turned thirteen. She looks innocent with her bright, almond-shaped eyes, but she is infectiously flirtatious. I don’t think she could turn it off even if she wanted to.
“You better be nicer to me if you want a ride.” We walk to her beat-up Ford and I climb into the passenger side, wrinkling my nose at the smell of her tropical air freshener.
“Someday I’ll have one of these.” I sigh, rubbing the dashboard.
Gia scoffs. “Trust me. You don’t want one.”
“I thought you loved this thing.”
“Only because I have to. I’d hate to think I spent the last two summers getting harassed by pre-teens and toddlers for nothing.” She turns up the radio and pulls out of the lot, fishtailing the car all over the parking lot on her way out. “Anyway. It’s time for an intervention.”
I stare out the window, watching the dreary sights of Ash Wood roll by. It’s going to rain. Sometimes I think I’d take a tornado just for the novelty. “Is it my drinking?”
“Not funny.” Her hands stiffen on the steering wheel. “I was serious before—I can’t let another Alex screw up my senior year.”
“You have no idea how to be single.” Though I could do without the giggling and constant texting I’ll be forced to endure when she finds a new guy.
“Exactly my point. Let’s make a pact. Single ladies until the end of the year.”
I shrug, thinking of Liam. As if I’m in danger of getting a boyfriend any time soon. “Alright.”
“What? That was easy.” She smirks.
“Not all of us have a line of guys waiting to pounce.” I wish I had half of Gia’s confidence, let alone her striking looks. Even in a town with more than six thousand people in it, she’d stand out.
“You’re intimidating.”
“I wish.” If I were, Alex wouldn’t have the stones to hit on me with insults.
Gia taps her thumbs on the steering wheel, somehow able to keep her focus on me and the music at the same time. “It’s the genius thing. And you totally have a resting bitch face.”
“Hey,” I gape at her.
“What?” I didn’t say you were one. Just that you look like one.” She laughs, and I pretend not to inspect my face in the side view mirror as she pulls up to my house at the end of the street—though “house” is a generous word.
Gia calls my street Pauper’s Lane because it resembles a bowling alley of trailers installed along a pale gravel road. Ours has a faded yellow facade, built with painted wood circa the early 60’s.
“Thanks for the ride.” At least I don’t have to walk home to this sight anymore.
“For sure. And try to look friendlier.” She flips the Ford around and speeds up the street before I can take ten steps.
The gravel drive leads to a familiar rickety porch made of unfinished wood that has greyed with too much time in a wet climate. We moved here when I was six, but time hasn’t made it any more endearing. When Dad died and Mom announced that we were moving to the smallest, dumpiest town in Oregon it was hard to get psyched.
There’s a note on the screen door from Mrs. Baxter letting us know she was in the neighborhood. She tried to drop off a loaf of bread but didn’t want to leave it in the rain.
I roll my eyes as I snatch the note off the door, hovering on the porch. In Ash Wood, everyone knows everything. In a place like this, support is interchangeable with condescension.
I try to see the house through Mrs. Baxter’s eyes. It was probably charming, once, when my mother bought it. Now the flower boxes on the exterior serve as gravesites for neglected plants and the grass is riddled with weeds. Warped, painted wood he painted wood drowns the house in the same gloomy grey sheen that covers everything else in town—well, everything except the palaces on the southern end closer to the coast.
