The Perfect Silence Of The Stars (También en Español)

Chapter 4. Creep 💫

Most everyone in the class leaves before they can notice how my left eye twitches and my hands refuse to stop shaking as I'm shoving irritation and my water bottle into my schoolbag.

A bell rings in the distance as Mr.White fumbles with a sturdy book, his cellphone and a notepad. Smoke is coming from the inside of his briefcase. Purple smoke. Its brown leathery sides expand and contract as if it were breathing.

I'm itching to take a picture, snap reality into this delusion. I'm pretty sure my mind has maxed out on messed-upness by the sight of Chase five seconds ago, hence why it's retaliating with whatever crazy vision it can concoct.

See that broom on the corner by the red, rickety chair? Take it and smash the brief with it. Use all the strength from those scrawny arms of yours and save this poor sucker's life from impending demonic possession.

I don't think there's a demon inside, Anamathea. I think it might be a fairy. One of those who wander lost by the fountain in Stratton Rose Garden park.

Shut your pie hole, Violet. No one asked you to chip in your useless five cents. According to you, stupid fairies are always the answer to everything happening around us. That's a load of crap.

I snort a laugh at those two, bickering in my burnt-out brain while I'm dwelling on my options. I could escape through the back door, ditch Earnie and walk home or face the parking lot, my car and the dude leaning against it and die by brightness. Trust me, it's a thing. Even if the wavelength is restricted to that of visible light, if the intensity is high enough, the heat absorbed will cause massive burns, which if exposed to long enough will kill.

Chase is hot, I have to give him that. I remember his voice; deep, velvety. The tingles in my skin when he reached out for my arms. His toffee blonde hair pokes out from under a black knit cap, like Nirvana wrapped in chocolate.

Professor White's footsteps take me out of my reverie. He has closed the distance between us wearing a worried eyebrow furrow. His gaze locks on mine, and I dread what's coming. From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the briefcase he's carrying in his left hand. No more smoke coming out, so I choose to ignore Anamathea's advice.

"Everything okay, Imogen?"

I nod, aware of the time I've spent lingering in the room like the coward I am while the voices and laughter from the rest of the group withers into a dull hum in the corridor.

"I—I'm sorry I've made you wait for me, Mr.White. I was looking for my car keys," I squawk.

"No worries, I know how sneaky they are. I swear mine know when to disappear and make me look like a fool." His cadence is soothing, and for half a heartbeat, I'm tempted to tell him all about my crazy and the boy I met on the roof. Loneliness pangs at my chest. I'm tired of hiding my condition. I wish I could talk to someone. Then again, I'd need gallons of bravery for that—which I lack.

"So, you're all set?" He looks genuinely worried about me, and the least I want is for him to add up my erratic behavior and odd expressions and draw a huge-ass red bullseye target on my new schizo self.

"S—Sure thing, Mr. White. It's all good. I'm out of your hair, and sorry once again for the delay." I hustle to the corridor, paying no attention to my surroundings. Heavy clouds fog my head, and all I want is to get the hell away from the school, my professor and my life. I'm a walking young adult cliche.

I'm half-way past the door when I bump hard against a wall that comes out of nowhere. Is this one of your tricks, brain?

"Watch it, bozo!" Talking walls are not something extraordinary in my world, but this voice I recognize. It's Lauren Hilton, aka girl-who-loathes-my-guts-for-no-particular-reason.