Tales of Aradia The Last Witch Volume 1 (7 page)

Fortunately for her, he
sat a row ahead of her and immediately to her right, giving her a
clear view of his profile while she could pretend to be studiously
watching the teacher. She enjoyed her view.

The teacher, a
pretentious man named Mr. Davina, droned on about syllabi, final
projects, and the pros and cons of a flat versus bell curve. Aradia
mostly ignored him, listening just for keywords that might be of
more interest. Just then, the boy she was happily objectifying
turned suddenly and looked directly at Aradia.

This time it was she
who quickly diverted her eyes. She played it far less cool than the
students who, she imagined, were catching glimpses of her all day.
She covered her face with her hand, as if that might hide the
tomato red flush of her cheeks.

The boy, however, just
gave a silent chuckle and turned back to the teacher.
He knew I was staring!
she realized, and turned an even deeper red.

Despite herself, she
noted his clichéd perfect pearly white teeth.

After class, she hung
by the exit to ambush her fascination. Stalking an attractive boy
was no more her style than staring at one for a forty-two minute
class, but maybe Salem was bringing out a new side of
her.

No matter her efforts,
she lost sight of him in the bustle which resulted from the
end-of-class bell. He blended into the crowd amazingly well, even
if there were fewer than twenty people in the class.

She was just about to
use her latent summoning to find her way to the new boy. It would
help if she knew his name, but he had to be close enough that she
could find him, even name-unknown. Just when she’d focused herself
to begin, her concentration was shattered.

"You're new around
here.”

She turned sharply,
annoyed at the intrusion. “So…” she began.

That was when she set
eyes on the second-handsomest guy she had ever seen in person. The
newcomer had long hair, too, but his was a rich, dark brown, which
almost looked less like hair and more like the chocolate waterfall
from Willy Wonka.

He was not dressed like
any high school student Aradia had ever seen before. In fact, he
looked more like he should be heading to the club than to fourth
period. His shirt was silk, his well-fitted jeans were Armani, and
on his left wrist he wore a green bezel fiftieth anniversary Rolex
Submariner. She recognized it because it was just like one her
mother had gotten her dad as a combination birthday present,
anniversary present, and congratulations for winning a big
case.
Salem High must be higher profile
than I’d realized
.

“So?” the new boy
asked.

He had the most
charming smile Aradia had ever seen. She could tell it was
rehearsed; there was no way a smile like that came naturally. She
honestly didn’t much care, though. He wasn’t the guy she had been
looking for, but for now, he’d do.

“Sew buttons,” Aradia
replied and chuckled awkwardly.

Her new friend gave her
a polite smile.

She then quickly added,
"Is it that obvious that I am new?"

"No," the boy
responded. "Believe it or not, you hide it remarkably
well."

"Wish I could say the
same about my bad grades," said Aradia.

“Well,” he leaned in
even closer than he already was, and winked as he whispered, “for
hiding those, it helps if you don’t announce them to the first
stranger you come across.”

The boy joined her in
laughing at his own joke and said, "My name's Tristan. What's
yours?"

"Aradia."

"It’s a pleasure." He
raised an eyebrow. "Aradia, now there is an interesting
name."

"Yeah, so it suits me
just fine, doesn't it?" said Aradia playfully.

He laughed again and
asked, "We should be heading to our next class. I’d hate to make
you late. Where are you off to next?"

Aradia dug her schedule
out of her backpack and replied, "Study Hall. No! That’s fifth.
Next is, uh, Gym. Then Study Hall, then lunch.”

"Well, being a freshman
and a new student, you're liable to get lost, you know."

Aradia scowled.
"Believe me I know."

"I’ll escort you to
your next class," Tristan stated, holding out his arm to
Aradia.

"Sure!" Aradia replied
enthusiastically.

They really had eaten
up most of their time between classes flirting, so they rushed as
Tristan led them down the hall, through a doorway, and around a
sharp corner. Aradia was so smitten that she was caught completely
off guard when her supposed benefactor shoved her through an
entrance which had been concealed by the sudden turn.

She was sturdy, but
Tristan was surprisingly strong, and she stumbled through two
doorways before she regained her footing. It only took Aradia a
quick survey of her surroundings to realize exactly what room
Tristan had shoved her into. About a dozen guys stared at her
entrance, expressions ranging from surprised to amused. In horror
she rushed back out through the same set of doors by which she had
so unceremoniously entered. In bold, black letters, the sign on the
outer door read, "Boy’s Locker Room."

Irate, Aradia demanded,
“What the hell was that!”

Tristan nonchalantly
replied with an awful but satisfied smile on his face.
"What?"

She glared maliciously
at him and spat out, "You know? You might look hot, but you're
actually one cold son of a bitch!"

She then pivoted on her
heel to salvage her dignity with a grand exit. Before she went,
though, she turned and added over her shoulder, “And newsflash, hot
stuff: those jeans are
way
too tight!” With that, she stalked off.

Chapter
Five

By the time Aradia had
changed for gym, she was madder than an Angry Bird, and Tristan
might as well have been king of the Green Pigs.
That makes Salem High their
castle
, she decided. “This won’t be
like last time,” she said to herself like a personal mantra. “Green
Pigs are shoddy craftsmen.”

She forced herself to
believe she would get chances to tear that castle down and find
real connections. The whole school couldn’t be filled with
Tristans. She found one such opportunity even sooner than she’d
expected.

Gym at SHS was split
into four sections, with a quarter of the school year spent on
each. Aradia’s first assigned section was Track and Field. She was
a little late, thanks to her pit stop in the wrong locker room, so
her fellow Trackers and Fielders were already assembled and doing
stretches under the guidance of their instructor, Coach De
Sylva.

Stretching his calves
was a stunning Latino boy. He was darkly tanned, had a small black
goatee, and, based on how tall he was doubled over touching his
toes, would probably have a good six or eight inches on Aradia. His
short black hair sparkled in the sunlight, either from perspiration
or hair gel or genetic giftedness. Maybe all three. Aradia didn’t
really care.

“What
is
it with this
school,” she muttered quietly as she joined the stretching
circle.

“Aradia Preston?” De
Sylva asked from the center of the circle.

“Present!” she called
back. “Sorry I’m late, Coach!”

He smiled kindly in
response. He looked to be in his late twenties, but Aradia put him
in his mid thirties instead. She had a gift for guessing ages, and
she suspected De Sylva was older than he outwardly
appeared.

“We already did a round
of introductions, but I’ll sum it up. I’m Theodore De Sylva, these
are your classmates.” As it happened, she already knew that. She’d
read all the SHS website bios of her teachers and Facebook stalked
the ones who had open profiles. De Sylva was one of the few who
did. “First day lateness is excusable. Just don’t let it happen
again. Deal?”

“You got it,
Coach!”

“You could have told us
we could be late in advance, Coach!” one of the stunning Latino
boy’s friends joked. An almost equally stunning female friend,
Aradia noticed with some animosity.
Easy, girl
, she cautioned
herself.

“Yeah, yeah,” he
replied. “Switch! Butterflies.”

In unison, the group
moved to the next stretch. Aradia joined in with them, not
bothering to catch up on the ones she had missed. She rarely
stretched, was extremely flexible anyway, and had never pulled a
muscle, so she didn’t see the point.

After a few more
minutes, Coach whistled and barked, “Positions!” Everybody scurried
about. Aradia presumed they’d been given assignments before she got
there. She intended to ask De Sylva where she should go, but
instead got distracted admiring her new crush jog easily and
gracefully to a starting line on the track.

I wouldn’t mind
lining up with him
, she thought,
shocking herself with her vaguely sexual suggestiveness.

“Preston!” Coach De
Sylva yelled.

She snapped back to
reality and ran over. "Yes, sir?”

"Laps today," he
instructed. "Get to the track with Roy."

"Okay!" Aradia ran to
the boy, Roy, and grinned sheepishly as she lined up with
him.

He, in turn, gave her a
curious stare.

One runs away, one
throws you into the guy’s locker room, and now this one’s a starer.
You sure know how to pick ‘em, Rai.

“Here’s the drill,” De
Sylva coached. “One lap, four hundred meters. First to finish
advances. Normally I keep this exercise same sex, but the two of
you are the odd ones out.” He gave an apologetic glance to Aradia,
as if to say that she didn’t really have a chance.

On the shrill bleat
from the whistle, the pair took off. Roy sprinted like a greyhound
around the first bend of the track. Yet if he was the hound, Aradia
was the rabbit setting the pace. To the great surprise of Roy, De
Sylva, and in truth, everybody present other than Aradia herself,
she actually had a chance at winning the race.

Roy took the run
seriously; she could tell he was a runner. She was too, but
moreover, she wanted to prove everyone’s assumptions
incorrect.

In truth, Aradia was
somewhat surprised herself. She had to admit she was guilty of the
same assumption as Roy: that the competition would be one-sided,
the result a foregone conclusion. In that regard, they were both
wrong. She was ahead, but she sensed he was holding back, saving
his real speed for the final hundred meters.

She had rapidly thrown
her hair back in a ponytail on her way from the locker room, but in
her haste she had secured it rather poorly. Now the pounding on the
track shook her hair band off and her shockingly vibrant hair
blazed free behind her like the tail of an asteroid burning through
the atmosphere.

Damn!
she cursed.
The drag
will slow me down!

They were indeed going
fast enough that the friction could be a factor. Aradia realized
that the pair of them could have college scholarships lined up if
they pursued Track. She’d have to try out for the team. She and Roy
would be unstoppable on relay together.

She was right about the final stretch.
As they edged around the second bend of the track, he opened up his
speed in a way he rarely had before, and pulled ahead of her,
managing to pass on the inside. Aradia realized, too late, that she
should not have let that happen. She didn’t think it would matter,
though.

Too soon
, she quoted Vin Diesel
to herself, chuckling internally. She’d happened to catch a
Fast
and Furious
marathon on television a few days before the move.
She was a sucker for an action movie or two… or five.

Only a moment later, she hit her own
nitrous, opening up with all she had as well. With fifty meters to
go, they ran abreast one another, neither showing any sign of
slowing.

They raced on the track
so fiercely that everyone else in the class, even those not waiting
on their own turns to compete, stopped and stared.

And then something
happened for Aradia which she rarely experienced. Her overly
analytical mind quieted for a blissful, serene moment, and all she
knew was air, sun, ground, and adrenaline. She went to a clear
place with the intensity of the contest and she felt like she was
flying.

Roy, without intending
to, snuck a glance at her, and was amazed by the look of tranquil
bliss on her face. He realized that while he was enjoying the
competition, she was enjoying the race. At first he had been
worried about losing to a girl. He knew his brothers would give him
hell for that, no matter how worthy a competitor she was. He felt
possessed by that look on her face though. He’d already noticed how
attractive she was, but in that instant he saw her true beauty. It
infected him, and took hold. He slowly grinned, and he too let go
of everything but the run.

When they soared over
the finish, their fellow students burst out cheering for them.
Their coach gaped at them open mouthed, staring at the number on
his stopwatch.