Unhinged: 2 (9 page)

I plant my feet in a determined stance. I have to win this argument. If I don’t find Morpheus today, he’ll come looking for me at home. That’s the last thing Mom needs.

Dad’s hands tighten on his steering wheel. Sunlight slants through the windshield, glaring off his wedding ring and the silver
logo on his work shirt. “Cut your mom some slack. You gave us a real scare. She’s having trouble finding her footing.”

I bite my inner cheek. “I get that. But her hovering is out of control. The danger’s behind me now.”
Not true.
It’s lying in wait just around the corner. “I’m stronger than you two think, okay?”

His expression relaxes. “I’m sorry, Butterfly. I forget sometimes how much you’ve grown up over the past year.” He gives me a real smile then. “Have a good day. And show those tests who’s boss.”

“Thanks.” I reach in to squeeze his hand before shutting the door. Smiling, I wave as he drives off, though my confidence is forced. I can’t stop worrying about what Morpheus has up his lace-cuffed sleeve.

There are rules for netherlings when they breach the human realm. Unless they want to be seen as they are, in all their fairy weirdness, they have to borrow a human’s face and body for camouflage—trade places with them. The human has to stay in Wonderland, so there won’t be two of the same person running around in the mortal realm, and can’t return until their netherling doppelganger no longer requires their image. Only then can they resume their life and identity again.

Which means Morpheus has coerced someone into taking a leap down the rabbit hole. It also means Morpheus may not be recognizable to me, and this gives him a distinct advantage.

As if he needs any more than he already has.

The skies are clear and the sun warms my back. I won the wardrobe argument with my mom, and armed in a dusty-rose tulle miniskirt and scarf, gray corset jacket, paisley tights, and black lace-up knee boots, I head toward the breezeway’s door, convincing myself I’m ready to face him.

As I weave through cars—some occupied and blaring loud music, others empty—Corbin’s rusted orange 1950 Chevy, Sidestep, comes into view. He and Jenara have their heads together, sharing a few steamy kisses before the bell rings.

Any other time, I’d walk by and give them their privacy, but today I need info on our new exchange student. Jen always has the low-down on everyone and everything at Pleasance High.

A country-and-western ballad drifts from the cracked-open passenger’s-side window. I clear my throat and slap the glass with my palm, my fingerless gloves muffling the sound.

Corbin’s eyes pop open, and he pushes Jen back, gesturing to me. Jen squeals, opens the door, and drags me into the seat beside her for a hug, shoving Corbin over to make room. He fumbles to salvage the thirty-two-ounce to-go cup that was sandwiched between his hip and the door.

“Sorry,” I mouth to him from over Jen’s shoulder.

Corbin tips his chin in acknowledgment and offers a shy, expectant smile. He’s no doubt waiting for me to greet him like I usually do, to tease him about the bromance between him and Jeb. They share a love for cars and have been discussing restorations for Corbin’s Chevy. It’s too bad Jeb can’t seem to find time to work on it with him.
Welcome to my world, Corb
.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Jenara says, holding me close. The scent of her shampoo enfolds me. “Seeing you at the hospital … the wires and tubes and machines all around you.” She breaks us apart to study me, the sympathy on her face visceral. “It was like your worst nightmares had come true.”

Even though she’s referring to my past fears of being bound and helpless in an asylum, I think about the destruction Morpheus
showed me in Wonderland while I was unconscious, and the spider-webs winding through my sedative-enhanced dreams. She has no idea how spot-on she is about nightmares coming true.

“I’m okay now.” I pat her wrist.

She brushes a strand of hair off my forehead. “Just don’t do anything like that again, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah.” I grin. “You sound just like your brother. By the way, did he say anything about his appointment with that heiress chick yet? He was so quiet last night on the phone.”

Jen’s black-lined eyes narrow, seeing right through me. “Stop worrying. You’re his world … his muse. Right, Corbin?”

“Huh?” Corbin lifts his mouth off the straw sticking out of his Coke’s lid. “Oh, sure,” he says in his deep southern drawl. “He’s only got eyes for you.” He smirks encouragingly, and the freckles around his nose line up like a pigmented constellation.

The ten-minute warning bell rings, and we pile out of the truck. Jen twists a tendril of pink hair around her finger and secures it over her ear with a pearl barrette that matches the ivory netted skirt layered over her skinny jeans. She hands off her backpack to Corbin. We follow a crowd of students, the three of us locked in our own private conversation.

“So, did Jeb tell you two about the guy who helped him get the ambulance?” I ask. “He said he was enrolling here …”

“Yep,” Corbin responds after another sip of Coke. “He registered yesterday. A senior from Cheshire, England.”

From Cheshire
.

“Of course,” I say under my breath. Time to find out whose life and identity he borrowed to pull off this charade. “What’s his name?” I press.

“M,” Jenara answers.

“What? Like
Em
, short for Emmett?”

“Nope. Like the letter in the alphabet.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or gag.

We step into the breezeway, the tiles slick under our feet compared to the asphalt outside. Our small trio gets hemmed in by other students, and I’m bombarded with questions:
What was it like, almost dying? Did you see any ghosts when you were in the coma? Is heaven like the movies say it is?

It’s weird, but for once, being the center of attention isn’t so bad. Being noticed for something other than the way I dress or who I’m descended from makes me feel almost normal … accepted.

After our curious classmates get their fill of my guarded answers and move on, Jenara resumes our conversation. “The exchange guy’s last name is Rethen.”

I frown, feeling out the word in my mind.
Rethen
. It uses the same letters as nether. It’s an anagram. There’s nothing subtle about Morpheus.

“You should see his amazing sports car,” Corbin adds. “Lets anyone drive it who wants to. I drove us to lunch in it yesterday.”

I clench my teeth. The jerk isn’t even trying to lie low. He’s flaunting how close he can get to everyone I care about, how easy it is for him to blend into my world, as a warning to me.

I want to tell them both to stay away from him, but how do I justify the request, since technically I haven’t met him yet?

“And Al”—Jen practically beams—“you’ll love his style.
Dead-bug chic.
”

“Here we go.” Corbin rolls his eyes.

Jen elbows him. “Shut up. Al will totally get this.” She loops an
arm through my elbow. “He wants to be a lepidopterist or entomologist or something. He’s inspired a whole new line for me. Faded jeans, rattlesnake boots, and a cowboy hat with a string of—”

“Moths around the brim,” I finish for her, my heart skipping a beat or two.

Jen and Corbin both stare at me in awe.

“How’d you know that?” Corbin asks.

“Jeb mentioned it,” I lie, and clear my throat for effect.

“Ah.” Jenara’s eyes—the same green hue of her brother’s—sparkle under their veil of gray eye shadow. “Well, I designed some dead-bug fashions during sixth period yesterday. You’re hitching a ride with us after school, right?”

I nod.

“I’ll show you the sketches later. I used M for the model. He’s got this whole hot-androgynous thing going on.”

“That’s my cue.” Corbin taps Jen’s butt with her backpack before handing it off. With a practiced arm, he tosses his empty Coke cup into a trash can a few feet away. It lands neatly inside. “Like to see your limey unisex cowboy do that. It’s all in the hands.” He wiggles his fingers in Jen’s direction. “I got
man
skills, babe. That’s why I’m starting quarterback.”

She huffs. “Really? Looks more like janitorial skills,” she teases back.

Corbin laughs and disappears around the corner. Jen gives me a hug and we part for first period.

I settle at my desk. Morpheus is nowhere in sight, although he is the topic of almost every girl’s conversation and passed note. I manage to read one over someone’s shoulder:

I heard he got in trouble with his rich English family and was sent
here to see how regular people live. Viva American peasants! The
M
comes from his dad, Mort, but he’s rebelling. *drools*

So, not only is he rich, British, and eccentric, he’s a bad boy and a rebel. Great. Once again, he’s pulling everyone’s strings.

I sit through an excruciating three periods—two exams and one review work sheet—without seeing him once. I’m guessing he arranged his schedule contrary to mine so I’ll worry about where he is and what he’s up to. Another ploy to knock me off balance.

In the basement level on the way to fourth period, I decide to ditch study hall and peek in every door of every senior class until I find him, determined to make contact before lunch. The last thing I want is to face him across a crowded cafeteria.

I slip into the girls’ bathroom to wait for the bell to ring and the hall to clear. The small gray alcove is just under the girls’ and boys’ locker rooms located on the first floor. Faulty pipes run across the dingy white ceiling. Rusty stains branch out like yellow-brown veins, and the scent of mildew hangs heavy on the air.

It’s just a matter of time till the pipes spring a leak in the gymnasium floor upstairs and ruin everything, which is why the money our class raised for our senior gift will be used for new copper pipes to be installed this summer.

The tardy bell rings. I wait for voices to fade and doors to shut. Strands of sunshine filter through a hopper window where the wall meets the ceiling. The hinged glass is open a crack, letting in a sliver of fresh air, just enough to make breathing bearable.

A chorus of whispering bugs and plants drifts in, blending into a nonsensical hum. Cobwebs line the windowpane and ripple in the breeze like ghostly handkerchiefs waving at me.

I stare at my reflection in the dusty mirror, focused on the red
strip of hair, and imagine the strand moving like the webs—an invisible string drawing it up to dance. As I concentrate, it starts to twine and twist.

My muscles tense. It’s not safe, using my powers here at school—entangling pieces of my life I’ve tried for months to keep separate. If I’m not careful, the end result could be volatile.

Ignoring the sense of dread, I concentrate harder until the wave of magic resurges. My hair sways and spins until it’s at a right angle from the platinum strands surrounding it, so much like my horrific dream at the hospital … the sword of blood.

As if triggered by my memory, an image begins to stir just behind my reflection. My concentration wavers, and the strand of hair falls limp. There’s a blur of white, red, and black checked patterns in the glass, sharpening to the clown from the hospital. It looms there, stretched out of proportion, as if I’m looking into a funhouse mirror. The clown shakes a snow globe in its hands and smiles with teeth sharp and silver like nails. My knees wobble, but I hold my ground, assuring myself I’m imagining it.

If I turn around, it will be gone.

Please don’t be there … please please please …

Gathering my courage, I spin on my heel.

Nothing but walls and stalls. I take a breath, then face the mirror again. The clown in the reflection has vanished.

Maybe Dad was right. Maybe I am overdoing it …

A door in the hallway slams, reminding me of the reason I’m hiding here to begin with.
Morpheus
.

This has to be one of his mind games.

I wait for silence and then venture out. I’ve only made it two steps when the familiar snicker of Taelor Tremont breaks the silence.
Someone shushes her, followed by several girlish giggles and a wicked laugh that I know better than the scars on my own palms.

Curling my hands around my backpack straps, I peer around the corner.

He’s there with his back to me, just a few feet away. Tall and lithe. A leather vest and skintight T-shirt across his broad shoulders. Worn jeans hug his legs. Whoever’s body he stole is close to his own, although his hair is shorter. I can’t see any fringe under the edges of his cowboy hat from the back.

He holds a poster up to the wall that says,
TOYS FOR FAIRY-TALE ENDINGS: GIVE A SICK CHILD A HAPPILY-EVER-TODAY
. It’s a reminder for the charity drive our senior class is organizing from now until Friday. To get in the door for prom, every attendee has to contribute a new toy for a local children’s hospital. There’s a box for early donations against the wall, already half filled.

Four girls from our senior student council surround Morpheus, offering their opinion on the poster’s placement above the box. Taelor and Twyla argue over who gets to tape it in place. Most of the time they’re either fighting or competing, yet they claim to be best friends. It’s like the symbiotic relationship between a parasitic fungus and its host. I just haven’t figured out who’s the fungus. Kimber and Deirdre round out the quartet, the bearers of the tape dispensers.

All four are drooling over Morpheus as if he’s royalty. Only his second day here and already he’s made more headway than me in my entire school career. I bite back a wave of envy.

As if sensing I’m watching, he turns. For one instant he looks like someone else—a stranger. Then, in a blink, it’s Morpheus: the patches around his eyes, the jewels that display his every mood tipping the edges.

I whimper as a spread of dark wings lifts behind his shoulders, shadowing my classmates. Gasping, I hide around the corner again, smashed against the wall, backpack sandwiched between my spine and the cold tiles.

I thought I was ready, but to see him in my world, unhinging all that was once normal, revealing everything I’ve worked so hard to hide … it paralyzes me. I hold my breath, ears burning, and wait for the terrified screams when the girls realize what he is—
what I am.