fighting my own grin.
“Are you always like this?”
“What? Sexy? Gorgeous? Charming?”
“I was going to go with a pain in the ass.”
He smirks, loving my attitude. “You’re pretty charming yourself.”
From a desk in the front row, Mackenzie crosses her legs and crooks her finger at Cameron. “Come here, Cameron.”
Cameron leans away and touches his chest. “My fans are calling me,” he says and I roll my eyes as he saunters up to Mackenzie, whispers something in her ear, and she giggles, patting his chest.
After the bell rings, Mr. Mackerlie takes roll, then stands in the front of the room with my poem in his hand. “Listen up, everyone.” He clears his throat. “I wanted to share with everyone something that I think is an excellent poem that was turned in for last week’s assignment. But I’m going to keep it anonymous.” His gaze flicks to me for only a second, but it’s enough that eyes roam in my direction.
“The poem is called Ember.” Every looks at me and Mr. Mackerlie clears his throat again before reading. “The ember dies slowly in a mound of ash. Darkness and mourning, it longs to burn fire. But the smoke and sorrow let it die. The need for a spark asserts fiercely. But a spark won’t surrender. So the ember continues to smother. Into ash, into dust, into nothing. And that’s how it will stay forever.”
As much as I wish I could be confident in my words, I’ve been known for too long as the twisted girl who obsesses about death.
Everyone is staring at me like I’m the lunatic they always thought I was, ever since my dad’s disappearance. But I refuse to cower, so I sit up straight and wait for Mr. Mackerlie to move on.
Some guy coughs into his hand, “Psycho killer.”
Giggles flutter the room and Cameron raises his hand.
“Yes,” Mr. Mackerlie says. “Wait, who are you? I’ve never seen you in this class before.”
“Let’s just say I’d like to stay anonymous,” he says, throwing off the professor. “And personally, I think it was an amazing poem about pain and survival.”
The Professor browses over the poem again. “Well, that’s a good interpretation, but I think perhaps it’s more about the natural process of death.”
Cameron taps his fingers on the desk. “Death might be a theme, but I don’t think that’s what it’s completely about. I think it’s more relative to the pain someone feels about death and their need to survive through the pain, even though they think they can’t. Perhaps they’ve even lost someone close to them and they are trying to break free from the continual heartache and torment.”
Everyone goes silent and I swear I could kiss those pretty guy lips of his. He turns around and gives me a look that says, You know you’re in love with me now.
“Well, that’s very deep.” Mr. Mackerlie looks about as befuddled as the rest of the class. “But where did you come from… I haven’t seen you around here before.”
Cameron clicks his pen. “I’m working on transferring… thought I’d see if I wanted to take this class next semester.”
The Professor shuffles through some papers. “Where did you live before here?”
“New York,” Cameron responds dryly.
“Oh, the Big Apple.” Mr. Mackerlie selects a paper from the stack and places the rest on his desk.
“That would be the one.” Cameron sounds bored.
“Well, it’s great to have you here, not just as a visitor, but as a new member of our town.” Professor Mackerlie is also on the town committee and he welcomes Cameron, before moving onto Shakespeare. Cameron doesn’t glance at me during class; however, I can’t take my eyes off him. He‘s fascinating and at the same time frightening. Who is this guy that digs up graves in the cemetery? Who speaks up for me in class and writes the most beautiful words? Who is from New York, just like Asher?
A coincidence? For some reason, I don’t think so.
***
My next class is about as uneventful as watching paint dry. I’m about to head to my third and last class of the day, when I’m waved into the main office by the secretary.
She holds a finger up while she continues talking to a slender woman with blonde hair, a sharp nose, and glasses framing her narrow face. Her hair is tight in a bun and she sports a pinstriped pantsuit. I drop down in a chair and wait.
“Yes, I know, but I don’t see why you have to do it here,” the secretary, Mrs. Finnelly,