Part 7 (2/2)

I pull the pen out of my mouth. ”You seem like you know him.”

”Only from word of mouth.” Placing his hands on the desk, he leans in, smelling of mint hued with a woodsy aroma. ”I'm finding out you were right about the whole new-guy-popularity thing.”

”I told you they'd eat you up,” I remark.

”No, you told me they'd be star-struck by me.” He smirks. ”The only one who looks like they could eat me up is you.”

I fight my instinct to look away. ”No, I don't, Cameron.”

From a desk in the front row, Mackenzie crosses her legs and crooks her finger at Cameron. ”Come here, Cam. You can sit by me.”

Cameron leans away and touches his chest. ”My fans are calling me.” He saunters up to Mackenzie, whispers something in her ear, and she giggles, patting his chest.

I roll my eyes. He fits the part.

After the bell rings, and Mr. Mackerlie takes roll, he stands in the front of the room with my poem in his hand. ”Listen up, everyone,” Mr. Mackerlie says. ”I wanted to share with everyone something that I think is an excellent poem that was turned in for last week's a.s.signment. But I'm going to keep it anonymous.” His gaze flicks to me for only a second, but it's enough that eyes wander in my direction.

”The poem is called Ember.” Every looks at me and Mr. Mackerlie clears his throat. ”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 a.s.serts 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.”

Please let this Ember die now.

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 jock coughs, ”Psycho killer.”

Giggles flutter the room and Cameron raises his hand.

”Yes,” Mr. Mackerlie says. ”Is it Cameron?”

Cameron nods. ”Personally, I think it was an amazing poem about pain and survival.”

Mr. Mackerlie 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. I swear I could kiss those pretty boy 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, Cameron.” Mr. Mackerlie looks about as befuddled as the rest of the cla.s.s. ”Were you in AP English at your old high school?”

Cameron clicks his pen. ”I was, but it seems the English department is limited here.”

”We are a small town,” Mr. Mackerlie replies, shuffling through some papers in his hands. ”Where did you live before here?”

”New York.” Cameron jots down something in a notebook.

”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,” Mr. Mackerlie welcomes him and moves on to Shakespeare. Cameron doesn't glance at me during cla.s.s. However, I can't take my eyes off him. He is both fascinating and frightening. Who is this guy that digs up graves in the cemetery? Who speaks up for me in cla.s.s and writes the most beautiful words? Who is from New York, just like Asher?

My next cla.s.s is about as uneventful as watching paint dry. But during third period, while Mr. Peabody is scribbling math equations on the board, the intercom clicks on.

”Mr. Peabody.” The secretary's voice statics through the room. ”Can you please send Ember Edwards down to the main office?”

”Go ahead, Ember.” Mr. Peabody turns back to the board.

The entire cla.s.s looks at me. I sigh, grab my bag and book, and head to the office. The secretary is talking to a slender woman with blonde hair, a sharp nose, and gla.s.ses 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, tells the woman.

The woman leans on the counter. ”Can you just check again?”

Mrs. Finnelly sighs and types something on her keyboard. She rolls her chair back to the corner filing cabinet and takes out a thin manila folder. ”Here you go, Beth, but I don't see how her file is going to help... Oh, Ember, I didn't see you walk in.” She looks nervous.

Beth turns around and her blue eyes promptly darken with abhorrence. ”Ember Edwards, I'm detective Crammer.”

My lips twitch. ”Why am I here?”

”I think you already know the answer to that.” She motions to the counselor's office door. ”But why don't we go in here so we can talk more privately.”

I follow her into the councilor's office, which is packed with plants and family photos. There's a bag hanging on a coat rack in the farthest corner and the air smells like pumpkin and spice. Detective Crammer takes a seat in the office chair and I sit down in front of the desk.

She opens the file with my name printed on it. ”You excel in English... but your math grades look a little weak.” She takes off her gla.s.ses and tosses them on the desk. ”Well, I'll get straight to the point since we only have the office for a few minutes.” She rolls forward in the chair, and overlaps her hands on top of the desk. ”As I'm sure you heard, Laden Miller disappeared last night. Now, the last place he was seen was a party you were at. Is that correct?”

”Yeah,” I answer. ”But a lot of people were.”

”Just a simple yes or no will suffice,” she says snidely. ”Now, as I'm sure you've also heard, Laden Miller's car was found down at the bridge in a very similar situation as how your father's car was left after his disappearance three years ago. You were the only one ever investigated for his disappearance-the police never had any more leads.”

I brazenly cross my arms. ”The charges against me were dropped.”

She pulls out a small notepad from the pocket of her jacket. ”I pulled up your father's case and it said that they got a call right before your dad disappeared. The call was from you and you said he was going to be murdered.”

”No, I said he was going to die. There's a huge difference.”

”Huge difference or not, it's highly suspicious. And then you ran away right after.”

I opt for silence, knowing from experience that fewer words mean fewer opportunities to twist what I say around.

Her eyes narrow and then she jots something in notepad. ”It's such a strange case. Raven feathers, an hourgla.s.s, the bright red X on the road. And of course there's the blood.”

”They're all symbols of death,” I say. ”I told the police this last time.”

Her eyebrows furrow as she reads over her notes. ”Hmm... no one ever made a note of that.”

I shrug indifferently. ”Well, it's true. Except for the X, they all represent death. You can Google it if you want. It's pretty common knowledge.”

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