Page 64 of Wicked Dreams

Margo

When Caleb walks into first period on Thursday morning, he meets my death glare.

His eyebrows hike, and then his gaze drops to my legs.

Bare legs.

Ugh.

He didn’t just wake me up with oral last night—he destroyed my uniform pants. The skirt is fine, I guess, minus the fact that it hits me mid-thigh and feels way too revealing. And I didn’t have any stockings or pantyhose to conceal my legs…

It’ll be on the list of things I need to ask Lenora about.

Another would be period products. That should be coming any day now, and I ran out last month. Doesn’t help that I’ve changed homes and schools since then.

Lenora has been working late. I didn’t see her yesterday until right before I headed upstairs to bed. She hugged me and Robert, apologized for being absent, then went to hunt down the plate Robert had saved for her.

I didn’t see her this morning either. Robert didn’t comment on my skirt. He was probably the one to bring the options from Emery-Rose home, after all. Half his students wear skirts.

The morning air had a bite to it, which made standing out in the courtyard even worse. Goosebumps prickled my flesh, and I practically hid behind Riley and Jacq. No need for Savannah and her squad of evil cheerleaders to spot me. Or Caleb.

Anyway, now we’re in the same class, and Caleb’s gaze heats the back of my neck.

“I like it when you wear your hair up,” he says in my ear.

I jump at his closeness. “Why?”

He trails a finger along my nape, and I shiver.

“Because of that,” he whispers.

He slides back into his seat just as Mrs. Stonewater closes the door.

Luckily, the rest of the day passes without incident. Riley and I hole up in the library for lunch, and we wait until the bell has rung and the main stampede of students have passed before we venture out.

Caleb comes in late to art class, and he mutters something to Robert before taking his seat beside me.

I shoot him a questioning look, then catch myself.

I should not beinquisitiveabout anything Caleb is doing. Curiosity is just attention that he doesn’t need. Trust me, his head—and ego—don’t need any help.

He ignores me.

I tug at the bottom of my skirt absently, wishing it was a few inches longer, and his lips twitch.

But Robert—Mr. Bryan in this setting—has begun the lesson about shading techniques. There’s no room in this small classroom for side chats because the sound travels so easily. Anyway, it’s a good excuse to stay silent.

We follow along with my foster dad’s lesson, and then he sets us loose to practice shading. He has a table in the center of the room with a variety of objects on it—square blocks, solid-colored marbles, a bowling pin—and a standing lamp directed at it.

“Depending on where you are in the room, the shadows are going to hit differently.”

I adjust my position and dip my brush into the blue paint.

When the class ends, Caleb waits for me to pack up my stuff. He, per usual, has almost nothing. He has a near-empty bag slung over his shoulder that he stowed his set of brushes in, but otherwise, his hands are in his pockets, and he watches me.

“You normally bolt out of here,” I say.

He smiles. “Not today. You’re coming with me.”

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