Page 2 of The Art of Us

She hated that about him.

Ireland finally closed her eyes and imagined summertime flowers and sunshine soaking into her skin, all while playing the tune of one of her favorite songs, “Daylight from a Single Candle,” in her head. The indie band Cosmic Cloak had a soulful poignancy that tended to calm her. She finally relaxed enough that she was able to sleep.

The sound of the melodic birdcall alarm from her phone made her pop an eye open to see that the new day had indeed come.

“See?” she asked herself. No werewolves after all. It was always easier to believe herself in the daylight. Ireland had no desire to leave the warmth of the sleeping bag to face the icy air, but the birdcall alarm was still going, reminding her that she had to get to school. She’d specifically chosen the nature sound to keep any nearby hiker or jogger from hearing a typical phone alarm and getting curious. She was grateful for the phone and the link it gave her to the outside world, but her father had only covered service to the end of the month. She’d have to figure out how to pay for an extension on that service or do without. Frowning at that thought, she turned off her alarm and forced herself up.

If getting out of the sleeping bag could be considered a mouse-sized effort, the task of washing her face could be considered an elephant-sized one.

Ireland braced herself against the ice-cold water from the sink and rinsed the sleep from her eyes and the grime of the floor from her face and hair. She huffed out several breaths, as if she could expel the shock of the cold water, before she pulled out a toothbrush and looked at her warped image in the metal front of the empty towel dispenser. “You look seriously sick,” she told herself. Not sick as in cool or awesome, but sick as in “grab yourplague mask.” Next to her dark hair, her fair skin always looked pale, but it seemed worse lately. “Get a pillow,” she added out loud to her reflection, since her normally clear blue eyes were bloodshot due to the lack of quality sleep. She frowned at the military-grade duffel bag her father had deemed too worthless to take with him. She would have to find a reallysmallpillow, or it wouldn’t fit in the pack without popping out of the zippered confines.

Ireland sighed and spit in the sink. Small it would be, then.

She looked in the mirror again and noticed a stain in the shirt she wore—an accident from eating lunch yesterday. There wasn’t anything she could do about it since her other few shirts smelled like death due to her lack of deodorant, and her frigid sink-baths made it hard to properly clean herself. Maybe no one would notice the stain, in the same way she hoped they wouldn’t notice the fact that she wore the same clothes over and over. But they would for sure notice her if they could smell her.

She needed a shower. A real shower with hot water. It seemed she couldn’t get the acrid smell of body and street and bathroom out of her clothes and off of her person. “You stink,” she told the mirror.

With a grunt of irritation, Ireland pulled her shirt down to the sink and began scratching at it under the water. A few tears leaked from her eyes as a few curse words leaked from her mouth. She finished and glared back at the mirror, daring it to give her a bad review. Better? Maybe. The shirt would dry on her walk to school. She would use the last bit of bar soap she had to wash her clothes in the sink as soon as school was out. Hopefully, it would all dry during the night. If she had to pack it away wet in the duffel, it would mildew, which would be a different problem.

After twisting her hair into a sloppy bun that she tied off witha ponytail holder, she turned to gather her things and carefully pack them away.

Her phone chirped again. Ireland cursed under her breath. She had to hurry, or she wouldn’t make it to school on time. She lugged the duffel to a tree behind the bathroom, looped the rope she’d previously set up through the straps, and tugged until the duffel disappeared into the foliage. She tied off the rope, picked up her backpack with the things she needed for school, and hurried to the animal trail that led into town.

When she finally approached the front doors of the school, she had to weave through pockets of students gathered to socialize. Some wore jackets, but several sported cargo shorts and T-shirts with beanies as their only protection against the cold.

I do not understand you people.

Ireland hoped she hadn’t said that out loud but really didn’t know if she had or hadn’t. Not that it mattered in relation to the truthfulness of her thought. The fashion trend of a beanie and shorts made no sense to her when she was doing everything she could to stay warm. She tugged on the door handle and heaved a sigh of relief when the warm air from the heated building hit her skin.

Better. So much better.

Ireland threaded through the student body mosaic of her school as she made her way to her first class.

“Hey, girl!” An overly ecstatic female voice called out, but Ireland didn’t bother to turn and see who it was. No one would be talking to her. And she wasn’t stupid enough to feel sad or slighted by that fact. She didn’t try to strike up conversations with anyone, so why would they try with her?

It wasn’t that she didn’t want friends, but with a dad who could decide to make a hasty exit at any moment due to not paying rent or due to people hunting him down to try to collect moneyhe owed them for one weird venture or another, she didn’t think attachments were a good idea. They never had been in the past.

If she’d known her dad was going to ditch her, she would have tried for friendships. Maybe a friend would have let her crash on their couch until she could figure something out.

“Never too late to start,” she muttered to herself. Maybe if she made friends now, she could still get a couch-crash invite.

She smiled as she passed a group of girls in the hall. One of them, the tall, thin Black girl with red-rimmed glasses, smiled back. Sure, it wasn’t like the girl had stopped to talk or anything, but a smile felt promising—promising enough to empower her to try speaking to someone else. Someone in particular. Someone she had wanted to talk to ever since he’d transferred to their school five months ago: Kal Ellis.

He’d moved from Arizona. He’d said as much during an oral report he’d given on his personal history. The personal history report she’d given had been total fiction. She had no idea about her family history, and her personal story was just messed up. Not like Kal’s at all.

Ireland had liked listening to his story. He came from a good family and had moved to California to be closer to his grandpa. He was a nice-looking guy. She wasn’t such a total mutant that she didn’t notice things like that. He kept his dark hair short but long enough to style it with hair product of some sort. He had deep dimples when he smiled. And his olive complexion made him look the part of a California surfer.

But it wasn’t because of his looks, sigh worthy as they were, that she liked him. He was the quiet, studious type who kept his serious brown eyes focused up front where the teacher was lecturing rather than on the leggy cheerleader in the seat on the other side of him. His above-average intelligence meant he was the one who screwed up the curve for everyone else in class. He also had an artistic side to him that appealed to her.

And he was nice to people. Genuinely nice. She had once watched as he stopped in a crowded hallway to help a kid, who had tripped and fallen, to pick up the myriad fantasy paperback books, papers, and cell phone fragments (the kid’s phone had splintered into a few pieces). Helping a stranger pick up scattered debris in the hall was the classic high school good deed. Classic even though she’d never seen it happen in real life before that moment.

She liked that Kal Ellis didn’t mind being classic.

“Hi,” Ireland said to him as soon as she arrived in her first-hour class—history. He seemed startled that she addressed him.

“Hi?”

She tried at a grin, knowing her social skills to be less than polished but determined to forge ahead regardless. “Is that a question?”

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