Page 19 of In Shadows We Dance

"It's interesting," he continues, "how someone who works sohard to be invisible has such ...distinctivehabits. Like how you always eat lunch at exactly twelve forty-seven. Or how you only use pens with blue ink." His pen taps against my shoulder blade. "Such specific routines for someone trying not to be noticed."

I grip my pen so hard I'm surprised it doesn't snap like the last one. "I'm not hiding anything."

"No?" His pen traces what feels like letters across my back. "Then why does your father check the locks three times every night? Why does he pull the curtains closed the moment the sun starts setting? What's he so afraid of, pretty Ballerina?"

The bell can't come soon enough. But every minute until then is filled with his whispered observations, his pen maintaining constant contact, like he's marking me as his territory. By the time class ends, my skin feels hypersensitive, like he's stripped away all my protective layers with just his words and the touch of his pen, leaving me bare to the world.

When the bell goes, everyone moves, shoving their things into bags, calling out to friends, while the teacher shouts over the top with instructions to finish our breakdown of the metaphors found in Sonnet 18. I'm not sure how many people are listening to him, though. Most of them are still talking about yesterday’s car crash and wondering if there's any more news to be found.

I move away from my desk without checking behind me, heading straight for the door. Relief washes over me when Wren doesn’t call my name, and I make it to my locker without interruption.

That relief is short-lived. When I turn away, he's there—leaning against the wall, one foot propped up, arms folded, staring at me.

I grit my teeth.

Why won't he leave me alone?

As if he knows what I'm thinking, one corner of his mouth tips up. He thinks it's funny. He's amused by how he's putting me on edge. He likes it.

I drag my gaze away from him, sling my bag over my shoulder, and turn my back on him. I'm not going to let him intimidateme. But I know I can't go to the dance studio—not after this morning. Not after he revealed how much he's been watching me there. The thought of being alone in that space, knowing he might be at the window, makes my skin crawl.

I have a free period, and for the first time since Mrs. Reynolds left, I can't seek refuge in the dance studio. He's tainted it. Turned my sanctuary into another place where I have to look over my shoulder. Instead of taking a right turn and walking across the courtyard, I take a left and go to the library. Maybe there, surrounded by other students, I can find some peace.

I used to go to the library every day, back when we still had a dance teacher and designated hours for the class, but I stopped going after someone sat at the table I'd chosen and tried to have a conversation with me. It made me uncomfortable, so I left. I haven't been back since. That has to have been over a year ago now.

When I push through the double doors, a wave of familiarity hits me. It hasn't changed at all. It still has the same hushed feel, the same smell, and it's soothing in an odd kind of way. I make my way across the room, and past the stacks until I'm right at the back. There's a small table set in a corner, and I dump my bag onto it and sit in the only chair.

I'll finish the English homework, that way I can wait until Wren leaves after school and then spend some time in the dance studio. I can tell my dad that I was doing homework. He won't argue with that. Having good grades is important to him. It’s what I used to say when I stayed after school for dance class. That was the first time I defied him, and if he knew I was dancing, practicing, he'd put a stop to it somehow.

I settle down to work, my head bowed and my pen moving over the paper, as I lose myself in Shakespeare's words and possible meanings. I'm so focused, I don't hear the soft footfall, or notice the shadow falling over my table.

“Ileana, right?” A female voice breaks my concentration, andI jump, dropping my pen.

Lottie Mitchell stands beside the table, blonde hair in a perfect high ponytail. It swings as she tips her head, looking down at me. In all the years we've been at school together, she's never spoken to me. Yet she knows my name.

This can't be good.

She glances around, and I can't take my eyes off her hair, the way it sways. Long pink fingernails tap my book, dragging my attention away.

"I'm sorry, did you need something?"

Her lips curve up. I have to stop myself from looking over my shoulder to see who she's smiling at. It can’t be me. I don’t mix with the popular girls. I don’t mix with anyone.

Why is she here?

"Listen ..." She looks around, forehead crinkling. "Why are there so few seats back here?" She frowns, vanishes for a moment, then returns with a chair.

I watch in horrified fascination as she sets it down, sits, and props her chin on her hand, staring at me.

“Is there something I can help you with?” I force the words out.

“Oh!” She blinks. “Gosh, I’m staring, aren’t I? I’m so sorry. It’s just ... You’re not new, obviously, yet I don’t remember ever seeing you before today.”

“Before today?” My heart sinks.

“Stay away from Wren Carlisle.”

I can’t help myself—I laugh, then cover my mouth. “I’m sorry.”

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