Chasing the Moon

chapter one.

There's a lot they don't tell you about coming to school after your friend dies.

Then again, there's not a lot they do tell you — my counselor just said: I'm sorry. We're here if you need help. You can take a few weeks from home if you need; your teachers have prepared your work. I didn't know how to say routine is the only thing keeping me from slowly losing my grip on reality, so I just said no, I could handle it, and here I am.

Anyway — there's a lot they don't tell you. Namely, the stares you get — the quiet whispering, the I heard she knew the girl that... you know... over break, the sympathetic glances when our teachers are reviewing the year's syllabi. I'd do anything to get rid of those glances. I think Lia got off lucky, that way: at least she doesn't have to deal with the aftermath.

Sorry, Lia, I think, like she can hear me. That was a shitty thing to say.

"Adriana," the nasal voice of my chemistry teacher calls. "We're assigning new seat partners today. Please stand up so I can put someone at your old desk."

"Christ, Stevens, give her a second," some well-intending student replies. He looks over at me, blue eyes lingering for a long moment before he lets his gaze flicker back to Mr. Stevens, who seems about as dispassionate as ever. I suppose it's nice that one thing didn't change.

I stand up, wincing as my chair squeaks against the tile. "It's Ana." Mr. Stevens continues staring at me like he's expecting me to say anything else, which I suppose I should. Instead, I just make my way over to the wall and cross my arms against my chest, backpack in tow.

"Right. Well." He clears his throat before droning off names, all of which I tune out. "Adriana," he says after a few minutes. My head snaps up. "You're with James."

"James," I repeat. Of course.

"Yes, James Lancaster. Back left." The boy in question, for once, looks equally bewildered and annoyed before he fixes on an easy grin, lopsided and effortlessly handsome the way everything he does is crafted to be.

Of course.

"Well," he says as I make my way over, dropping my bag on the floor. "I guess we have to make this work."

I roll my eyes. "We don't."

"I'm not giving up my A because you're a little kid." His smile's dropped all the way off his face now that nobody's looking at us, and his eyes have gone from charmingly dark to cold and soulless. There has to be something wrong with him. "I'll stick to kicking your ass in tests like always."

Do you know? I almost ask. Do you live under a rock? But I already know the answer: James Lancaster knows everything about everyone since he has a million friends in each corner of the school, which means he just doesn't care. I can't find it in myself to be particularly angry, though, not when everyone else has been treating me like I'm two seconds away from shattering, so I just snort.

"Last year's bio final says otherwise."

At this, James raises one unbothered eyebrow. "Remind me what you got in calc."

"Go to hell."

Before he can reply with something just as squeaky-clean charming as the rest of him, Mr. Stevens clears his throat, effectively silencing the class before he begins to drone about an introduction to kinetics. At the end of the period, James leaves without throwing me so much as a second glance.

Some things never change.

"Hey," a voice calls as I walk out the door. I look over to see the student from earlier — the one who told Mr. Stevens to give me a second. His face looks overwhelmingly familiar in a way I can't place, which, now that I'm thinking it, is probably because we've been at the same school for years now and I don't know his name. Jesus.