Fyrefall (Phoebe and the Wanderers, Book 1)

4 - Sneaking around

I gripped the sides of my desk and shot my chair back with a screech. Charlotte King in the front row flashed me a look that screamed, Freak!

Half standing on wildly juddering legs, I tried to form some coherent words.

“Yes Phoebe?” Mrs Arvo smiled, the kind of nervous smile you make at a three year old who’s about to drop your mobile phone into the toilet.

 All I could manage was to mumble a lame “but…but.” Face burning, trying to ignore the whispers all around me, I sagged back into my seat.

As soon as the bell rang I shot out into the corridor and grabbed Charlotte. I’m six inches taller than her and she doesn’t normally talk to people that she can’t look down her nose at, but she knows everybody’s business and desperation made me bold. I pointed out a tall muscular guy leaning against the wall. “See Ben over there,” I said. “How would you describe him?”

She twirled a strand of platinum hair around her finger. “Fit, hot...” she sighed.

“He thinks he’s a right Romeo, doesn’t he?”

“What’s a Romeo?” I shook my head and her lips wrinkled with contempt. “Ben’s a right Astrophel,” she said, “if that’s what you mean?”

The elastic band around my stomach drew tighter. “The alphabet that they do on police shows. You know, Alpha, Romeo, Sierra, Echo?’

“Alpha, Rhumba, you knob.” She backed away, lips parted like she’d tasted something sour. “What are you on?”

Later, in computing, I was still buzzing, when I should have been concentrating on the screen in front of me. We were supposed to be writing a code that would draw a circle. I wasn’t sure why we couldn’t just use a pencil. Computing was not one of my not-very-many strengths, and unless I could write a code that could locate Alexander and make him answer a few questions, I had no interest in turning it into one. I scowled up at whiteboard wondering if there was a formula for get me the hell out of here. At the bench in front of me Charlotte was gazing out of the window at the playing field.

“Stop gawping at Ben,” I murmured. “You’re starting to drool.”

“It’s not Ben,” Charlotte hissed back. “It’s the sixth-formers playing football. You’ve gotta see this new guy go!”

From behind me came a snort. I turned to see the new girls, twins who’d arrived at school a week ago. They were tiny, with identical faces, olive skin and wide almond-shaped eyes. Their eyes and their hair told them apart: Akeelah was green-eyed and covered her hair with a scarf, while Mumtaz had eyes of the same nutty brown as the long thick braid that reached all the way down her back.

 They were refugees, someone said, but Taz — as she’d told us to call her — spoke with a flawless English accent, while Akeelah never seemed to say a word. They were glaring out of the window. “He’s just showing off,” Taz said. Akeelah rolled her emerald eyes and nodded.

Out on the football pitch, a ball curled into the back of the goal. It looked like a difficult shot: cut in at a low angle, skimming an inch below the top bar and slamming into the top corner of the net. The goalie didn’t stand a chance.

I craned my neck to see who had scored, but the team had piled themselves on top of him. As I watched the mini-mountain dismantle itself, I caught a glimpse of dark long curls, so quick, it was gone in a blink. A jolt of electricity shot under my skin.

I leaned towards the window. The whistle blew the end of the game. As the players jogged off the field, I saw him for sure this time. He flicked the ball casually from heel to knee and booted it right down to midfield. He tugged at his football shirt, lifting it to wipe at his glistening face and giving a glimpse of skin above the waistband of his shorts.