CHAPTER SIXTEEN these hills have eyes, and i got paranoia
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MONDAY MORNING brought a monster to Violet's feet when she was committing her weekly truancy during art class—which was pointless, in her defense, because mixing primary colours to make a miracle mess of more colours didn't appeal to her in the slightest and Violet wasn't interested in the metaphorical, much less participating in it—and smoking in the bathroom with the window cracked open. From time to time, girls would come into the bathroom, cast one wary glance at Violet before hustling into a stall. When they came out to wash their hands, nosing out of the stalls like fearful rabbits leaving their burrows checking for snakes, and saw that she was still there, they flicked furtive glances her way, watching her through the mirror. But Violet kept looking ahead, out the window, blowing smoke to the sky. They saw her, but didn't stop her, and that made Violet feel like her father, around whom the seas kept parting.
"You shouldn't smoke."
In the reflection in the window pane, Alice Cullen's face loomed beside Violet's, behind her shoulder, a pale-faced ghost bearing deceptively innocent features, a pixie-cut and sharp eyes. Sharper teeth, Violet thought, as she snapped round to face the girl—the vampire—standing before her. Her hand curled around the hilt of her knife before she even knew she was moving. Under the garish bathroom light, the tip off the blade glinted menacingly. She gave Alice a stone-faced once-over, taking inventory of her posture, shoulders pulled back like a ballet dancer's, poised with gymnast's grace, noting the layers of necklaces piled over her chest, the gaudy charm bracelets encircling her wrists that jingled like bells with each movement. How she'd snuck up on Violet so soundlessly, so flawlessly predator-like, eluded her. But Violet knew. Vampires were fast. In the blink of an eye, Alice could have her skewered on the pipes, could rip her heart out with her bare hands, could drain her body of every ounce of blood in the blink of an eye. Violet straightened her spine, lips curling into her father's politician's smile.
"You should mind your own business."
Alice didn't once glance down at the knife in Violet's hand. If she noticed, she didn't comment. She wasn't even the slightest bit concerned. Instead, a polite smile curved her gloss-coated lips. Her glassy-eyed stare was unblinking, more unsettling than charming. Violet didn't have much of an opinion on Alice Cullen, but she'd heard rumours. Apparently most people thought she was weird, a little freakish, a little bit not sound in the head. Oh, she was freakish, alright. Just not in the conventional sense. How long Alice must've been like this—dead and deadly—struck Violet immediately.
"Violet, right? Hi, I'm Alice. Edward's sister." She stuck her hand out, a dainty action.
Violet's cool gaze flickered to Alice's hand, then back up to the girl's unwavering stare. She didn't take it.
"I know."
"I like your jacket," Alice said, clasping her hands in front of her.
Violet lifted a brow. Thorns of awkward silence wound around them. Alice's eyes darted down to Violet's hand.
