Sweet Like Revenge

39 - Revelations

There was one thing I hadn't foreseen at the start of my mission; the constant, all-consuming anxiety that came with putting on Elle's mask.

It was a snake that crawled beneath my skin, slimy and oily and toxic. I was anxious about slipping up. I was anxious about getting caught. And the anxiety I felt whenever Kirsty mentioned Astor's name? Immense. It was like walking next to a cop with weed in my pocket.

Not that I'd experienced such a thing, of course.

"Has anyone heard from Astor today?" Kirsty asked as she led Kat and me away from the art lab on Tuesday morning. She scrolled between Instagram and Facebook, frowning down at her unanswered messages. "He hasn't been active since yesterday."

I let Kat take that one. After all, she was unrivaled in the topic of schoolyard gossip. More to the point, it was best for me to stay far away from any conversation that revolved around Astor and Kirsty. I couldn't risk my guilt or my anxiety causing me to say something I'd regret.

I shoved my hands in my pockets to ward off the late morning chill (and my rising paranoia), only to find the cassette opener I'd stashed there earlier.

"Shit."

Kirsty craned her neck to look at me, her dark eyes flashing with disgust at my rather tame curse as if she was a saint and not just a condescending bitch. It was a reminder that her tolerance of me, and therefore my time in her inner circle, was growing shorter by the day.

"I'll catch up to you later." I spun on my heel to head back the way we'd come, not missing the way Kat's pleading eyes followed my every step.

I imagined that the thought of being left alone with Kirsty caused Kat some anxiety of her own.

Ms. Gunn had already vacated the lab by the time I made it back, so I took the darkroom keys from her desk and headed down the hall. I didn't need to use them, though. The door to the small rectangular space was wide open, the room itself occupied.

By Nate.

He was sitting atop the counter near one of the developer tanks, his eyes fixed on his phone as he read something on the screen. The little light pouring in from the hall danced on his frown, only adding to the mystery of whatever had captivated his attention so. It was as if I had stumbled across a pixie in the woods; he looked so peaceful and serene, and I hated to be the one to disturb him.

"Sorry," I apologized instantly, though there wasn't really any need to. Nate looked up, and I waved the stolen tool in my hand. "Just dropping off a stray."

He put his phone away, extending the warmest grin he'd thrown me in weeks as he jumped off the counter. "A remorseful thief. Can't say there's many of you around these parts."

I indulged him with a polite smile.

And then I realized that I was still lingering by the door. Like an idiot.

"I'll just pop this away," I explained, crossing the floor to the kit I'd used earlier, "and leave you to it."

Nate cleared his throat, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck as he peered at me through his ever-neat mop of hair. "Actually, I've been meaning to talk to you."

My heartbeat quickened. I didn't know whether it was what Nate said—'we need to talk', in more or less terms—or how he said it—like he was scared to utter the words any louder lest they detonate like a bomb—but I felt my earlier paranoia resurface.

Nate wanted to talk. To me. After weeks of nothing but awkward greetings and strained small talk. And he looked... nervous about it.

The only question running through my mind was: What does he know?