Gabi, an aspiring fashion designer, sees her world in colors. Scarlet, turquoise, and mauve coat a new world of controlled visions when, in an attempt to connect with her absent oneirologist father, she reads a book about lucid dreaming. But she i...
Biology races by in a blur. As our teacher lectures about the year's syllabus and homework, my eyes swivel in Nathan's direction. He leaves me uneasy. The tattoo on his neck, the scarf, and his eerie interest in me leave no room for doubt: he's the guy from last night. What worries me most is he acts like he already knows everything about me, but I know nothing about him.
By lunchtime he's turned into a creepy stalker. Nathan is in all my classes and insists on sitting next to me. Sometimes he makes quiet conversation during lapses in the lectures, about the syllabus or other kids in our class; other times he just studies me. I feel like he's sizing me up but I don't know why.
I find Asher in front of his locker when the lunch bell rings, talking to that blonde girl—Willa—again. They're deep in conversation, and she rocks back and forth on her heels as she says something that makes him laugh.
Nathan clears his throat when we reach them, startling Asher and Willa out of whatever moment they're having. Willa crosses her arms and leans against Asher's locker, eyeing me. I get the distinct feeling that she hates me without even knowing me.
Asher cuts into our awkward staredown. "Gabi, I don't think I've introduced you to Willa yet."
Willa doesn't smile. She's pretty: her shoulder-length blonde hair is accented with layers that frame her petite features. I expect she'd have a nice smile except for the fact that her lips refuse to move from their fixed position in a half-frown. She nods once to acknowledge me and then turns back to Asher, angling her shoulders away from me. Nathan moves to stand beside her and now I feel left out, like these people are all standing there discussing a secret right in front of me.
They murmur about Nathan's penthouse and some kids in Boston and a guy named Emery. I linger for a few seconds, debating, and then slip away, melting into a group of girls I know from last year's chem class. Asher and I usually eat lunch together, but one glance at his new elite group and I know I'm not invited.
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When people think of the Bronx, they usually don't think of beauty. Maybe it's because I grew up here, but I see it where other people wouldn't. As I walk home from school I admire the towering buildings, the townhouses, and the rickety apartments stacked up high. Even the graffiti has its own appeal: it coats the walls of the buildings with images of flowers and people. One giant masterpiece near a bodega announces in neon letters, "Welcome to the Bronx."
Hitching my backpack higher on my shoulder, I slap the button at the pedestrian crossing but only wait for a gap in the traffic. I skirt around a van and under the giant bridge that spans the median of Westchester, hopping onto the sidewalk on the other side.
I'm at our building in under five minutes. My mom and I live alone in a two-bedroom apartment on the same street as University Heights, beside a Tex-Mex restaurant. Sometimes Asher stays over. I missed those nights when he was gone: I'd climb out of bed and sit beside him on the couch next to our tiny kitchen, and we'd talk until we both fell asleep.
