A Sanguinary Rose

First Blood

THE NIGHT I saw the swollen moon turn red like a titan's heart was also the night I found the courage to approach my crush.

Where I came from, etiquette dictated that boys approached girls, not the other way around. Stares from the other students burned through the back of my skull and their insults bored into my brain. And yet, out of the many things I regretted before I died, that was not one of them.

The party was overcrowded—a far cry from the environment where I thrived. Did I look as awkward as I felt? I'd practiced walking in front of my mirror until I thought I could pull off confident, but I don't think I was pulling off anything. And all that time I spent getting my bronze waves to fall just right? Totally wasted. I knew they'd betray me and shift back to the side that bothered me so much. I gave a fair try to smiling, but my face probably looked more like it was contorting than anything else. Although my biggest fear was losing my footing to my high heels. Melanie didn't need any more material to torment me with.

He watched me stumble toward him.

Alan Grayson was untouchable. He carried himself with the grace of a fashion model as he moved about with aristocratic flair. At sixteen or seventeen, his elegance mystified everyone where he trod. He didn't belong in our pint-sized Pacific Northwest town. He was too well dressed, too well-spoken; everything went his way and all around his persona was perfect—as if his aura alone interwove with the ether to make it so. I wouldn't be surprised to find out he'd been front cover of Teen Vogue or cast as an elven prince to star in the next Rings movies that my brother Marcus groveled over so much. He was just that gorgeous and charismatic.

His frame was lithe, his limbs toned. His white-blond hair was slicked back, keeping his flawless features in full display. Almost everyone wanted to be his friend; some, his rival. He was one of, if not, the most popular boy at Farpoint High School.

I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, facing down the abyss into which my social status could plummet with one false move.

There was still time to turn back, to pretend something else had caught my attention, but some madness in me drove me forward and I tottered into his personal space.

The music overwhelmed my voice before a word came out of my taut lips, which prompted this otherworldly beauty of a boy to lean down with his ear toward me. I produced a meek "Hi."

"What's that?" Alan said loudly. He scratched the back of his head, as if not wanting to state the obvious.

Against the din of frantic guitar strings and students hooting and pushing, I would have to speak louder than I was comfortable with. Thankfully, the stroboscopic lights concealed my reddening cheeks.

"No need for words if we get on the dance floor," I said louder, pulling the sweetest smile I could manage. My face flamed red. Now I would've welcomed the sweet release of death.

Perhaps there was reason to hope, but judging by his reaction, I'd failed miserably. Alan stiffened on the spot, and the boys flanking him stopped mid-conversation to snicker. He threw them a murderous glance. "Guys, shut up," he said, before turning back to me. "I'm sorry, Scarlett, but I hate dancing."

He knew my name even though we weren't classmates. That, at least, gave me a small boost of confidence. But my heart still thundered against my ribs.

I couldn't stop fidgeting with my hands. "Just so happens I don't enjoy it either, so maybe we could... do something else?" Off his baffled look I hurried to add, "Talk? I mean." His eyes were a mesmerizing gray, like liquid silver. It was easy to become lost in his gaze.

That was if he didn't yank you out. "It seems we're not on the same page," he said, standing straight, hands tucked in pockets. One of his friends burst out laughing, and he glared at them. "Guys, I'll kill you for this." He eyed me then, and I thought I saw something harsh and stern in him mellowing out a little. "It's me they're laughing at, not you. And it's not the reason you think it is. Look, it's hard to explain these things because..." He had the answer on the tip of his tongue, and I knew it. I just didn't understand yet why he wouldn't tell me. "I mean, you're not my type. And I mean that on many levels. There's no tale to tell here."