And now we were seated by each other, and it should have been great, but it wasn't. Because not only could I see her from head to toe out of the corner of my eye without even looking at her, but I also couldn't help but see how pink her cheeks were. And her constant smile.
The soccer jerk made her happy.
And that just made me want to punch something.
Savannah frowned and rubbed her arm, and I noticed for the first time that the skin below her short sleeves was covered in goose bumps. Huh, that was weird. It didn't feel that cold in here. But maybe I should ask Mr. Smythe to turn off the AC for a while.
I had to stop looking at her.
Jerking my wandering gaze to the dry-erase board ahead of us, I tried to copy down the notes as the class had been instructed to do. But my peripheral vision was a real curse, letting me see her long legs uncross then recross the opposite way.
Oh, man, I was so screwed. I'd be able to see her from head to toe all year, every other weekday, without even turning my head. For an entire hour and a half.
I'd have to beg my sister to help me with my homework again, this time in history.
Giving up on the note taking, I tilted back my head and stared at the ceiling. Ah, better. At least this way I could only see Savannah from the waist up. Too bad I couldn't shut out the sound of the Charmers bracelet she wrote. Apparently she'd joined the dance team over the summer, too. The tinkling was going to drive me crazy. Every movement of her wrist seemed to sing, "Tristan, look at me."
"Mr. Coleman, come see me, please," Mr. Smythe barked from his desk at the back of the room.
Surprised, I got up and walked over to him.
He held out a piece of paper. "Take this note for me."
Confused, I accepted the sheet of unlined paper. "You want me to deliver a note, sir?"
"Yes. Now."
Okay, this was a new one. I took the note and headed outside, shutting the door behind me.
The note wasn't sealed, which was also weird. Didn't teachers always seal their notes with tape or something so students couldn't read them? I glanced at the handwritten lettering on the note then saw it was addressed to me.
Tristan,
Get your emotions under control. Now. You're killing me and probably every other descendant on this campus. Take however long you need, but get it done and make sure it doesn't happen again. And burn this note.
Smythe
And then I remembered. Mr. Smythe was Dylan's uncle and a descendant. Cursing under my breath, I headed for the nearest trash can, did a quick flash burn on the note until it crumbled into ashes in the container, then headed for my usual grounding tree.
Only to realize halfway there that I'd have to find another method. Now that it was no longer lunchtime, anyone who saw me at my grounding tree would grow suspicious and maybe even report me to the office for ditching class. I needed some element of nature other than air that would directly connect me to the earth. Fire, wood, earth, water...
And then I had it. Changing course, I headed for the nearby restroom. Once inside, I checked to be sure no one else was there. I turned on a faucet, put both hands under the cold stream and willed the excess energy out into the flow of water. The heat from my energy immediately combined with the cold water to make steam that fogged up the lower half of the mirror. Cool. I hadn't expected that.
The bathroom door opened behind me, and a zit-faced freshman walked in, signaling the end of this grounding session. Hopefully it had been enough.
The kid hesitated, his eyebrows raised. Probably at the steam.
I turned off the water, dried my hands under a blower. The boy was still frozen near the door, his eyes squinting in suspicion.
"Watch that hot-water knob. They must have cranked up the settings on the water heater," I joked.
That did it. The boy chuckled, nodded in understanding, and headed for a urinal.
I took my time strolling back to class. The water grounding was a good idea. But I'd better find a way to get over Savannah quick or people were going to notice my grounding efforts and think me a freak. At the very least, the descendants on campus would tell Dad that I was getting out of control again.
I needed to find a way not to care about Savannah. I'd thought dream connecting with her that one time last year would be okay, that it would take off the edge. But she was like a drug for me. Every little contact with her made me want to spend even more time with her just to see her smile or hear what she'd say next. I'd wanted to dream connect with her again. But I'd been unable to. Not for lack of trying, though. I'd slept outside so much, Mom had complained that she should buy me a doghouse. I'd tried training harder with Dad, flying through the last of the beginner-level lessons plus several intermediate ones in no time. Then I'd taken a month off, thinking a break from using my power would make it increase and give me the oomph I needed to dream connect again with Savannah. Recently, I'd even talked Dad into teaching me how to draw power from nature to supplement my own.
But nothing worked. All I'd gotten for months of effort was the nightly return of those frustrating beat-the-barrier dreams. Just like in my dreams, Savannah was once again so close in history class, and still as unreachable as ever. Even worse, now she was some other guy's girl. And that made her about as untouchable as a girl could get in my opinion, short of being related to me. I'd dated a lot of girls, but I made it a personal rule never to go after someone else's girlfriend. I'd always figured if a girl was interested in me, she'd break up with her boyfriend before I ever had to make a move in her direction.
Of course, none of those girls had been Savannah, either.
I headed back to class, taking my time. Was there a spell to make a guy act enough like an idiot to make his girlfriend break up with him, but not so bad that he broke her heart in the process?
I'd have to ask Emily.
Savannah
Over the next two weeks, my friends gradually quit grumbling about the Charmers, and Greg became a steady part of my school schedule. For our daily lunch break, we compromised. Mondays and Thursdays we sat with his friends, Tuesdays and Fridays we sat with mine, and Wednesdays we didn't sit together at all. This kept both sets of friends happy. Surprisingly, Anne didn't hate Greg like she did most guys, and she didn't even tease us when he rested his arm across the back of my chair sometimes. I had no idea what his friends really thought about our dating, but Mark and Peter didn't seem bothered by it. Usually they either talked about soccer or asked me endless questions about why some girl they liked had done something they didn't understand. At least I knew I had a possible career as a therapist someday. If I didn't turn into a vampire first.