“Hello, Jeffrey,” she said. Her voice was low for a girl's; vibrant and almost husky.
“Faye.” Jeffrey's voice, by contrast, was noticeably unenthusiastic. He looked tense. “Hi.”
The girl leaned over him, one hand on the back of his chair, and Cassie caught the scent of some heady perfume. “I didn't see much of you over summer vacation,” she said. “Where've you been?”
“Around,” Jeffrey said lightly. But his smile was forced, and his entire body was taut now.
“You shouldn't keep yourself hidden away like that. Naughty boy.” Faye leaned in closer yet. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder top-completely off both shoulders. It left a great deal of skin exposed just at Jeffrey's eye level. But it was her face Cassie couldn't help staring at. She had a sensuous, sulky mouth and extraordinary honey-colored eyes. They seemed almost to glow with a strange golden light. “You know, there's a new horror movie at the Capri this week,” she said. “I like horror movies, Jeffrey.”
“I can take them or leave them myself,” Jeffrey said.
Faye chuckled, a rich, disturbing sound. “Maybe you just haven't seen them with the right girl,” she murmured. “Under the proper circumstances, I think they can be very… stimulating.”
Cassie felt embarrassed blood rise to her cheeks, though she scarcely knew why. Jeffrey wet his lips, looking fascinated in spite of himself, but also scared. Like a rabbit in a trap.
“I was going to take Sally down to Gloucester this weekend-“ he began, voice strained.
“Well, you'll just have to tell Sally that… something came up,” Faye said, raking him with her eyes. “You can come get me Saturday night at seven.”
“Faye, I-“
“Oh, and don't be late, all right? I hate it when boys are late.”
All this time, the black-haired girl had not even glanced at Cassie. But now, as she straightened up to leave, she did. The look she turned on Cassie was sly and secretive, as if she were perfectly aware that Cassie had been listening, and she liked it. Then she turned back to Jeffrey.
“Oh, and by the way,” she said, lifting one hand in a languid gesture that showed off her long red nails, “ she's from Crowhaven Road too.”
Jeffrey's jaw dropped. He stared at Cassie a moment with an expression of shock and distaste, and then he quickly turned around to face the front of the room. Faye was chuckling as she walked away to take a
seat at the very back.
What is going on? Cassie thought wildly. What difference did it make where she lived? The only thing she could see now of Jeffrey-of-the-dazzling-smile was his rigid back.
She had no time to think anything more, because the teacher was talking. He was a mild-looking man with a graying beard and glasses. He introduced himself as Mr. Humphries.
“And since you've all had a chance to talk during your summer vacation, now I'll give you a chance to write,” he said. “I want each of you to write a poem, right now, spontaneously. We'll read some of them aloud afterward. The poem can be about anything, but if you have trouble thinking of a subject, write about your dreams.”
There were groans from the class, which gradually died into silence and pen chewing. But Cassie bent over her notebook with her heart beating rapidly. A vague memory of her dream of last week intruded, the one where her mother and grandmother had stood over her. But she didn't want to write about that. She wanted to write about him.
After a few minutes she scribbled down a line. When Mr. Humphries announced that the time was up, she had a poem, and reading it over she felt a thin chill of excitement. It was good-or at least she thought so.
What if the teacher called on her to read it out loud? She didn't want him to, of course, but what if he made her, and what if somebody else in class thought it was good and wanted to talk to her afterward? Maybe they'd ask her about the guy in the poem, and then she could tell them the mysterious and romantic story about him. Maybe she'd get a reputation for being kind of mysterious and romantic herself. Maybe the girl in the Victorian house would hear about her…
Mr. Humphries was calling for volunteers. Predictably, no hands were raised… until one went up in the back.
The teacher hesitated. Cassie turned to see that the raised hand had long red nails.
“Faye Chamberlain,” Mr. Humphries said at last.
He sat on the edge of his desk as the tall, striking girl came to stand beside him, but Cassie had the oddest feeling that he would have moved away if he could. An almost palpable air of tension had filled the room, and all eyes were on Faye.
She tossed her glorious mane of black hair back and shrugged, causing her off-the-shoulder top to slip down a little lower. Tilting her head back, she smiled slowly at the class and held up a piece of paper.
“This is my poem,” she said in her lazy, husky voice. “It's about fire.”
Shocked, Cassie looked down at the poem on her own desk. Then Faye's voice caught her attention.
I dream about fire– Tongues of flame licking me. My hair burns like a torch; My body burns for you.
Touch my skin and your fingers will stick-
You'll blacken like a cinder.
But you'll die smiling;
Then you'll be part of the fire too.
As the entire class watched, riveted, Faye produced a match and somehow-Cassie didn't quite see how-managed to light it. She touched it to the paper and the paper caught fire. Then, walking slowly, she moved to stand directly in front of Jeffrey Lovejoy, waving the burning paper gently before his eyes.
Howls, whistles, and desk banging from the audience. Many of them looked scared, but most of the guys looked excited, too. Some of the girls looked as if they wished they dared to do something like that.
Voices called out, “See, Jeffrey, that's what you get for being so cute!” “Go for it, man!” “Watch out, Jeff, Sally's gonna hear about this!”
Jeffrey just sat there, the back of his neck slowly flushing dull red.
As the paper was about to burn her fingers, Faye sashayed away from Jeffrey again and dropped it in the metal wastebasket by the teacher's desk. Mr. Humphries didn't flinch when something in the wastebasket flared up, and Cassie admired him for that.
“Thank you, Faye,” he said evenly. “Class, I think we can call what we've just seen an example of… concrete poetry. Tomorrow we'll study some more traditional methods. Class dismissed.”