Free Blue Moon by Alyson Noël Page B

after-school ritual of scoping out random church basements and loading up on punch and cookies, while making up some sob story about that particular day’s addiction.
    And up until now, I haven’t really minded seeing less of her since she seems so happy. Like she’s finally found someone who not only likes her but who’s good for her too. But lately I’m starting to miss her, and I’m thinking a little time together might do me some good.
    I spot her and Roman leaning against his vintage red sports car,watching as Haven grabs hold of his arm and laughs at something he said. The severity of her black skinny jeans, black shrunken cardigan, Fall Out Boy tank, and purposely messy dyed black hair with shocking red stripe, all softened by her rosy pink aura, its edges expanding, reaching, until it swallows them both. Leaving no room for doubt that if Roman feels the same way, Josh will soon be replaced. And even though I’m determined to stop it before it’s too late, I’ve just started to cruise by when Roman glances over his shoulder and peers at me with a gaze so insistent, so intimate, so loaded with unknown intent—I punch the pedal and zoom past.
    Because despite the fact that my friends all think he’s so cool, despite the fact that the A-list agrees, despite the fact that Damen isn’t the least bit alarmed—I don’t like him.
    Even though my feelings are based on nothing more substantial than a constant ping in my gut whenever he’s near—the fact is: That new guy really gives me the creeps.
    Â 
    Since it’s hot, I head over to the indoor mall of South Coast Plaza as opposed to the outdoor mall of Fashion Island, even though the locals would probably do the opposite.
    But I’m not a local. I’m an Oregonian. Which means I’m used to my pre-spring weather being much more, well, pre-springlike. You know, gobs of rain, overcast skies, and plenty of mud. Like a
real
spring. Not this hot, weird, unnatural, summer hybrid that tries to pass as spring. And from what I hear, it’s only going to get worse. Which makes me miss home even more.
    Normally, I go out of my way to avoid places like this—a place so overrun with light and noise and all of that crowd-generated energy that always overwhelms me and sets me on edge. And without Damen by my side, standing in as my psychic shield, I’m back to relying on my iPod again.
    Though I refuse to wear my hoodie and sunglasses to block out the noise like I used to. I’m done with looking like a freak. Instead, I narrow my focus to what’s right before me, and block out all the peripherals like Damen taught me to do.
    I insert my earbuds and crank up the volume, allowing the noise to bar everything but the swirling rainbow of auras and the few disembodied spirits floating about (which, despite my narrowed focus, really are right in front of me). And when I head into Victoria’s Secret, aiming straight for the naughty nighties section, I’m so focused, so intent on my mission, I fail to see Stacia and Honor just off to the side.
    â€œO. Migawd!” Stacia sings, approaching me with such purpose you’d think I was a bin labeled: gucci — half off ! “You
cannot
be serious.” She points at the negligee I hold in my hand, her perfectly manicured nail motioning toward the slit that starts from both the top and bottom and meets at a crystal-encrusted circle somewhere in the middle.
    And even though I was merely curious, and not even thinking about buying it, seeing her face all scrunched up like that and hearing the mocking thoughts in her head makes me feel totally foolish.
    I drop it back on the rack and fidget with my earbud, pretending as though I didn’t hear a thing as I move toward the matching cotton sets, which are way more my style and speed.
    But just as I begin browsing through several hot-pink-and-orange-striped camis, I realize they’re probably