Ms. Ashbury glanced at Lance, who was barely holding back a grin. She pointed a long, crooked finger at him. “You know better, Mr. Rathbone. Detention. Monday morning. My office.” She looked back at me. “Be more careful next time, Dusty. Now you and Britney clean this up.”
The bell rang a few minutes later, and Britney and I were only halfway through sweeping up the mess. Eli came over, carrying a dustbin. I glared at him, convinced he’d played a part in what happened.
“They don’t need your help, Mr. Booker,” Ashbury said from the front of the classroom.
Eli frowned, looking ready to argue, but he set the dustbin on the table beside me and left.
Good riddance.
* * *
When I arrived at Eli’s room that night for our next dream-session, I was still angry and determined to ignore him. At least I’d brought my own reading material. As I expected, Eli was awake again, sitting at the desk and doing work in a textbook while he listened to music. The song issuing from the stereo on the desk beside him was a familiar one.
I froze, my mouth open in surprise. “You’re listening to Black Noise?”
Eli looked up, his eyebrows raised. “Sure, they’re the best.”
“I know.”
He tilted his head as if in disbelief. “You like them?”
“No, of course not,” I said with an exaggerated eye-roll. “I just know all their songs by heart because I hate them so much.” I paused. “They’re only my favorite band in the whole world.”
Eli folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Mine too. Cool.”
A flutter went through my stomach—he and I actually had something in common. Other than the dream-seer thing.
“Nobody here’s heard of them,” Eli said. “I guess they’re not big enough yet. It kind of—” He broke off as a horrible sound, like a cross between a foghorn and a car accident, burst out of the speakers. Scowling, Eli slapped the top of the stereo. “Stupid thing. It keeps doing that.”
I stifled a grin. “Have you tried being nice to it?”
“What do you mean?” Eli said, turning down the volume.
I stepped forward and gave the stereo a little pat. “It’s just forming its animation personality. If you’re nice, it might be nice back.” That was one of the theories, at least.
“Okay,” Eli said, a note of disbelief in his voice. “What’s that?” He pointed at Rosemary’s diary tucked under my arm.
“Nothing. Just a diary,” I said, remembering that I was supposed to be mad at him. I sat on the sofa across from his desk and opened the book to the last entry.
“Cute hair,” Eli said, his voice amused. “Were you going for a punk rocker look or something?”
I screwed up my face at him, visualizing my appearance. My hair was covered in pale pink polka dots from where the cooling draught had landed, bleaching it. “You like it? It’s your handiwork after all. Awesome dirty trick by the way. I really appreciate it.”
“What? I didn’t do that to you. Lance did.”
“Oh, sure. You were just an innocent bystander.”
He slammed the book on the desk closed, then folded his arms, assuming his most menacing posture. “I had no idea that was mountain ash or that it would shoot off lightning. Why would I know? I’m new here, remember? Oh, and I’m the only person who can’t do magic in an all-magic school.”
“You’re not the only one,” I said.
“What?”
“Never mind.” I didn’t feel like explaining the halfkinds-are-usually-sterile thing to him.
My gaze fell on the spine of the book he’d been working in—Alchemy Projects for the Non-Magical. Geez, the administration might as well give him a scarlet letter to wear on his chest. A big, red “O” for ordinary. Or zero. Take your pick.
No wonder the guy hated me.
Unsure what to say, caught between lingering anger and something like regret, I returned my attention to the diary, hoping he would fall asleep quickly. The final entry in the diary was dated Sunday, the day Rosemary died:
I’m going to see F again tonight in Coleville. I’ve decided to end things. He used to make me feel so great, but lately when he kisses me he seems cold. Then there’re his strange questions about my parents. He’s hunting for something. I think I know what, but the idea of him being after it is so unbelievable. I’m going to confront him tonight, if only for my own peace of mind.
“So whose diary is it?” Eli said.
“Rosemary Vanholt’s,” I answered automatically.
“Really?” To my surprise he sounded interested. “Any clues about who killed her?”
I closed the diary and stared at him, leery, but could see no reason not to tell him. “Maybe. She was supposed to meet somebody that night. A secret boyfriend.”
“Yeah, I heard she was dating someone in secret. I’ve asked around trying to figure out who, but no luck so far.”
“You’ve been investigating Rosemary’s murder?”
“My dad is a detective.” He hesitated, cracking his knuckles. “And it’s sort of what I want to do. Be a cop. Maybe even join the FBI.”
I snorted.
“What’s so funny?”
“You always struck me as more of the criminal type.”
He grinned. “How would you know?”
Uh … my brain stuttered. “Everybody knows that you were the guy who spray-painted Mr. Patrick’s car last year.” He’d been rumored to have done a lot of other things, too, but that was the only one he’d gotten in trouble for that I knew of. Like my mom, he seemed capable of charming his way out of a tight spot. Must be nice to be so good-looking.