The Secret Sister by M. DeLuca (classic novels for teens txt) 📕

said, fixing me in a confident stare. Close up, his eyes appeared paler. Amber in color. “Isn’t that so, Brian?” His gaze was so unwavering I had to make a show of looking down and shuffling the journals into a neat pile.

His colleague hopped to attention, peering around Guy’s back like a comic sidekick. “Absolutely. Untapped imagination and all that. That’s the key.”

The key to what? I thought but didn’t ask. Instead I acted like a prom girl without an escort. Cheeks flushed, mumbling banalities, eyes avoiding Guy’s cool, unswerving gaze.

The other teachers began to trickle in, defusing the electricity of the moment. Guy dropped my hand. “Oh, sorry – this is Brian – I mean Dr. Brian Metcalf,” he said, remembering his associate.

I nodded at Brian, aware of Guy’s constant gaze, just as Sabrina Melo, the Phys. Ed teacher, plunked herself down right next to me. Recently divorced, Sabrina spent her evenings and weekends alternating between the gym and the tanning salon. Her skin had the withered, orange look of dried clay, a sharp and jarring contrast to the blinding white of her bleached teeth. Norm Chandler, the Biology teacher sat in the row behind. It was no secret that he, a fortyish bachelor, was holding out for just one sign of encouragement from Sabrina. I could almost hear him panting, though she appeared oblivious to his noisy breathing.

“He’s hot,” she whispered, glancing at Guy. “I mean the tall one, not the hairy gnome guy. I’m gonna focus on his crotch. See if I can throw him off his script.”

“Doubt it,” I whispered back.

“Five bucks.”

“Ten.”

Half an hour later, Sabrina grudgingly handed me a crumpled ten-dollar bill.

“That guy was actually enjoying the attention,” she said, throwing back bleached blonde curls. “He’s a real horn dog.”

I stuffed the money into my jeans pocket. I had money for supper now.

Sabrina grasped my arm, her eyes narrowed. “Don’t play the innocent, Anna. You were eyeing him up like you’d mentally undressed him. Never seen you so turned on.”

“You kidding? You’re imagining it.”

“Wonder if he’s single.”

I tucked the journals under my arm. “I thought you always checked that out in the first few minutes.”

She shook her head. “In the summer you can check for tan lines, but in winter you just gotta do it the old-fashioned way. Watch and learn.”

Lunch was pizzas in open boxes, strewn across the counter. A couple of Hawaiian, a bacon and mushroom and a double pepperoni were the extent of the choices. Nothing green in sight, not even a limp piece of onion or a sliver of green pepper. I wondered what the die-hard vegetarians would eat.

I picked away pieces of ham from the Hawaiian and watched Sabrina in action. In a high-pitched jabber she gushed about the amazing presentation and how careful adherence to student-generated goals already guided her teaching methodology, or some other generic theoretical garbage. Sabrina didn’t just breach your personal space, she invaded it with her sharp, minty breath. But even as she moved closer to Guy, he held me with that wry smile of his.

After Robin had rescued Guy from Sabrina’s clutches, she lunged at me.

“He’s single and he’s got money,” she hissed in my ear.

“How do you know?”

She shrugged. “Well-honed instincts and a nose for expensive cologne.”

But she didn’t need to tell me. His Facebook status had been set at single for the last three months.

As soon as Robin was in a heavy discussion with Brian, I made my move. As Guy stuffed some papers into his briefcase, I moved forwards and touched his shoulder.

“I’m interested in learning more about your homeless outreach program,” I purred into his ear. “Like to go for a drink?”

He knew I’d ask.

I knew that from the way his eyes had zoned in on me the moment he entered the room. And I’d made sure to stand out with my jet-black hair, milky skin and gray eyes. A back-alley Snow White, someone had called me in my dim, distant past. Besides, I was an ace at non-verbal cues, and I liked to act on them. That skill had helped me survive a nightmarish childhood.

I also favored the direct approach. Truth was – I was incapable of making small talk.

“Love to,” he said, those amber eyes staring as if he couldn’t quite believe I was giving him my number.

I felt strangely lightheaded and my hand seemed disembodied – guided by unseen spirit forces while my head reeled with the tangy citrus scent of his cologne. Tongue-tied, I thrust my business card at him just before Robin swept him away to his fusty office. I stood, slightly stunned as if blindsided by a fresh gust of wind from a lemon orchard.

2

I rarely felt that pulse-quickening, breathless feeling when I met a man. In fact, I’d actually laid off men after dating a string of losers, con-artists and narcissists. The pharmaceutical salesman hiding a pregnant wife and twins. The cute art student who, in the drunken haze of a New Year’s party, looked twenty-five but turned out to be eighteen. The hotshot lawyer with commitment issues and mega-debts, and the undercover cop with a poker problem.

I didn’t really give a crap. It was way easier to be alone. Less demanding. And I hated all the obligatory first date chit-chat. Where’d you live, work, party, hang out? Vegan or carnivore? Favorite series on Netflix? Exercise nut or couch potato? How do you feel about politics, weed, gay marriage, dogs, the weather? Second dates were worse because things usually became way more personal. Your family? Your past? Your home? Your feelings? Who are you? What makes you tick? What’s your essence? Duh? That’s when I clammed up. “I have no clue,” I wanted to say. “Who the hell am I? A closed book that nobody cares to open. A lone survivor huddled behind a wall that nobody dares to breach, clutching all her hurt and sadness so close that no one could ever really know her.” So, they inevitably drifted away and