A quick stab to my back jolts me out of my thoughts, and I move sideways in my seat, startled.
I don't turn around immediately. Mr. Collins is in the middle of his lecture, and I don't want to be caught not paying attention. I sneak a glimpse over my shoulder, squinting at the girl behind me with a mute stare. Knock it off. Then I turn back to face the front, attempting to refocus.
Another poke.
Seriously?
I roll my eyes and look again. She is leaning down as if she has dropped her pencil, but instead of collecting it, she is holding out a folded sheet of notebook paper. Turning back to face the lecturer, I shake my head and mouth no.
However, she is persistent. Another poke.
I whip around and give her the death stare. She reacts with wide, begging eyes that say, "Take the damn note, or I'll keep poking you until graduation."
Fine. Whatever.
I reach back, attempting to be covert and smooth. I grab the note, thinking Mr. Collins won't notice. He's well-known for his strict policy against distractions. On the first day of class, he distributed a syllabus that sounded more like a manifesto. Rule number one: no interruptions. No distractions. No exclusions. He promised public disgrace for those who broke it. "Ms. Meyler?" "Is my lecture today boring you?"
Think quickly. Distract him.
"No, sir. I find ancient civilizations fascinating. Particularly the Druids. Did you know they—?
"Stop."
He raises one hand, silencing me with a single gesture. "Please bring up whatever Ms. Dobson passed to you so the entire class can benefit from this urgent communication."
I freeze. The note crinkles in my hand, as if it is laughing at me.
I stand and scowl at the female behind me. She apologizes and shrugs, as if this makes up for the approaching doom. I walk down the steps to the podium, careful not to trip. Every eye in the lecture hall is focused on me. My face is already warming up.
Crappity crap.
I'm not even sure what the note says. What if it's something weird? What if it is personal? What if it came from someone I don't know?
I reluctantly hand it to Mr. Collins, secretly hoping it isn't embarrassing.
He unfolds it gently, as if he is enjoying the occasion. He then reads aloud: "Hello, Beautiful. I was wondering whether you have any plans to attend the Masquerade Ball? I understand that you tend to be stubborn and will likely insist that you are not interested—"
Raising a bushy, overgrown brow at me, he adds in his judgy tone, "Hmm, he seems rude—I would say no. Anywho—but I would love to accompany you. You can choose Yes or No and simply leave it in the black Chevy pickup parked in lot space 351. I want to surprise you when I pick you up that night.
Mr. Collins pauses and smirks, "It even has a heart-eyed smiley face." Showing the letter to the students.
The class breaks with giggles and whispers.
Twisting my fingers together. I wish I could hide my face with both hands and disappear under the ground. My ears are burning. My cheeks are probably lit up like emergency signals.
"Well, Angela," Mr. Collins says, holding out the message like it's a sacred scroll. "I'll keep this as a reminder." Let this serve as a lesson to everyone: the next individual who passes a note, laughs, or speaks during my class will be barred from attending the ball—or any other event—until graduation.
The room becomes silent. Several students grumble, but no one dares to contradict him.
"Do I make myself clear?"
He lifts his palm, silencing the class before anyone can speak.
"That is rhetorical. Do not respond, David."
David, the class smartass, raises his hands to surrender. Mr. Collins shakes his head, motioning for me to return to my seat.
I walk back, head down, attempting to withdraw within myself. I crawl into my chair and hide my eyes, pretending to be invisible.
This experience could be worse than the time my mother arrived at middle school with a package of feminine goods, loudly exclaiming, "Aunt Flow doesn't wait until you're ready—it's her time!" She meant well, but she had mistaken me for my sister. Again.
My crush, John Carlson, was sitting right there. Watching. Mortified.
Mom did this frequently when I was growing up.
Now, thanks to this cryptic note, I've been publicly humiliated yet again. And I'm not even sure who sent it.
As soon as class concludes, I take my stuff and go. I do not wait for Shelby. I do not wait for anyone. I go straight to the parking lot, determined to find space 351.
I need to know who sent the note. I need to respond.
I navigate between rows of automobiles until I come upon it—a bold, brawny, built-for-power black truck polished to a mirror brilliance. Lot space 351.
This is it.
I rummage through my backpack, passing by pencils, nursing first aid supplies, and notebooks until I locate what I'm looking for: a permanent white paint marker.
I struggle to climb onto the hood of the car, my heart beating, and scrawl NO in large, dramatic letters over the windshield. I add a checkbox for flair. Then I slide the marker under the wiper blade like a calling card.
It is reckless. It's bold. It's me.
I slide off the hood, adrenaline coursing through my blood, and walk away, a grin tugging on my lips.
But halfway to Shelby's small Volkswagen, it hits me.
I just vandalized somebody's truck.
My grin disappears. My stomach drops.
If someone saw me, I might face significant consequences. Expelled, even.
I swivel around, ready to dash back and wipe it off—but the truck has vanished.
Vanished.
I blink, astonished. It was there. I know it was there.
I shake my head, hoping to clear the cloud of panic. Perhaps I dreamt it. Perhaps it was a different truck. Maybe—no. It was real.
But it's gone.
I stand there for a moment, heart racing, trying to make sense of everything. I whispered to myself, "I did nothing wrong." This was an odd response to an unconventional offer. My professor took the notes. I couldn't answer in the expected way.
Yup. That works. There is no guilt.
As I walk away from the now-vanished truck, still trying to convince myself that I did nothing wrong, my phone vibrates.
Unknown Number: Excellent penmanship. But you checked the incorrect box.
She freezes.
Her heart skipped a beat. She did not inform anyone about the note. Nobody noticed her scribble on the windshield. Before she could second-guess herself, the automobile had driven away.
She glances at the message, her fingers quivering.
Before she can react, a new message appears.
Unknown Number: You are not yet ready. But you will be. Angela, the Masquerade isn't just a dance. It is a door. And you've already gone through it.
Then a photograph.
It's hazy and taken from a distance, but it's undeniably her, standing on the truck's hood with a marker in hand. What's the timestamp? Ten minutes after she exited the lecture classroom.
Her blood runs cold.
She looks around the parking lot. Empty. Still. But she can feel it again—the electric tension, like if the air is holding its breath.
The prophecy scroll states that the Keeper will be tested three times before the curtain is lifted.
Once by fire. Once by choice. Once by Time.
She assumed the prophecy was simply a myth. A myth buried in a lost scroll.
What about now?
It appears that the plot is now keeping track of her.