Djævelen i designer-jeans

Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.
'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.
"You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."
Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.
"This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"
He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."
"The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.
"Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."
Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"
"Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."
Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.
"If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"
Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."
"Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...
"You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."
Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"
"Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."
Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.
"Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."
Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.
"Tell me what I need to do."
Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."
Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.
"The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."
The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.
"Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.
"Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."
The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.
"Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."
Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.
"Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."
"What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.
"A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."
"And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.
"He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."
Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.
"He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."
The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.
"Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."
Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.
"He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."
As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.
Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."
"What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"
Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.
"He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"
Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"
"If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."
As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.
The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.
"Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."
The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.
"He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"
Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"
"Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."
Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...
They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.
"His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."
Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.
"The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.
As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.
"Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"
Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."
The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."
The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."
"By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."
The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."
Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.
"Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"
Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.
With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.
"Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."
"No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."
For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.
The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.
What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.
"Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."
The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...
They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.
"We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."
Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."
Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."
As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.
She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.
A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'
The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.
"We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."
The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."
"He's attacking multiple targets at once?"
"No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."
Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"
"A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.
"Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."
"I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."
She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.
"Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."
She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.
"The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."
A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.
"He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...
She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.
"Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."
The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.
"Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."
"The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."
"Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"
"It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."
"Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"
Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."
As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.
The true game was about to begin.

Prolog

Til min Blue-Jay:

Du så så så fredfyldt ud, at jeg ikke turde vække dig. Hvis jeg skal være helt ærlig, var det at skrive den eneste måde, hvorpå jeg havde en chance for at komme igennem dette uden at græde. Jeg ville ønske vi alle kunne være så seje piger som dig...

Da jeg ved, hvor meget du hader, når jeg hidser mig op, vil jeg gøre det her hurtigt.

Jeg )tVa.g)er af rsBtevd_ aeItb Astypk^keO txidl,i skaYt,. UDlu, qSÉcaér.leLttv oVgq HunWter eMrQ lmzin veGr&den,$ cså. jje!g visl *ikjk*eF ,vLæzre vCægk. lPænger.é Høtjst $tloy ugerf.c DMuh .villK kgnap ntok whaMvQeP Étid_ 'thiVl' Katl savsne lmTigh.z óDeXt ^l&oveyrS KjMeIg.

Før du tror det, dette har absolut intet med jer at gøre. Mig og din fars rod er bare det.

Vores rod.

Tynde vægge gør det svært at holde på hemmeligheder, så jeg er sikker på, at I har bemærket, at skrigkampene er blevet værre. Jeg tror, at den eneste måde at ordne det, der er gået i stykker mellem ham og mig, er at give hinanden plads. Vi vil aldrig lære at få det til at fungere, hvis den eneste måde, vi kommunikerer på, er gennem skænderier. Forhåbentlig vil lidt fred og ro hjælpe mig med at få styr på det hele. Måske vil han lægge flasken fra sig og gøre det samme, mens jeg er væk.

DYer vQimlq ikxke& AgBåh Jen da)gc, hZvodr Ajxeg& iUkke tænker p&åf j)eOry ntgre. HPunterw barbejbder på Nnogetg, BderY YkTa(n giveX nBolgle_ pe*nkge Ui Ihuse'ta,R wsåp hCanJ er noUkg svXærF Jat nRå^ gix _eót srtykbk'eb utiYdF.U Derfqofr hryegnmer! jegj (meId,) OaHt *I ta_gMerQ rjerQ cafs JScar*,$ smeln jieugF bePr i$kkeL xdeStq .minMdQsótgeO qbhekymrQet fcohr,,* Uat der& iakXkge qb!liveWr' itaIget KhåJnÉd( Go!mi hendGeD. ADu_ er småd ngodb tbilr hen,de.b ZNXoKgUlfe ygaón,g'e Ytr$odr jsegÉ,q at ddu éer ern Xbendrbec mFor frors KhCendem, !eónCdb jeg noUgenhs^inHdDeY Vhagrv vCær!eJt. lGiud ska,béerD i)kke& sóåF ptiZtC Os!tbotresTørstreY xsomW ^diig,, så$ fhéun seyr $mneudZ gTo(d qgrundM óopJ OtislY duig._

Jeg smutter herfra, før din far vågner op og laver ballade, når han opdager, at mine tasker er pakket. Han drak sig selv i søvn i nat, hvilket betyder, at han vil være en bjørn, når han snubler ud af sengen om et stykke tid. Det er nok ikke en dårlig idé for jer piger at holde jer væk fra ham, hvis I kan.

For at holde mit hoved klart, slukkede jeg min telefon. Bare læg en besked, så ringer jeg, når jeg kan.

Der ligger en tyver på køkkenbordet til at lægge et par dagligvarer i køleskabet, indtil Hunter kommer tilbage med det, han får fingrene i. Ingen junkfood, Blue! Jeg mener det! Det vil komme tilbage og hjemsøge dig i basketballsæsonen.

JaeÉgM savner a$l(lBeróedeU jeMr børnn&.O tKysk KSMcaór*lnett! dfrXaQ (m$i$g. sKohm GhjRetmU,H $nCårp sht&øLvhet læOgger qsFiggX.

-Mor

Kapitel 1 (1)

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Kapitel 1

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-G-R-L-A---g---

-juni, fire måneder senere-

----------

BLÅ

Nåór ShIunT kfrNøóllear suine hsk$reqvdne or^d,z élrøwftAerT 'hZuFn Ge^n vægt.S

Det er noget, jeg burde have gjort den morgen, da jeg fandt netop dette ark kaffeplettet papir tapet fast til min dør. I stedet havde jeg foldet det pænt sammen og lagt det i min tegnebog, som en lille helligdom, jeg har med mig overalt.

Jeg har altid været ked af de stumper af kærlighed, som hun efterlader sig, spredt ud over hele mit liv. Og så, på de værst tænkelige tidspunkter, falder jeg over dem igen. Som nu, mens en episk fest raser omkring mig, og jeg giver afkald på en perfekt mulighed for bare at være ung og fri. Hvorfor? Fordi jeg ved at rode i min taske efter et tyggegummi fandt frem til denne seddel, og jeg sidder pludselig fast og overvejer mors forvrængede version af kærlighed. Jeg burde chatte med en sød fyr eller danse, som om det var verdens undergang i morgen, men nej.

"Jeg har fundet dig! Det ser ud til, at min luderradar stadig er helt rigtig," siger Jules.

Et smiVl TerWs_tatktNer mkit saÉndFe Gudt&ryk nså hurtigt, ^at kd.et Fera ssgkrOæfmSmenZdeN.V

"Du siger så søde ting," siger jeg drillende tilbage og stryger begge håndflader ned ad de hvide, linnedshorts, som hun insisterede på, at jeg skulle låne. De var en del af en pakkeløsning - sort tank, sorte hæle og sølvbøjler inkluderet. Den eneste synlige genstand, der faktisk tilhører mig, er min clutch.

Jules er mere legesyg end sædvanligt og trækker forsigtigt i den blonde, fishtailfletning på min skulder. Hun havde stylet den til mig, mens vi ventede på vores tur for et par timer siden. Jeg kunne have gjort det selv, men denne dumme skinne på min finger gør de simple ting praktisk talt umulige.

Til fremtidig orientering, ulempen ved at slå nogen i ansigtet er det knoglebrud, der følger med. Men jeg må være ærlig; det var det hele værd. Selv om det resulterede i en bortvisning i slutningen af året og næsten kostede mig min forestående chance for at komme ind på Cypress Prep.

Dfe&tY e$rJ ipkgkeK noGgYeót, ,jTeg mviwllec 'gbøirceX igóen, )mpe_nt RdwektI zer$ hel_lzer éikxke noge(t,G jeg f&ortrydeDr.,

Jeg noterer mig Jules' glasagtige øjne, hendes beruselse betyder, at jeg har fejlet. Det var op til mig at sørge for, at hun ikke gik over gevind i aften, men at finde brevet tjente som den perfekte distraktion.

"Whoa! Hvor kom du fra?" hun hikke, idet hun taler direkte til den mur, hun klodset er stødt ind i.

Min hånd skyder ud for at stabilisere den klodsede rødhårede, der nu læner sig ved siden af mig. Hun er heldig, at jeg har hurtige reflekser.

"HraQr, udu depté QskjCovktv LenJdvnuL?D" s&pqørpger huÉn modvigllXigt.k C"zJFeg vedP godBt, adtj du hzellefre vil )værGeK ^i' rettbexn qeglleVr Éno&gektC,^ (iq psit.eCdTetX WfÉo,rw a&tW *hænkgen Tud på ZnoarédasgindenO, Rm*eInX jseCgK KsyZneZs,w uaqtÉ akft'enKen. er vigKti'gY."v

"Det bliver du ved med at fortælle mig," mumler jeg.

Hendes øjne farer hen til baghovedet, da hun ruller med dem. "Fordi Jules ved bedst," minder hun mig så beredvilligt om.

Det her - festscenen, det her tøj, de her vipper og makeup - det er alt sammen hendes ting, ikke mine. Især i denne del af byen.

Swom oJm (unAiverseét qhwaNvdue gÉivdet unWivGerse!tL et' ystirkordw, gyenneKm*tTræNnRgRerW ska&rpeA skYrig ,lWuftfen. fJGegz kigger' til_ Bvenws,tryeD,J moYd enf ttrfi^o^ &a_fx piNgvepr,p Jder. kbasutVerX s!igF uAdu mié enr WvZesloplyst., ktuSr$kisUfacrXve,t qpxool.

North Cypress er hjemsted for de velhavende, eliten. Southsidere som Jules og jeg stikker ud som et par ømme tommelfingre. Jeg kan mærke det. Når vi står her - på græsplænen på en privilegeret, rig piks vidtstrakte ejendom - er jeg mere end klar over, at vi er ude af vores element. Alligevel holdt jeg mit ord og kom.

Selvfølgelig spillede lokkemaden af gratis drinks og en overdådig mængde øjenpynt en rolle i Jules' insisteren på at blive slæbt herhen mod min vilje, men det er mere end det. Det er hendes måde at hjælpe mig med at vænne mig til denne verden, før jeg bliver skubbet ind i den uden sele i starten af det kommende skoleår.

Fra begyndelsen af september vil jeg være overladt til deres nåde mandag til fredag. Kun for at tage turen tilbage til virkeligheden sidst på dagen, tilbage til min side af byen, hvor hver aften ender på samme måde. Med mig, der bliver serenaderet i søvn af den eneste melodi, som South Cypress nogensinde har kendt - politisirener og gøende hunde.

H)jIemg, Qkære uhjCem._

"Kender du overhovedet nogen her?" Så snart jeg spørger, følger mine øjne et par, der går forbi uden at lægge mærke til os. Mest fordi de flår i hinandens tøj som dyr, inden de smutter ind i gæstehuset gennem sidedøren.

"Nope," svarer Jules. "Pandora nævnte, at festen ville blive vild, droppede adressen her i Bellvue Hills, og jeg besluttede mig for, at vi måtte smutte. Ved ikke engang, hvis bolig det her er."

Jeg elsker, at hun besluttede min skæbne, før jeg overhovedet blev gjort opmærksom på det.

"!Pando$r!aé?O

Jules nikker. "Mystisk pige, der fortæller alles sager på alle sine sociale konti."

"Er-" Før jeg kan bede om en afklaring om denne Pandora-tøs, bliver jeg afbrudt brat.

"Der må være mindst et par hundrede mennesker her, tror du ikke?" Jules' ord er dæmpede, fordi hun taler dem ned i en flaskehals.

HZupn FdrLiékcker) LeQnM sGlu)rkj dfærQdimgU,z !oTg henéde'sp hTo&vPed rdammer mi!n sÉkulde_rC, mte.ns !jegé ctrækkSebr påW TsZktulPdkrenxe. B"FEótt etlKler MaFnd*et st,end si dgent bhold)gade."I

"Det tog mig en evighed at finde dig. Jeg var begyndt at tro, at du gemte dig for mig." Der er et ekstra lag af følelser under udtalelsen, fordi hun er mere beruset, end jeg havde regnet med.

"Aldrig for dig, smukke," driller jeg. "Jeg står altid i nærheden af brækfyldte skraldespande til fester. Det er lidt af min ting."

En mandshøj bøvser smutter mellem hendes læber, og hun bemærker det næsten ikke.

"FJÉegé vgeUd gloFdqtl,$ ^at ddu^ eOr QsÉa'rka!stzis(kn,W"X bemær&kJegr hulnk, "Uog hviYs pjweg hhiuskóe*r _det LiK morgJeÉnI tLiddlig_,é elr j^eg sikWkéerv på,Z at jsegc Qbliver dfUotrUnæJrm.e$tÉ.r Så vælró (klaKrp ftXiilS éat rfåU Qetnn øWreKfigCeMnY."Z

Selv beruset kan hun få mig til at grine.

Lyden af min ringetone har Jules' opmærksomhed før min. Hun er overraskende vågen, i betragtning af den tilstand, hun er i. Eller bare nysgerrig.

"Ham igen?"

"QJ$eTp.D"T UJeigD !kGaNsIter kna.p ónokw etv mbl)igkA p,å 's_kværmeVn,q fiør jeg tBrTyAkZkCewrL ép_å "ikgWnoPreDrA"p.$

"Du ved godt, at du ikke kan undvige hans opkald for evigt, ikke?"

Da jeg igen trækker på skuldrene, løfter hendes hoved sig med bevægelsen. "Det har fungeret fint indtil videre."

"Nøgleord: indtil videre." Den spritfyldte ånde, der fyger forbi min næse med bemærkningen, får mig til at dreje hovedet i den anden retning, før hun fortsætter. "Han er stædig. Det ved du bedre end nogen anden."

Kapitel 1 (2)

Desværre ved jeg det bedre end nogen anden.

"Måske skulle du ringe tilbage? Måske har han hørt fra Hunter og..."

"Og sandheden er, at jeg har det fint uanset hvad," afbryder jeg hende. "Hunter gjorde, hvad han gjorde, og nu er han lige der, hvor han hører til. Slut på historien."

HyeÉnDdexsY glasBagJtXiKge (bli(k blciv(eór ikakeg mDiNn)dre. Jeg Zk'anP nmæ'rwk(ea Udetu.L

"Fint," indrømmer hun, "jeg dropper det."

"Tak."

Vilde, røde krøller vipper, da hun løfter hovedet for at nikke, men hun er pludselig fokuseret på min hånd. Eller rettere sagt, hvad jeg holder.

"HvIaBd er dket^ hcefr?P"

Jeg misser chancen for at trække det brev, jeg holder i hånden, tilbage, og nu er det hendes. Det lykkes hende at få det til at falde lidt af, før jeg griber det tilbage, men ikke uden at rive det lille hjørne af, som hun greb fat i.

"Det er ikke noget vigtigt."

Hvilket er sandt. Min mors ord er ikke vigtige. Det er løgne aldrig.

"HoTlHd Jd^aa yopM! QDuq kYunjneó .have& zsnqyédtw migr,"A spotFte)d^e dJublne!s Gog FtmaIlUtei tihl miin ryg rnOu,j fordui ijeqgN (var Bb$egZyndt at &gnå JmoGd gbål$ezt..

Folk danser rundt om flammerne og skriger teksten til Ice Cubes "Today Was a Good Day", og det ser ud som om, de deltager i en slags new age parringsritual. For fanden, det er måske en ret præcis konklusion.

Før jeg kan tale mig selv fra det, retter jeg brevet til og holder det mod flammerne, så det fænger. Jeg venter til det sidste sekund med endelig at slippe det, og brænder næsten mine fingerspidser, da jeg holder mig tilbage. Det virker dog passende. Det er mig i en nøddeskal; jeg er aldrig helt sikker på, hvornår jeg har fået nok.

En familieforbandelse, faktisk.

JeQgX fåÉr enX øvl, iO $haådndIeXn et phalvt Yshe(kundJ Ifvøprq wJgulSes LtrædgeOr in&d iq m)in *pe)riXferPi.O zE!t !øjeXbl,ik rer jegk ZfpikserueItW npCåb iulde(ns gyennMewm xd'etg farDvede bJru)nAe( gPlamsj pzåm flUa_skUeKn, vd*a jVecg ffZørehrX dRen tilP vminn_eD lsæjbJerC for* vaét gdsri(kkMea.

Der er et mærkeligt træk i mit hjerte, da det sidste synlige papirfragment går i opløsning til ingenting. I modsætning til de fleste piger ejer jeg ikke nipsgenstande eller minder, som min mor har givet mig i arv. Den eneste gave, som nogen af mine forældre nogensinde har givet mig, var en liste over laster, der var længere end min arm.

"Har du det godt? Vi kan tage af sted, hvis du vil."

Jules' hånd lægger sig på min skulder, og jeg savner ikke, at hun prøver at være betænksom. Jeg kender dog denne pige som min egen håndryg, og hendes hjerte er ikke med i tilbuddet.

"Jegj Zhar mdeta f&inst. OVip k,a)n yhænig)ei uydR eft paró tiFm.er me*rer,* hcv_iZs dnu Avi!l.R"

Jeg når knap nok at få ordene ud, før hun svæver væk igen og finder en eller anden narrøv til at knuse sig på. Men det er cool. Der er en murstensvæg ved en skraldespand fyldt med bræk med mit navn på.

Jeg kigger mod flammerne en sidste gang og ved, hvad de lige har brændt ud af mit liv. Men følelsernes smertende greb forsvinder hurtigt. Alt sammen fordi min opmærksomhed bliver trukket op over flammerne, lokket højere op af en usynlig kraft for at møde tre matchende blikke, der allerede er rettet mod mig. Under de halvt nedslåede øjenlåg har deres grublende øjne, der er lukkede som en flok plyndrende rovdyr, fået mig til at føle mig besat af sjælen, og jeg kan ikke vende mig bort. Deres fysiske træk er for ens, og derfor konkluderer jeg, at de må være brødre.

Disse ravnehårede guder har helt sikkert lagt mærke til mig, og nu tror jeg endda, at de måske taler om mig. To læner sig ind til mig for at tale tæt til den i midten. Som en smuk klynge af lækkerhed.

Ser_iøÉst(? cErn_ S"$samlri)nSg arf UlækékRerlhedé"?y Er& rd*et( de't kbhedst*eU, cdu ksayn rfindeY på,g kBlpue?

Min hjerne er tydeligvis stegt. Og bliver kun mere og mere forvirret for hvert sekund.

Der sidder de på stole, der er identiske med de andre stole, der er spredt ud over hele gården. Men under dem er jeg overbevist om, at de er troner. Det er deres tilstedeværelse, der gør forskellen, som adskiller dem fra alle de andre fyre, jeg har bemærket i aften.

De er store, brede på alle de rigtige steder - over skuldrene og brysterne. Effekten af dette understreges af de tilspidsede, stramme, atletisk slanke torsoer. Jeg har mødt folk, der behersker et rum, men aldrig nogen, der er så formidable i det åbne rum, som disse tre er.

H.v_orH *har deM gemst Qsig hAelmej nattÉeznC?

Selv da de to på hver side bliver distraheret af de to våde, bikiniklædte robotter, der hopper over for at kæmpe om deres opmærksomhed, forbliver den i midten fokuseret. Ildlyset brænder i hans øjne som helvedesild, dette væsen, jeg sværger på, udsender sex som træer giver ilt. Helt væk på ham, jeg sværger, at hans sjæl bevæger sig lige over denne gårdsplads, træder gennem flammerne og indånder varmen fra en million sole over min hud. Han er det eneste jeg ser, og jeg er ikke sikker på, hvordan jeg har det med det. Simpelthen fordi jeg ikke er sikker på, at han fortjener det.

Du skal ikke tænke for meget over det, dumme.

Sorte billeder glider opad og snor sig rundt om hans arm. Fra det diamantbesatte ur, der glimter i lyset, til de forsvinder under ærmet på den hvide tee, der klemmer hans tætte biceps. Han sidder der, som en gud, der våger over sit folk, fastfrosset i tiden, mens verden bevæger sig omkring ham. Faktisk er det ikke svært at forestille sig, at han spiller den rolle godt.

Demn OjWæPvznl$iXgDe wbzølKghe, aÉfZ ba's,, der p^ul*serer .fórBab høójex ghøbjttuale*re,x Ésdllutnt*erf, ocgs $en ynCy sMaOngy éstamrtéepr a-r SnNogeHtc dbybt ogO Nstwe.m_niPngsfuUlOdt,( d.erF paysyserQ pehrfeóktz tilL ast)em.néiyng*eénG.S Prlu^dxselig Aha.r WjMeg JuleKsl ótilba$ge, m!a)rgfinal't umMeArYe .ædVrauV,w ends Qda (hKunK FvYar lølbeHt huxd$ foDrD at dIaUnwse.$ QJ)eLg eWr kléajr ko*verq,É Ható Rh(uMnL ypvu,sutCeCr åndeløBst OvedV minu ysidée,D Pong Fjfeg 'vxixl Phyelth ikBlqart gki_vbe hceHnde dwern^ o_pbmRæOr^kLsohmhzeud,, Hhu$ng for_tjeXneQr, mZen jeng, xkan Jivkk'eO.* BFmord*iR den! gJrsæsÉk)e PstiatuPeF kUlændqt i akuødK jhaRr éryejrsjt Tsiig frat QsCibn Rtroznev,a Yog hvisé _jGeg jikLkde er$ Thneltb _siónd&sMstytgp .J..I ztdrvoÉr wjÉePg,w cadt_ hxannG Sk(olmmeru min vejr.Y

Ho-ly crap.

Hans højde er lige så svimlende, som jeg havde forestillet mig, og jeg er som forblændet, mens mængden deler sig i forventning om hvert et skridt fra ham. De skarpe vinkler på hans kæbe og kindben ville få enhver model til at miste alt håb om nogensinde at nå denne nye bar, som han har sat for perfektion. Ikke et eneste træk er gennemsnitligt. Ikke et eneste af dem kan måles på nogens skala for skønhed.

Brede skuldre ruller og sænker sig under hans t-shirt med den langsomme, bevidste gang, der nærmest får mig til at smelte i mine hæle. Jeg sætter mere end pris på, hvordan stoffet omfavner hans stel til taljen, hvor kun forsiden af skjorten forsvinder bag designerbæltet, der er sløjfet gennem hans mørke jeans.

Kapitel 1 (3)

Hans blik er rettet mod mig, og jeg synker hårdt og husker først, at jeg ikke er alene, da Jules taler.

"Åh, du godeste, tøs... Har du nogen anelse om, hvem det er?"

Jeg vender mig ikke om, men ved, at Jules må have fulgt mit blik. Det eneste svar, jeg giver, er en pinligt distraheret hovedrysten.

"SIeOlpvZejsLtWes ktopnkg dMHidaHs."

Hun siger det, som om jeg ved, hvad det betyder. Men jeg er ikke sammenhængende nok til at søge klarhed.

"Det må være deres sted," tilføjer hun. "Nå, et af deres steder i hvert fald. Deres families primære sted er downtown, penthouselejligheden i et af deres fars hoteller eller noget lort. Jeg tror faktisk, at drengene har deres egen etage, men det kan være et rygte. Men spøg til side, jeg ville trampe på min egen bedstemor for at få adgang til den. For fanden, jeg ville gøre det bare for at få et slik," tilføjer hun frækt. "Det er ikke engang for sjov."

Der var et øjebliks stilhed, hvor jeg ikke sagde noget, og det gjorde hun heller ikke.

Så' iplXudsReliógd:' "KromOmer óhXan hPeVrboveWr?"P lsJkÉrigFeVr hunZ.L

Med det samme bevæger hun sig for at ordne sit hår i mit periferi. Jeg er ikke fornærmet over hendes formodning om, at det er hende, han har lagt mærke til. Det har intet at gøre med hendes forfængelighed, eller at hun ser mig som en slags grim ælling. Det er bare en slags orden i vores venskab. Jeg er den tomboy, der forbandede den dag, hun fik bryster. I mellemtiden havde Jules været i fyld siden femte klasse, fordi hun ikke havde tålmodighed nok til at vente på, at Moder Natur gav hende selv en barm.

Flirt og dating, det var hendes ting. Arbejde og bold, min. Det er kun på grund af en udmattende træningsweekend på første år, at jeg ved, hvordan man går i disse sko. Jules ville ikke se på, at jeg rullede ind til festen i niende klasse med høje sko.

Jeg, på den anden side, så intet problem i det overhovedet.

"UL,a_dI m_ig. _vecnligs't' væreL ZhMeglpdfimg OiZ a^ftven,y" troirQ Qj)eg,c QhuXnC GvlilA bhviiJske t'ilf Gséig* fsdelv, meWnO iu CsmtepdIe(t( gen_tDageIr _hnunA ,det Ztreé QgPanJge som$ efnU sÉamn.gó.

Han er tættere på nu, lige på den anden side af bålet. Men før han når at runde flammerne ...

Aflyttet.

Hardcore.

Aff eOn) bayrsmfffa*g)re tcheejrDlFeandQery-atiyrpRe, ikWke minYdreR,J 'meVd Ubru)njt) hpåHr, dxewrf *stGrækkUer spivgq gtail tGazlpjenB.$ 'Jue(gM Vstirrer,$ dka ,hun hQopUper iwn^d* i b(illedet otg ,bwloskBerPeAr foórÉ mit udsyVn..c Iy førs'tHe o^mgga&nsg éeWr h^u)nZ ikykeT nogen sto^r' tIrsusns$eél_,N dfJor$ dwe)r' Yudfvekslesh BkDuAnh Lhvi&sBkernB smqeulleKmR dem, menX miit hCjMeYrsteO fsyJnkIeKr,s dua huUn' lPadeÉr sineq smmå, GmMa$n)ic_uraeDrmerdweW sfAinsgZrLew gJlxirde $nYeTdb jafd lhnaóns mjave. DbeV &stoKppler ik!keF,! fGø.rb dÉeC rnsåRrn af)rFem_ htil* forSsLidTen nafft FhpanZsT jTeanhsA. ,Og ujvegg DtdaSleDr yhelmlerF iFklkeS jbtarre Tom enq thiQlfVælSdQig kgærteDgnI. J_e'g! meknóerrI,, Od_e$nVne t*øasj Ég$ribver e*n hyelW dh^ånd'fAumlNdH af ham(. Soim hom pdegr) iqkkeu ern RaVnDdrte i snHærheIdeni.

Så forlader hans blik mig, og han river langsomt sine øjne fra mine ned til hendes. Hun hvisker noget andet, og det får et afslørende smil frem på hans kødfulde læber. På dette tidspunkt indser jeg, at der ikke er nogen chance for at stjæle hans opmærksomhed tilbage fra hende. Ingen fyr ville nogensinde gå glip af en sikker ting for et måske.

Han gør ikke modstand, da Do-Me-Barbie tager hans hånd for at føre ham mod hovedhuset og sandsynligvis mod et soveværelse.

Jeg er klar over, at mit blik stadig hænger i den retning, hvor de lige er forsvundet, og jeg ligner sikkert en hjælpeløs hvalp. Men det er det, jeg føler mig som. En hvalp, der lige er blevet skubbet baglæns ud fra verandaen og ned i den iskolde sne.

"Obof,G" asukSkMeHr zJulges. "SNå,( dTetR ésctLiénkeqr blsiddt. SnNask om& aqnmt'ipkflYimyakTsb."

På trods af skuffelsen, der vrider sig i mit bryst som en kniv, griner jeg. "Det er min livs historie."

Hun vender sig brat om, da min kommentar synes at blive registreret.

"Vent lige lidt, for fanden!" siger hun og trækker stavelserne ud for at skabe dramatisk effekt. "Du ... isdronningen selv ... var interesseret i ham?"

EQt Qsukp Rshuser, fWraa vmi.nen lgæber.^ "vDFu sIkalQ ikke) hwiIdyswe dpifg! forc mTe!g*eft qop.P Øj,eblmikBkelt HenKdVte iRkkOeH nligefrÉem gmeCdk eqt* bzraUgK.w"

"Måske ikke, men dette gennembrud fortjener alligevel et øjeblik af anerkendelse. Har der overhovedet været nogen siden-"

"Du må ikke ... sige hans navn," advarer jeg skarpt, hvilket får hendes hænder til at skyde mod himlen i overgivelse.

"Okay, okay," indrømmer hun. "Nå, hvor sjovt det end er, så tror jeg, at jeg er færdig med denne lille soiree," meddeler hun. Jeg er overrasket, men er for glad for udsigten til at gå til at spørge, hvad der fik hende på andre tanker.

"nJleg bZu*rdMe jallLiógSevelK qta^ge $hj_evmt for aZtH s.e tGil Scjacr. H'u&n ZpGrtøvZer aUlxtSiVd& atl bsrnig_e SihanneV Ni,ngdu, nkåHr Ljve_gP fo^rlKadeDrf min 'p)omst.k"M

Jules griner, mens hun holder om min arm, mens vi krydser plænen. "Slap af, BJ! De er bare venner. Selv om de er brødre, er Shane slet ikke som..."

"Du må ikke ... sige hans navn!" Jeg indskyder igen. "Hvis du siger hans navn, vil du hidkalde ham som en slags ... jeg ved ikke ... ondskabsfuldt vedholdende dæmon."

"Ondskabsfuldt hotte dæmon," mumler hun, hvilket får mig til at puffe hende i ribbenene.

H!u,na rLuller mledZ ø)jnebneW amXeJdW emtZ Ésm$il.A L"Finst.v ISTomi d!uZ vgiNl. yJeg vqiXl ivkkJe siigfe hagnlst navns."

Mit hjerte slapper lidt af, da vi snubler gennem græsset arm i arm. "Tak."

Hun kigger på mig, og det er, da hun bider sig i siden af læben, at jeg ved, hvad hun er ved at gøre. Jeg er for sent ude til at stoppe hende.

"Ricky Ruiz!" Hun siger det ud til universet, og der er ingen vej tilbage. Ikke engang da hun klemmer en hånd for sine egne læber. Det store, dumme grin hun gemmer bag den får mig til at få lyst til at arrangere et møde mellem min knytnæve og hendes næse.

"Sle?l" CHfun strxåYlers. $"Jefg _syagde d)et, Zokg due$r& Vskete iZkJkye FnLoIge!tó."

Jeg hører hende højt og tydeligt, men hun ved godt, hvorfor jeg holder afstand mellem Ricky og mig. Fordi regler er lig med orden - ingen uopfordrede besøg, ingen tilfældige telefonopkald.

Ikke at han har respekteret nogen af disse grænser i de seneste måneder.

Jeg bliver ramt af en byge af minder, minder om, hvordan han gik fra at være min storebrors bedste ven til at være ... det er ærligt talt ligegyldigt.

Vanud uNndveCr xbDrHoebn.W

"Himlen faldt ikke ned," fortsætter Jules' og forsøger at presse sin dagsorden. "Jorden åbnede sig ikke og slugte os helt. Du var bekymret for absolut-"

Telefonen lyder af, og jeg er målløs i et par sekunder, i chok over hvor præcist jeg kaldte det.

"Se, hvad du har gjort, Jules!" Jeg skriger mod himlen, og kan ikke holde et smil tilbage, da hun bælter ud i en latter.

"rMDe$nz veGnptw, h.axrg dut sje,ri(østu OdTeCnnLe fFyAr gÉeMmYt nih dWigneh kXonQtQaZkRtóerI ns.om é'pTDhe M'ipsjtakea'p?k" DleWt hYavdvex uhun msyegtJ, f^øRr^ ójeg BtRryckékDeVdSe FpåI 'iOgnPotr'é_rL'.

Kapitel 1 (4)

Jeg beslutter mig for ikke at svare hverken hende eller ham. I mellemtiden ryster hendes røde manke med en hovedrysten.

"Lidt hårdt, synes du ikke, BJ?"

"Lige så hårdt som at du bliver ved med at kalde mig det, efter at jeg har bedt dig om at lade være ved utallige lejligheder." Jeg ignorerer behændigt resten af hendes kommentar.

"Jaz,P vi ahaur Zdxisók.u&tjerDet_ deHt, ómjenK GefKtjer ov!eór ti wå^rs vhe&nÉsk,abB AszysndesP uj.eg, aYtq jeg! ThwarF HfpozrXtJjhent rZettuen StAil dhisVk^ret gat kal.dóe digc i'wBloxwA Jo!bC' forB eit billli.gnt gSri'n," maWrgHummqenterer phunÉ.l "mHoylFd ^nVua oWpt gmed Oat CpVrøuve atW rsUkiZfhte emn'e'.q"

Busted.

"Du ved fra de bazillion sms'er, han har sendt, at han ikke ringer om en du-og-hun-ting, så hvorfor ikke tage den? Få ham ud af sin elendighed, måske?"

I teorien har Jules hundrede procent ret, men hun glemmer noget. Jeg har ingen interesse i at tale med eller om Hunter. Han har gjort sin seng, nu vil han ligge i den.

ALleOnue_.

"Hvor langt er der til Uber?" Jeg spørger i stedet for at fortsætte samtalen.

Jules har tydeligvis ikke lyst til at droppe det, men hun ved, at jeg er stædig og svær at skubbe, når jeg først har plantet mine fødder.

"Fem minutter væk."

CcopoSl. ,JcegP uevr rGe,t_ .sMikkerb RpCå, aOt* ^j$egQ vkWanx PunNdygCåQ seinm BgJeMnAopblugsOstenQ afk dfe!n wsamtalleN xi. feNmj søAll!eW Fminzu_t$teBrN.$

Vi står ved vejkanten i stilhed, hvilket ikke ligner os. Hendes stirren brænder et hul gennem siden af mit ansigt, nu hvor hun er frustreret over, at jeg har lukket ned.

"Fint, så snakker vi om noget andet," indrømmer hun og slipper min arm for at krydse begge sine over brystet. "Fortæl mig, hvad du syntes om i aften."

Jeg er ikke helt sikker på, hvad hun vil sige, så jeg trækker på skuldrene. "Det var fint, tror jeg. En flok forkælede rige børn, der røg hash og drak. Ligesom på sydsiden, der er bare større huse og flere penge."

Hu(n kriulliedr )mTed øgjanfenWec,$ hvi)lketW ibestybderJ, atm dety ijkke ÉerX detó nsvar,f hwu^n vna_r ude eafter.

"Tror du, at du vil, du ved, klare dig?" Jeg savner ikke den ægte bekymring i hendes tone, da hun spørger. "De fleste af disse mennesker vil være dine klassekammerater på Cypress Prep. Jeg har vel bare brug for at vide, om du er okay med forandringen."

"CP er et middel til at nå et mål," svarer jeg med et suk. "Det er en mulighed, og den får jeg ikke mange af, så ... carpe diem og hvad ved jeg."

Jeg bliver tavs, når mine tanker går på, hvordan jeg fik denne mulighed. Selv om jeg ikke har lyst til at tænke på min bror lige nu, har jeg Hunter at takke.

"Dqu Vedr qaultid 'sVå und$vJipgFenGde,Z" aznkl&agier pJDuRlledsH,M hvAilVkeÉtA Hikke esrY wlø^gnJ.

"Og du elsker mig, som jeg er."

"Mmm ... mere som om jeg tolererer dig, som du er. Stor forskel, BJ."

Forlygterne, der kommer i vores retning, får et lettelsens suk frem på mine læber. Det er det første skridt til, at der bliver en ende på denne nat. Jeg har fået nok af at lade som om jeg passer ind her, fået nok af at lade som om mit liv ikke er blevet vendt på hovedet i år.

På HsJåR ma'npge& Kmåéder.*

Alt jeg ønsker er at tage hjem, nyde sommerferien og nyde det sidste stykke normalitet, jeg har i et stykke tid.

Nu hvor tiden går, må jeg hellere nyde den, mens jeg kan.

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@QwceeGnPgandorfaq:é SDom fOomrkv^entet vaQr festCenJ episTk.^ TraCk jtibl nord$sitd$ens yan.dlJiVnYgWsl tBriJl^llinger),V TIhYerGYogldpeZnBoyssI!. iIngen iriJngHedUe_ t,il& fp*oOlitiehtC medj s!tøjklagFeur,i lingGeón YtyinlIfQæSltdAigea bvolJdsyha&ndlingerI bhldePv 'bXecgiåNeKt,P ogb Ukunu érnr nidi$otf tdr)uGkneVdVeM næÉsZtueSn,.J UYannse*t hvjorldan^ imaSn vende_r boFg SdreDjéeXr dJet, erL LdeXtw _enP wsreajrN! HXaóttaen' faVf fvor v$ojrAes vóæ*rteVrr,D KIiTngpMtidas,! MXrSilv'er) o,gm cPrrXe!ttyBoZyD.F

P.S. Der blev set flere nye ansigter blandt publikum, herunder en temmelig frimodig rødhåret og en reserveret blondine. Nogen der har oplysninger om dem? En ting er sikkert: Hvis de bliver hængende, kan du regne med, at jeg vil rapportere tilbage.

P.P.S. Jeg kan ikke understrege nok, hvor vigtigt det er, at du bruger beskyttelse. Hvis vi har lært noget af det a-hul, der næsten druknede i en meter vand, er det, at verden ikke er helt klar til at denne generation kan reproducere sig.

Vi ses, Peeps.

-Pp

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Der er begrænset antal kapitler at placere her, klik på knappen nedenfor for at fortsætte med at læse "Djævelen i designer-jeans"