Volume II - The Gabriel Saga

Chapter 10—Gabriel, Part II: Je Ferme les Yeux

Amy

I tried to ignore the fact that my ex-ex-boyfriend was an alien prince, but it made it hard for me to focus during second period. It was especially difficult with all the Eltarian symbols floating around in my head, thanks to the Psychic tests Doc put me through for the second half of first period. While it was much better than the second half of pre-calculus, it wasn't necessarily my first choice of how to spend my mid-morning; either way though, I wasn't looking forward to having more thoughts bombarding my already frantic mind. Especially in a French class I shared with Patrick, Aaron, and Grace. They were all, quite literally, the last people I wanted projecting thoughts into my head.

"What's up with you?"

I looked up.

Grace was walking beside me—well, as much as she could through the crowded hallways—with her matching checkered bag in tow around her shoulder. She'd covered up her black tank top with a pinstripe kimono and I could tell from the look on her face that she was in one of her fashionista moods. She was probably gearing up for her trip this weekend or something, most likely still pumped up from Fashion Week in New York from earlier this month.

"What do you mean?" I asked her for clarification, dodging a chain of kids who were too cool to wear their pants right or walk at a normal pace.

"You look like someone just drilled a hole in your skull."

I sighed. "You could say that."

She raised an eyebrow as she looked at me.

"It's part of my…" I lowered my voice and leaned toward her. "It's part of my Ranger powers. Unwanted telepathy."

"What do you mean unwanted? Amy, that's like, the best thing ever!"

"Maybe for you," I argued quietly, "you always want to know what's on everyone's mind. I just…would rather not think about it."

"Yeah, but what good is telepathy if you never use it? It's not like you of all people would abuse it."

I shrugged. "I guess. But...I dunno...you should've seen me in Precalc—I almost had a meltdown with all those teenage thoughts scurrying around my head like headless chickens. It's is so not what you think it is."

She laughed heartily. "I can only imagine what that must've been like."

"Trust me, you don't want to."

"Hey, but you could always use it to your advantage," she said, making a point to look at me as she spoke, "you could read your parents' minds. Or teachers! Or, even better, you could get inside Patrick's head—figure out why he's been so weird lately."

"Ah-ha! That's a big fat negative. I don't want to hear how he really feels about me or whatever is going through his mind."

She was quiet, so I changed the subject somewhat. "Have you seen him or Aaron since yesterday? They were both missing this morning."

She squeezed her face together a little as she thought about it. "Now that you mention it, I haven't."

"Oh, God…" I groaned. "That could be a whole different issue in and of itself."

"If we're lucky, maybe they killed each other," she said with a laugh.

"Or maybe they got attacked by Gigadroids like we did," I said ominously. "Do you think we should check on them?"

Grace rolled her eyes as she pulled out her phone. "I guess…"

It happened in slow motion—at least, to me, it did. That chain of "cool kids" had broken up into individual links, but it looked like they were either fighting or play fighting, one of the two. All it took was one poorly aimed swing. The girl and all her jingling jewelry toppled over, her acrylics and bangles clattering into Grace's sleek new phone. And it slipped, flipping over itself until it clattered to the floor. That would have been fine if the Xeno girl hadn't "accidentally" stomped on it with her high heels while trying to regain her balance.

"Oh, my fault," she said insincerely, the laughter still in her voice from her playfight with her friend. "Ka'Darayon quit playin' so much!"

When she spun around, her knotted purple hair left a trail of scent behind it, like it was caked in hairspray to tame its wild appearance. I thought maybe that's what had Grace's face all contorted, but I knew it was more because a Xeno had just cost her 900 bucks retail price.

"Hey!" Grace screeched. "You're damn right it's your fault! You broke my phone! My 900 dollar phone."

The girl looked over her shoulder with an irritated look, then burst out laughing with her friend "Ka'Darayon."

"She say that like I care," she cackled as they skipped down the hallway.

I felt sorry for Grace. I knew she had her problems with Xeno—hell, we all did in some way—but this was different. This was a personal disregard for her belongings and a failure to apologize. I could see the anger building in Grace more and more, her sharp green eyes like laser lights on the back of the girl's head.

"One day, I'm going to make sure people like her get what they deserve."

I didn't question what she meant.

I could hear her thoughts.

Fucking Xeno bitch shouldn't be in these hallways! She should be in a cell, or a lab, or a gas tank being poked and prodded like the savage space freak she is. They don't belong here. None of them belong here. This is my school. My planet. GO BACK TO YOUR PLANET!

Her thoughts were so loud, so angry…so vivid!

"GO BACK TO YOUR PLANET!"

And it took me a second to realize it was my voice screaming, not Grace's.

Had her thoughts taken over me? Did I…did I make her thoughts my own? Did I actually mimic them and then voice them?

It didn't matter. I couldn't explain that to the hundreds of eyes on me now. I couldn't explain it to the Xeno girls down the hall, who spun around and glared at me, the reptilian spines around their necks flaring menacingly as their eyes narrowed and their hair went rigid.

Now I was a xenophobe.

—10—

We were halfway through second period French class when Aaron and Patrick finally came strolling in.

Together.

Both of them seemed to be fully intact with minimal damage, and neither of them were trying to kill each other…so that ruled out a fight between them. It didn't necessarily rule out the possibility of a Gigadroid attack, though, but I couldn't really ask them that in the middle of class. And Patrick never responded to my text asking "where are you?"

Surprise, surprise.

So I sat there in silence, trying to drown out my curiosity about his whereabouts with thoughts of the daunting French poem we were supposed to be reciting for our first test grade. The first half of the class had already gone. It was my glorious duty to start off the second half with the M's, so I wasn't necessarily jumping for joy.

Grace kicked the back of my desk subtly, trying to hint at me that she wanted me to turn around and entertain her. This was a bad idea, I knew—she was a huge distraction in French class because, like Patrick, she'd actually lived in a French speaking country. Plus, she traveled to France on the regular. So she knew all the little "colloquialisms" and all that shit. And she spoke with a beautiful elegant accent that made it sound like she was destined to be a member of the elite Bourgeois in another life. She and Patrick liked to have little conversations in French, just because they could, and people like me, who understood just enough to make a B on the tests, would stare in silence trying my very best to decipher what they were saying.

It never worked.

"What?" I hissed back at Grace, trying to keep my voice down.

"I'm bored," she said predictably.

"Good for you, I'm studying."

"For what?"

"The poem."

"Oh come on," she whispered back, "you haven't figured it out yet? It's a song from like, 2005. Just go download it."

"Have you tried searching for obscure French music from the double-o's on the internet? It's not necessarily a hot commodity."

"I'm sure I have it downloaded somewhere. I'd let you use my phone, but..."

"Shht!"

Our heads snapped in the direction of Madame DuPont, our French teacher. Her hawk eyes were locked onto Grace and me, and I could tell she was about to threaten me with performing my poem at this very moment.

"Since you've got time to talk, you must be ready to recite your poem, Mademoiselle Martin."

Predictable.

"I was trying to study," I said back in defense.

She hummed in disbelief, but left me alone nonetheless.

So I went back to studying. But every so often, I'd look up and catch this weird game of eye-tag between Patrick and Aaron.

Something was going on. I just didn't know what it was. Those two never made eye contact unless they were arguing, and they never, ever, ever tried to communicate with each other unless it was with insults. From their seats right next to each other, I could see them both fidgeting and staring at each other like there was something they were trying to say to each other without telling everyone around them.

Then, finally, I caught Patrick's eye. For a second, I could see the dread in his face, like he knew he was caught doing something he normally wouldn't—or shouldn't—do. Just as hurriedly as our eyes had met, he looked away and glanced down at his notebook like he was suddenly absorbed in whatever he was reading. But I knew better than to believe he needed to study.

I saw him pull out his phone underneath his desk. I know he saw my text—there was no way in hell that he couldn't have seen it. But he looked up seconds later, and my phone stayed hauntingly still in my jacket pocket.

No response.

Still.

Why was he ignoring me? Why wouldn't he just text me back and say something like "I'll tell you later?" Something. Anything! What did I do to suddenly be treated like a bum asking for change?

Maybe Grace was right.

Maybe I could use these powers to stop being so uncertain and curious all the time. Maybe I could break down the walls between Patrick and me so we could finally be honest with each other, and I could finally have my friend back. Cuz to be honest, I only fell for Patrick because he was a friend. He cared about what was going on at home, he asked about my parents and my siblings and my college plans. He helped me with my school work, helped me create a life outside of hiding behind insults and sarcasm and belittling other people. That was who I'd become, after all. Like a brunette version of Grace in a fun size package.

I knew that wasn't who I wanted to be, but I knew I didn't want to be on the other side of it. I had spent the majority of elementary school with braces, glasses, pin-straight bangs, and freckles. And I was Jewish. If I didn't have a target tattooed on my forehead, I did once I started playing violin. So when I was 12 and had my Bat Mitzvah, I got corrective lens surgery and my braces came off. I started copying the popular girls around me. I just wanted to fit in.

And it worked.

Hell, it worked so well that I got a boyfriend out of the whole deal.

But back then, I didn't know there was a middle ground. I didn't know that I could be my own person without having to worry about people picking on me and making every day a living hell. Patrick said there was always a third option, that everything wasn't just black and white—there was a lot of gray area where I could comfortably camp out and have it both ways.

If he knew about my telepathy, he'd probably tell me the same thing Grace did: to use these powers for good. Maybe that meant taking the things people left unsaid and filtering them to resolve unspoken issues.

Then again…Patrick was smart. No, he wasn't a psychic, but what if he felt me in his mind? What if he knew I was trying to pluck out his thoughts like daisies? And even if he didn't, what would happen when I just so happened to mention something he never said, only thought? Wouldn't he catch on?

I sighed in frustration.

I was overthinking this.

What I needed to do was practice first—find a more suitable, unsuspecting target. And if I wanted to find out what was going on with Patrick and Aaron, it was clear the White Ranger was my go to guinea pig. I'd probably have a hell of a lot less trouble if I tried with him—Eltarian prince or not.

So I closed my eyes slowly, gathering my breath to prepare to throw myself into his mind. It was weird, a lot like drifting into a dream, as opposed to focusing. It was like instead of concentrating til my face looked like a cherry, I just needed to fall asleep for a few seconds.

Just like the trainings said, I felt the core of my conscious form at the center of my forehead. The images ran rampant in my mind with little to no sensible links between them—food, colors, animals, paper, computer screens, French words, Eltarian symbols…

My focus began to surface through all the subconscious thoughts until it burst through into reality like a fish out of water. It was terrifying at first, like an out of body experience where I could see myself and the whole classroom, quiet and studying or texting or drawing or sleeping. And then there was my seemingly unconscious body, arms resting on my desk around my notebook, head tilted down slightly with my hair covering my face. No one would ever know I wasn't awake.

I felt my consciousness project forward toward Aaron, floating through the air like a faint phantom. Aaron's mind was just within my reach, his head ducked as he furiously read over his notes. And then a pause. He looked around, looked right at my consciousness, and then turned to survey the rest of the room. His eyes settled on Patrick, but Patrick didn't look back.

And then Aaron looked right back at my specter, and his eyes were a shocking, unimaginable bluish green. And they were lighting up, like there were spotlights behind his eye sockets.

And the light dispelled my consciousness immediately.

I snapped back to reality, sucking in a sharp gasp as I returned to reality.

My wild eyes looked over and fell on Aaron, who seemed to be completely and totally oblivious to our psychic showdown just seconds ago. He was still pretending to study while glancing around the room and counting down the minutes until the end of second period.

But his mind reached out to mine.

Stop.

It echoed in my head, which, to be honest, was a hell of a lot weirder than it even sounded. Before, when all the kids in my math class were using my brain like a scratch pad for all their wanton thoughts, they weren't directed at me. They were just there.

Unlike the unorganized, fragmented thoughts of my classmates, this voice was directed right at me. But it wasn't Aaron's. It sounded different. Not like an echo or anything, but just different. Like it wasn't his.

But I listened to the voice nonetheless.

I stopped.

But I felt like his eyes were burned into me now. I could still feel them on me—all intense and radiant like camera lens flares. But he didn't even seem to notice he'd done it, he was just staring blankly at the papers in front of him. I could tell that he was thinking about everything but this French poem.

I shivered inwardly as I tried to shake the goose bumps off my skin, but I felt like I was still being drenched in Aaron's psychic aura. But just by looking at him, I could tell he had no idea it even happened. Like it was just some autopilot mechanism for him to just block out any interference.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! I thought to myself.

I should have known better than to try reading his mind. Just because he wasn't necessarily intelligent didn't cancel out the fact that he was an alien prince.

But I knew the only reason I did it was because I was honestly just afraid of reading Patrick's mind.

I was just using Aaron as an excuse.

Seemed familiar enough.

—10—

I couldn't get out of French class fast enough. I'd barely stumbled my way through my poem before the bell was ringing, saving me from the sure-to-be-agonizing critique Madame DuPont was waiting to give me.

"Ames, slow down," Grace called as she made her way out of the classroom with Patrick in tow. "Geez, why are you in such a hurry?"

Aaron had disappeared in the crowds so he could make it to his Spanish class in time—we only got 6 minutes between classes and his was on the other side of campus. I had to admit—the guy wasn't the brightest bulb in the box, but he was taking two foreign languages back to back, so I had to give kudos where they were due. Then again, the guy was used to speaking an unnatural language all the time anyway. So I guess it came easy to him...

"What took you guys so long?" I asked Grace distractedly. "Did you stop for an exclusive conversation with Madame DuPont, en français?"

"I had to schedule a makeup time for my poem," Patrick said as he jogged up to us. "What's your rush?"

"I'm just tired of French," I lied, though I guess it wasn't completely untrue. "Unlike some of us, I actually had to sit through the whole thing."

"Trust me, it wasn't by choice," he said, "You have no idea how insane my morning's been. It's honestly like I'm in the Goddamned twilight zone right now."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh really? And why is that?"

He shifted his backpack uncomfortably and I could feel the aura of nervousness around him.

"Well…for one, I had to pick up Aaron on my way to school, cuz the dude was stomping his way down the street like he was going to kill somebody. And then, we get—"

"Wait a minute," Grace interrupted, "you mean to tell me you actually stopped to give him a ride?"

"Yeah…I know," he mumbled. "Probably the worst decision I've made in all 18 years of my life."

"Why? Did he get your car blown up as revenge for you getting his blown up?" Grace asked with a giggle. "Sounds like something he'd do."

"Yeah, basically…" he answered. "Rheas and about 30 Gigadroids showed up, which is why I texted you, Grace."

"Don't mention texting," I said quickly, smirking at Grace, "Some Xeno chicks smashed her phone 'by accident' earlier."

Patrick made a face, and I knew it was because he immediately understood why it was so much worse that it was a Xeno who broke her phone.

"Well, that explains the lack of response," Patrick joked. "Turns out he didn't need backup, though; just me to swerve through with my car and save him from certain death. His Morpher wouldn't work when he tried to go up against them."

"What do you mean it wouldn't work? He probably just did it wrong," I said, "I mean…it is Aaron."

"I don't think so," he said, "it looked accurate to me. Pretty much flawless, actually."

"Was that a compliment? To Aaron?"

"I think it was," Grace noted.

"Compliment or not, we might have a serious problem on our hands if your strongest guy is suddenly out of the fight."

"Ugh," Grace groaned, "I don't understand why we can't just override the selection process and let you take his Morpher. It's not like Aaron's anything special."

I bit my tongue.

But so did Patrick. I could tell from his abrupt silence that he was holding something back. Did he know about Aaron being the Prince of Eltar?

"Yeah, if only," he finally said. "But the good news is that I've got the Alpha Morpher so we can look for the Red Ranger later—did Doc say when we would meet up?"

"He's got meetings all day," I answered shortly, "he won't be able to help us until he frees up."

"Yeah, you missed the debriefing this morning," Grace lectured him, "that and a quick scrimmage with some Gigadroids in the back courtyard."

"You guys too?"

"Nothing we couldn't handle," I said. "But we didn't need our Morphers to take care of them."

So, maybe I was being a bitch. And yes, it was intentional. And maybe a tad bit foolish.

I was hoping that—given Patrick's sudden new respect for Aaron and his penchant for offering him rides, saving his life, and then complimenting him—I could insult Aaron as a means of testing Patrick's agenda.

Bingo.

"You'd probably need your Morpher if you intended to fight Rheas and 30 Gigadroids by yourself."

"What's your deal?" I asked, spinning around to face Patrick and stopping in the middle of the hallway. "Are you guys like, best friends now? What, cuz he saved you from Rheas and his goon squad?"

Both of my friends were looking at me like I'd lost my mind, but I didn't give a shit. I wanted to know. I didn't trust him. I didn't trust Aaron. Or Grace. Hell, I didn't trust anyone.

"First of all, I saved him. So why the hell does he have to be my best friend?" he asked, his confusion genuine. "I'm just saying…the guy's not a total screw-up—something's just wrong with his Morpher."

Grace seemed to disagree, though.

"I dunno," she said, "I wouldn't put it past him to break something as valuable as an alien morpher. He probably tried to download porn on it or something."

Pat shook his head slowly, but he didn't argue. "Either way it goes, it makes finding the Red Ranger even more important. So let's meet at lunch and get a game plan together."

"I really hope our Red Ranger is a girl," Grace sighed, "I can't handle any more jackass alpha-males on the team."

Patrick nodded. "It could always be worse, though. I'll take Aaron over Sanders or Kevin any day."

The two chuckled but I couldn't wait to be away from them. Away from this secret infested Ranger crew. Something happened to make Patrick suddenly appreciate Aaron more than Sanders or Kevin. The only thing that made sense was that Patrick had somehow found out about Aaron being the Eyr, which would explain why Rheas hunted him down. And I was willing to bet Pat knew more than what I thought he did. So the sooner I got away, the sooner I could stop feeling like I should reach into his head and pull out the answers myself.

"Speak for yourselves," I said quietly, "we're still stuck with the lesser of two evils."

Their chuckling ceased slowly and I made some half-assed excuse about needing to hurry up and get to English.

It didn't take long for my phone to vibrate in my pocket. I didn't need my powers to know who it was from—Patrick wanted to know what my problem was.

I stowed my phone back in my pocket angrily.

Now it was okay for him to text me back? Now he was concerned about how I was feeling and what was wrong with me? Fuck that. He only cared because he could tell I was pissed. He only wanted to save face, to make sure that I wasn't mad at him. Because God forbid anyone be mad at him for anything.

By the time I made it to my English class, I was feeling a little bit better. I didn't have to see Grace, or Patrick, or Matt, or Jay, or Aaron—no Rangers. Just normal teenage kids.

"Okay class, today we're pairing up and reciting Lady Macbeth's famous monologue—out, out brief candle," Ms. Barrett was saying. "Act V, Scene 5, Page 2!"

Groans overtook the classroom as the final tardy bell rang. I glanced to my left at my soon-to-be partner, a weird kid named Gabriel who had just transferred in this year. He didn't seem to be paying me any attention, probably too concerned with being a badass—that's what he'd tried to build his reputation on, at least.

"We'll be examining the underlying meaning in this age-old wisdom, to find out why, exactly, she feels this way. What's going on in the story so far that would compel her to feel like all of this is full of sound and fury, signifying nothing? Who is this directed to? Is she breaking the fourth wall? Are there elements of foreshadowing?"

Ms. Barrett continued to rattle off the pointless objectives from Shakespeare's most scandalous work, but I wasn't listening anymore. Macbeth was easy, not nearly as complicated as some of Shakespeare's more obnoxious works.

"I already know this stuff, so...do you want to write it up, or…?"

I zoned back in and noticed Gabriel was talking to me now.

"Huh?"

He chuckled.

"I was saying, I'm pretty good with this stuff, but my handwriting is terrible. Do you want to write it up?"

"Oh, yeah," I answered distractedly, "yeah, I can do that. I have stereotypical girl writing."

He laughed. "I was hoping so. I'm a lefty, so all my stuff looks like I had a seizure in the middle of writing it."

That got me to laugh. Like, genuinely, actually laughed. It was nice to forget about why I was in a bad mood for just a couple of minutes. It was nice to talk to somebody who wasn't involved in this whole crazy Ranger conspiracy.

We hardly spent any time going over Macbeth. He and I had both read the required parts, and it turned out that Gabriel was actually a huge fan of poetry. And 90s punk rock. He was a 16-year old senior who had transferred here from Santa Fe this summer. Apparently, he'd spent the entire break taking classes and getting ahead so he could graduate early.

In short, the kid was weird.

But not because he spent all summer taking classes and being a general overachiever. It was smart. It was nerdy. But it wasn't what made him weird.

What made him weird was the fact that Gabriel Xavier did not look anything like a 16-year old bookworm. He always had a super-thin veil of a 5 o'clock shadow clouding his jawline, and his dark hair always hung around his eyes—usually covering at least one of them. He kind of looked like a badass, in that rebellious way, especially with his ever-present leather jacket, super-tight shredded jeans, and old-school combat boots. But he was the true definition of not judging a book by its cover, I guess. He didn't really have any friends, but he seemed to get along well with just about everyone. I guessed it was because not many people were out to make friends this late in their high school career.

"In all actuality, Shakespeare was a comedian—only comedians know how to paint a story as intensely as he does. Only comedians can use juxtaposition to go from drama to comedy to death. I mean, when you think about it, every great comedian in history used painful, tragic situations to develop their humor. Racist jokes, war jokes, baby jokes, fat jokes—they all stem from something uncomfortable, angry, or dark."

"I'm sorry," I said, chuckling, "I'm trying to get over the fact that you can barely drive a car, but you're smarter than 90 percent of the kids in this classroom."

He grinned. "I told you, I'll be 17 in December. I'm not that much younger than everyone else in here."

"There's a big difference between 16 and 17."

"What are you gonna do, quote The Sound of Music on me?"

"Don't tempt me, Rolf."

It was my turn to make him laugh, and laugh he did. A little too loudly.

Ms. Barrett's eyes shot toward us, but unlike Madame DuPont's, they were curious and analyzing—not sharp and criticizing.

"Okay, I've read Macbeth a thousand times over and know all of the jokes by heart—but there is nothing " she said wryly. "What are you two so giggly about?"

"Sorry," I said, hiding my smile, "we're all finished with the assignment." I handed my paper over to her for analysis, confident in the work Gabriel and I had accomplished.

She studied it silently before giving us a nod of approval. "Alright, well...even though you guys may be literary geniuses, even they have to keep it down so the rest of the world can carry on."

I smiled. "Thanks, Ms. Barrett, we'll keep it down."

She nodded as she sauntered off, eyes sweeping over the room to keep everyone else on task.

"So when did you start talking to 'kids' like me?" Gabriel asked as silence began to settle in.

I shot him a confused look. "What do you mean?"

"I've been at this school for almost a month and you've never said a word to me."

"Well, we've never had to work as partners before."

"So you only talked to me because we were partners?"

"Talking works both ways, you know," I said evenly. "You could have talked to me in all those thirty days you've been here."

"Touché, Ms. Martin. Touché indeed."

I grinned back at him. "Why did you ask me like that, though? What did you mean by 'kids like me?'"

He shrugged. "I mean, no offense to you or anything, but you're one of those preppy popular kids, right? I'm the kind of guy you don't get caught with unless you're at a shady rock concert or trying to score some sketchy new-age drug."

I fought back my laughter to force a frown. As funny as he was, I was still slightly offended by the fact that he thought I was one of those. Like...like a Grace, or something.

"Don't get me wrong," he said, "I hate those Breakfast Club clichés, but that's what we do as humans, right? We cluster and categorize and label. It's in our nature."

"You've seen the Breakfast Club? That movie is like, three times your age."

"And it's thrice your age, too."

I rolled my eyes. He had a point. "So what's your cluster, then?"

"I'm a nomad."

"Oh! Really? So, basically you're saying you're Xeno then, right? That you just don't follow human nature?"

"No," he argued coyly, "I'm a member of a nomadic peoples. Guys like me wander from group to group, making friends with whoever we can along the way. I like to call it smart marketing—or smarketing—by the way, that's trademarked, don't try to steal it."

"Smarketing?"

"Dude, if I'm gonna be a rock star, I gotta have fans—groupies even. You can't have those if you go around pissing everyone off just because they're friends with a guy who knows somebody who used to not like you in 8th grade. It's dumb."

"You are wise beyond your years, young Gabriel."

—10—

"So…" Patrick huffed exaggeratedly, "this is fun."

I spared him a look from the corner of my eye.

"Sorry I couldn't be as entertaining as Aaron."

He groaned. "And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?"

I shook my head. "Never mind."

"You really don't like the fact that I'm trying not to hate him, do you?"

He stopped walking, so I decided to do the same. It was only polite, after all. I could have just left him standing there like the idiot he was.

"No," I said finally, "I don't. At all, actually. Because up until yesterday, you both despised each other. We broke up because of him—or should I say you broke up because of him?"

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" he snarled.

"You couldn't get over him. I mean, it was like he was your ex, for God's sake. You let everything he did affect the way that you did everything." I shook my head at him pityingly. "Don't you see that's exactly what he wanted? You're one of the smartest people I know, and you mean to tell me that you didn't stop to think that maybe Aaron, Jay, Sanders, and all of Aaron's little buddies wanted this? That they wanted you to be worn down by all of it?"

"Ames…"

"Don't call me that." I shook my head, this time not out of pity, but out of sheer denial. "Not you. You don't get to call me that right now."

Now he was pissed.

"What the fuck did I do in the past 12 hours to make you hate me all the sudden? Why are you flipping out on me like we just broke up five minutes ago?"

Maybe he had a point. Maybe I was being harsher than I needed to be.

I guess it was just easy to take out all my frustrations on him. I was used to it by now. I had the whole summer to do it and never had to face him while doing it. But now...now I was around him every single day. Now I had to see him and know that he wasn't upset about losing me. Not at all. He carried on every day like nothing had changed. And now he was making friends with the people who used to make his blood boil.

I didn't have a clear cut answer for him, though. I didn't know how to put everything I was feeling into words that he could understand.

So, once again, I shook my head instead and said, "never mind."

He snorted, but he left it alone and walked off.

Sighing, I gathered what little patience I had for the situation and followed quietly.

Until the Morpher started reacting. It was vibrating and beeping like Grace's phone when she missed appointments, and it was so loud, I could hear it through Patrick's jacket that was slung over his shoulder.

"Do you hear that?" he asked me.

I looked at him blankly, as if the answer was obvious.

"Sounds like our Red Ranger's is a Reefside kid after all," he said, glancing around the courtyard.

We were in what we called "the valley." It was an area between two buildings where all the musicians and theater kids hung out, but the tech nerds had their own little networking party going on in a circle of touchscreens and holograms.

"So...where do you think it's coming from?" I asked Patrick tentatively.

He shrugged. "No clue. You wanna take the drama kids, I'll take the bandies?"

I rolled my eyes. "You'll look for any excuse to hang out with the bandies, won't you?"

He grinned. "Birds of a feather."

I paid him no attention, instead choosing to focus on preparing myself for the theater kids. Over the course of the years, there was one group of kids that always stayed the exact same—always quoting classic movies and judging you for not immediately getting the reference. I knew, because I used to be one of them before my "metamorphosis" in preparation for high school.

"Hey, Katie, how's it going?" I ventured softly, hoping to catch a lull in the conversation of a group of girls.

Katie, the girl I'd spoken to, let her eyes sweep over me before a look of disinterest took over her face. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

I smiled thinly, my lips sticking to my teeth as I bit my tongue. "That's fair, I guess."

"Oh-em-gee," she said cheekily, "Is that Amy? Or wait, is Aimee with an i and two e's?"

The braceface and tall girl with hair that looked more like a sponge cackled with Katie's harsh laugh.

"No, it's Amy with one F and three U's," I said just as flatly. "But carry on, I'm sure you guys have much more important things to discuss, like which Meryl Streep movie was the most profound and underrated at the same time."

I couldn't do it.

I couldn't spend more than five seconds with them before I was ready to go ballistic on them. All this anger I was keeping bottled up wasn't like me. I wasn't like this. I wasn't an angry, bitter, and sarcastic bitch.

Was I?

"AMY!"

I looked up just in time to see Patrick flailing his arms around like he was calling SOS.

Funny, because I needed rescuing.

It worked as a perfect excuse for me to abandon my quest in theatre land and return to the uncomfortable world of friendship with my ex.

"What's up?" I asked him.

"I think I found the guy, but he's in the middle of an intense slashing session."

"Um...what?"

"He's soloing," he said, annoyed. "Slashing. You know, like Slash from Guns n Roses?"

I didn't respond and he rolled his eyes in music snobbery annoyance. This was one of the many things Patrick and I endlessly fought over was his pretentious attitude about music—like he was some kind of music guru God.

I gritted my teeth as we made our way through a small crowd of kids gathered our this "slashing" guy.

I recognized him immediately from the way he wore his clothes like he stepped out of an 80s rock music video, and the way that his combover hair was parted like a Double-0 emo kid. The sound of the guitar was quick, panicked, and gave me the overall feeling that something was about to explode. The way that he was flying down the neck of the guitar, his fingers a blur on the silvery strings, it was only a matter of time before they started catching fire or popping off or something.

But the look on his face was cool, calm, and collected—the passion contained to the one greenish-blue eye that peaked out from under the fringe of his jet black hair. Even his body language seemed to scream that he was barely trying—simply playing around to waste the pathetic thirty minutes we were allotted to eat. And of course, he had no food around him, just a bottle that seemed to be filled with some pureed vegan crap.

He was the epitome of a walking contradiction, and he loved every second of it. He reveled in the affection and awe of the crowd, playing tragically while he smirked to himself in humor.

It was Gabriel.