Blue Moon by Alyson Noël Read Free Book Online

my gold Haviana flip-flops—a slow leisurely cruise along my body that makes my stomach go all jumpy and twisted—and not in a good way.
    â€œRight. So you make it look real then, like a photograph,” he says, his eyes on mine.
    I meet his gaze, a gaze he insists on holding for several seconds too long. But I refuse to squirm or look away first. I’m determined to stay in the game for as long as it takes. And even though it may seem totally benign on the surface, something about it feels dark, threatening, like some kind of dare.
    Or maybe not.
    Because right after I think that, he says, “These American schools are amazing! Back home, in soggy old London—” he winks, “it was always theory over practice.”
    And I’m instantly ashamed for all of my judgmental thoughts. Because apparently, not only is he from London, which means his accent is real, but Damen, whose psychic powers are
way
more refined than mine, doesn’t seem the least bit alarmed.
    If anything, he seems to like him. Which is even worse for me, because it pretty much proves that Haven is right.
    I really am jealous.
    And possessive.
    And paranoid.
    And apparently I hate new people too.
    I take a deep breath and try again, talking past the lump in my throat and the knot in my stomach, determined to come off as friendly, even if it means I have to fake it at first. “You can paint anything you want,” I say, using my upbeat friendly voice, which in my old life, before my whole family died in the accident and Damen saved me by making me immortal, was pretty much the only voice I ever used. “You just have to make it look real, like a photograph. Actually, we’re supposed to use an actual photograph to show our inspiration, and, of course, for grading purposes too. You know, so we can prove that we accomplished what we set out to.”
    I glance at Damen, wondering if he’s heard any of this and feeling annoyed that he’s chosen his painting over communicating with me.
    â€œAnd what’s he painting?” Roman asks, nodding at Damen’s canvas, a perfect depiction of the blooming fields of Summerland. Every blade of grass, every drop of water, every flower petal, so luminous, so textured, so tangible—it’s like being there. “Looks like paradise.” He nods.
    â€œIt is,” I whisper, so awed by the painting I answered too quickly, without time to think about what I just said. Summerland is not just a sacred place—it’s our secret place. One of the many secrets I’ve promised to keep.
    Roman looks at me, brows raised. “So it’s a real place then?”
    But before I can answer, Damen shakes his head and says, “She wishes. But I made it up, it only exists in my head.” Then he shoots me a look, tacking on a telepathic message of—
careful.
    â€œSo how do you ace the assignment, then? If you don’t have a photo to prove it exists?” Roman asks, but Damen just shrugs and gets back to painting.
    But with Roman still glancing between us, his eyes all squinty and questioning, I know I can’t leave it like that. So I look at him and say, “Damen’s not so big on following the rules. He prefers to make his own.” Remembering all the times he convinced me to ditch school, bet at the track, and worse.
    And when Roman nods and turns toward his canvas, and Damen sends me a telepathic bouquet of red tulips, I know that it worked—our secret is safe and all is okay. So I dip my brush in some paint and get back to work. Eager for the bell to ring so we can head back to my house, and let the real lesson begin.
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    After class, we pack up our stuff and head for the parking lot. And despite my bid to be nice to the new guy, I can’t help but smile when I see he’s parked clear on the other side.
    â€œSee you tomorrow,” I call, relieved to put some distance between us, because despite