Chaos (Kardia Chronicles) (Entangled Teen) by Christine O'Neil Read Free Book Online Page A

shock when two people touch after rubbing their feet on the carpet over and over, but it was there. I had no explanation to give him short of the truth, and the odds of that happening were about as good as Hortense inviting me over for dinner some time.
    Lucky for me, Mr. Foster had killer timing and came barreling in, wild-eyed with his brown vest and perpetually coffee-stained white button down shirt, looking like he’d just been called out of a super-villain’s meeting where they were discussing whether or not to deploy the nanobots.
    Mac and I slowly backed away from each other, never breaking eye contact, like boxers at the end of a round. My knees hit the back of my chair and I sat with a thud, heart stuttering as he finally looked away.
    “Good afternoon, class,” Mr. Foster said, adjusting his thick, round glasses. “We’re going to spend our period finishing up the decoupage project, so why don’t you get right to it. I’ll be at my desk grading papers,” —which we all knew was code for drinking whiskey from a coffee mug and posting on communist blogs. He motioned to the corner where the table he called his desk was tucked. “So feel free to come ask questions if you have a problem.”
    I liked Mr. Foster, I just thought he would have done better if the seventies had lasted longer. Still, I was happy to do as he instructed and get down to work. The quicker I settled in and focused on trying to make some art, the quicker I’d be able to ignore Mac.
    I wasted no time, glancing over the back countertop filled with half-finished projects and easily spotted my partially covered wooden music box. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the worst one—although, to be honest, decoupage is all pretty bad—and I plucked it from the pile. Crossing the room, I eyed all the tables to see where Mac had slung his backpack and saw it resting near Summer’s, so I beelined for the farthest table from theirs.
    One thing I could say about art—I might have been bad at it, but it was really pretty soothing sometimes. Therapeutic.
    The first thirty minutes of class flew by as I cut and squished and smoothed. Mindless work, and my brain so needed the break. I worked myself into a sort of meditation, where my fingers moved of their own accord. The dull hum of quiet chatter, the scent of glue and varnish and magazine paper.
    I reached for another cutout and realized with a start that I’d run out. I was going to have to walk by Mac to get more. I considered not, but with another twenty minutes left to the period, I had no choice.
    Standing, hyperaware of my non-descript T and button-fly jeans, I went up for more scraps, aggressively ignoring my new, self-appointed nemesis. Q: When had I become self-conscious about my look? A: Yesterday. Before then, I’d been all about dressing first for comfort and second for the barest hint of streamlined, no-fuss style. I lived in jeans paired with long-sleeve tees in the winter and shorts and camis in the summer, but even those made me feel a little bare lately. Contrary to Finnegan’s snide remarks, they looked fine. End of story. How that translated into a comment-worthy wardrobe was beyond me.
    I pushed my nerves aside and stood, crossing the room, determined not to hide in the corner because he’d made me feel self-concious. In fact, halfway there, I added a little swing to my step just in case he was looking because screw him.
    When I got to the table with all the decorative clippings and magazines, I noted Summer standing next to me at the sink. She’d pulled off her rings and put them next to the basin while she made “yuck” faces and tried to scrub the glue from her hands. All the calm I’d built up from Zen-decoupaging evaporated under the heat of need as my gaze flicked, unbidden, back to the tiny mound of jewelry sitting on the counter next to her. I took inventory quickly—a small aquamarine in a cushion cut surrounded by little diamond chips, a plain silver ring with the shape of