Made You Up by Francesca Zappia Page A

Art. I marched back, planting a finger in the middle of Miles’s chest. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You torch someone’s hair and let her blame me? Because apparently I’m jealous? What kind of retribution is that? The books were one thing, and the desk, and all that other stuff—but this is ridiculous.”
    Miles rolled his eyes. “Would you shut up and stop assuming you know everything?”
    â€œWould you stop being such a jackass?”
    It came out of my mouth too quickly, a reflex reaction to the guilt flooding my stomach. I had no proof, but I wanted him to stop talking. It worked—his mouth snapped shut, his hands balled into fists. A muscle worked in his jaw. I glared at him as he floundered, but I floundered, too; I couldn’t think of what to do next.
    Home. Had to get home.
    I kept picturing a Celia-led mob chasing me down the street, screaming about my devilish crime like Puritans at a witch trial. I hadn’t done anything wrong—I never did anything wrong—it wasn’t my fault. . . .
    â€œAlex, I can take you home,” Art said.
    Always be polite. “No, thank you.”
    I turned and started walking again. I didn’t care where. Anywhere other than here. Art said something else. The words hit me and bounced off. I kept my eyes forward. The street went very quiet.
    Ahead of me, Miles stepped out from behind a tree.
    How had he gotten there so hellishly fast? He’d been standing behind me not ten seconds ago, and now he emerged at least three houses down the street. He ambled toward me with his clothes in tatters, like he’d gotten mauled by a bear. When he got close, the smell of alcohol and pond scum invaded the air.
    Where his freckles had been, a hundred little holes pulsed blood down his pale cheeks.
    â€œI don’t want to talk to you.” I tried to walk past him, but he loped backward, keeping his eyes on mine. His hands hung limp at his sides. His fingers looked longer than usual, like he had too many knuckles. My stomach knotted. I didn’t know what he’d done to his freckles, but I couldn’t let him see how much they creeped me out.
    He wouldn’t leave.
    I wanted him to leave.
    â€œGo away!” I yelled at him. He didn’t blink. His eyes were bluer than ever, bluer than they should have been in the darkness. The sun glowed behind them, melting themfrom inside like candle wax. The color seeped from his skin.
    â€œAlex!”
    Someone grabbed my arm. Spun me around.
    Miles was there, too. Except not bleeding. And his clothes weren’t torn. And his eyes were the right shade of blue. I pulled my arm away and backed up. And ran into Miles.
    â€œWho are you talking to?” Miles—regular Miles— asked. Art was right behind him.
    â€œI . . . I don’t . . .”
    Oh no. There were two of him. I knew it was wrong, I knew there shouldn’t be, but he reached up for my face, and I felt the cold roiling off his skin.
    The roots of my hair screamed as I tugged on them.
    â€œBoth of you stay away from me.” I pointed to both Mileses, backing up onto the nearest lawn. One Miles was bad enough. Two was unbearable.
    Regular Miles frowned. “What are you talking about?”
    Keep your mouth shut, idiot! the little voice in the back of my head screamed. It wasn’t supposed to be this bad.
    He’s not real.
    He is.
    He’s not he’s not.
    A cold finger brushed down my cheek.
    Then how can he touch you?
    Bloody Miles stared at me, his mouth curving into a wide grin. The blood stained his teeth, too. Miles never smiled. Not like that.
    I dropped to the ground as Bloody Miles lunged at me. The world went dark. I heard footsteps. Art yelled something I couldn’t understand.
    Fingers grabbed my shoulders and tried to pull me up. I balled my hand into a fist and lashed out, connecting with something fleshy.
    A groan.
    The fingers released me.
    â€œDamn.