Read Spellbound for Free Online Page B

snapped to attention. Mr. Emerson was looking at me, and I’d been caught staring at my hair.
    â€œHuh? I mean, what did you say, sir?”
    â€œPlease read Sonnet 29. And—” he broke into another coughing fit “—stand up.”
    I flipped to the sonnet—oh, great. No matter what it meant to Shakespeare, it was going to take on a whole new meaning for me. Just try not to let your voice crack on the word outcast, Emma.
    I took a deep breath and stood, holding my textbook in front of me. I put my fist to my mouth and exaggeratedly cleared my throat, an icebreaker which elicited a few laughs from the room. I started reading, in a clear, strong voice:
    â€œWhen, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
    I all alone beweep my outcast state
    And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
    And look upon myself and curse my fate…”
    I paused, looking up at Mr. Emerson, and saw Brendan shifting in his seat. He turned sideways, folding his arms on the back of his chair and resting his cheek on his crossed arms. He looked up through those long black lashes. I bet if I touched them, they’d be velvet-soft. As his eyes found mine, I glanced back down at the words in my hands, holding the textbook in front of me like armor. I could still feel his eyes on me, but all I allowed myself to see was the black-on-white text I was gripping in my palms as I continued to read.Bravery—or stupidity, I couldn’t tell which—prompted me to meet Brendan’s eyes for the last two lines:
    â€œFor thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings
    That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”
    I smoothed my plaid skirt underneath me as I sat down, and Brendan was still turned around, looking at me. I kept my eyes on the sonnet, daring myself to meet his gaze and say, “What? What the hell do you want?”
    Instead, wordlessly, I raised my eyes and, as if they were some kind of heat-seeking missiles, they locked with his. He slowly blinked—really, it was more like he’d closed his eyes for a full three seconds—then opened them again, still keeping my gaze. His face—frozen for the past two and a half weeks in still, unfeeling concrete whenever our eyes met—softened a bit, and I could have sworn I saw the corner of his mouth turn up in a smile.
    Mr. Emerson finished his hacking cough, then called on another student. I broke the stare. Brendan turned away.
    Â 
    That afternoon in Central Park, Blink-182’s “Carousel” was at the top of my playlist as I ran faster, letting the crisp fall air fill my lungs with the familiar scent of grass and dirt and the newly familiar scents of hot dogs and pretzels warming on the carts that lined the pathways in the park.
    I sang along, racing faster and listening to the track on repeat. “Go to your happy place,” I told myself, thinking of Cisco and Angelique—legitimate new friends, I considered them. And Jenn was cool enough to me, even though some days, she just didn’t talk to anyone. I daydreamed about Kristingetting an allergic reaction to a tanning session. Maybe she’d actually turn into an orange.
    I closed my eyes, thinking of English class, how I’d identified with that sonnet. Feeling like an outcast, a loser but comforted by a great love. I longed to know what it felt like to have one person eclipse everything bad in your life—be a place of pure joy.
    I stopped short, pausing for breath, and surveyed my surroundings. I was all the way over by the Bethesda Fountain. It was one of my favorite areas of the park—gorgeous, palatial. And still, all I could see was his face, and those eyes—which didn’t look like they hated me in spite of how he acted.
    â€œWhy can’t I get you out of my head?” I whispered, stopping in my tracks. “Brendan, I wish I just knew what your deal was.”
    I leaned against a lamppost, trying to steady my breath