The Secret Circle: The Complete Collection by L. J. Smith Page A

was standing there, the most striking girl Cassie had ever seen. A big, beautiful girl, both tall and voluptuous. She had a mane of pitch-black hair and her pale skin was touched with the glow of confidence and power.
    “Hello, Jeffrey,” she said. Her voice was low for a girl’s; vibrant and almost husky.
    “Faye.” Jeffrey’s voice, by contrast, was noticeably unenthusiastic. He looked tense. “Hi.”
    The girl leaned over him, one hand on the back of his chair, and Cassie caught the scent of some heady perfume. “I didn’t see much of you over summer vacation,” she said. “Where’ve you been?”
    “Around,” Jeffrey said lightly. But his smile was forced, and his entire body was taut now.
    “You shouldn’t keep yourself hidden away like that. Naughty boy.” Faye leaned in closer yet. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder top—completely off both shoulders. It left a great deal of skin exposed just at Jeffrey’s eye level. But it was her face Cassie couldn’t help staring at. She had a sensuous, sulky mouth and extraordinary honey-colored eyes. They seemed almost to glow with a strange golden light. “You know, there’s a new horror movie at the Capri this week,” she said. “I like horror movies, Jeffrey.”
    “I can take them or leave them myself,” Jeffrey said.
    Faye chuckled, a rich, disturbing sound. “Maybe you just haven’t seen them with the right girl,” she murmured. “Under the proper circumstances, I think they can be very . . . stimulating.”
    Cassie felt embarrassed blood rise to her cheeks, though she scarcely knew why. Jeffrey wet his lips, looking fascinated in spite of himself, but also scared. Like a rabbit in a trap.
    “I was going to take Sally down to Gloucester this weekend—” he began, voice strained.
    “Well, you’ll just have to tell Sally that . . . something came up,” Faye said, raking him with her eyes. “You can come get me Saturday night at seven.”
    “Faye, I—”
    “Oh, and don’t be late, all right? I hate it when boys are late.”
    All this time, the black-haired girl had not even glanced at Cassie. But now, as she straightened up to leave, she did. The look she turned on Cassie was sly and secretive, as if she were perfectly aware that Cassie had been listening, and she liked it. Then she turned back to Jeffrey.
    “Oh, and by the way,” she said, lifting one hand in a languid gesture that showed off her long red nails, “ she’s from Crowhaven Road too.”
    Jeffrey’s jaw dropped. He stared at Cassie a moment with an expression of shock and distaste, and then he quickly turned around to face the front of the room. Faye was chuckling as she walked away to take a seat at the very back.
    What is going on ? Cassie thought wildly. What difference did it make where she lived? The only thing she could see now of Jeffrey-of-the-dazzling-smile was his rigid back.
    She had no time to think anything more, because the teacher was talking. He was a mild-looking man with a graying beard and glasses. He introduced himself as Mr. Humphries.
    “And since you’ve all had a chance to talk during your summer vacation, now I’ll give you a chance to write,” he said. “I want each of you to write a poem, right now, spontaneously. We’ll read some of them aloud afterward. The poem can be about anything, but if you have trouble thinking of a subject, write about your dreams.”
    There were groans from the class, which gradually died into silence and pen chewing. But Cassie bent over her notebook with her heart beating rapidly. A vague memory of her dream of last week intruded, the one where her mother and grandmother had stood over her. But she didn’t want to write about that. She wanted to write about him .
    After a few minutes she scribbled down a line. When Mr. Humphries announced that the time was up, she had a poem, and reading it over she felt a thin chill of excitement. It was good—or at least she thought so.
    What if the teacher called on her to