Fated

hopes for this school. It’s the first one I’ve ever attended, and I was hoping it would be prettier, more inviting. I was hoping it would look more like the fancy schools you see on TV, and less like the bleak house of doom that sits right before me.
    “Remember what I told you, nieta. ”
    I lick my lips. Flick my gaze toward hers.
    “Cade will be here, so you must be on guard. Do not let him intimidate you. Do not let him manipulate you. And never allow yourself to doubt his true nature again. Your impressions of him were right all along. He is a powerful sorcerer—his entire clan, the Richters, also known as El Coyote, are masters at manipulating perception. Controlling the consciousness of others is the very thing that’s allowed them to hang on for so long. It’s a skill the Seekers have yet to accomplish and have fought hard to overcome. Though even if we do find the key, we would never use it in the way they do. They’ve chosen to play in the dark—while you, my nieta, are a Santos, a Seeker, and we always remain firmly entrenched in the light, no matter what. You are ready to face him, I assure you of that. Otherwise, you would not be here, so there is no reason to worry.”
    I swallow hard. Press my palm against the window. Despite what she says, I don’t feel ready, not in the least. My stomach’s a jumbled mess of nerves, and yet I’m all too aware that there’s no use fighting it. Paloma is right. It’s time I head inside and face up to my destiny.
    I push the truck door open and slide from my seat. Doing my best to quash my fears, but I’m pretty sure no one’s fooled.
    “I’ll be back to get you at three,” Chay tells me. “I’ll meet you right here.” But as nice as the offer is, I can’t accept it. He has a life, an important career. He doesn’t need to waste his time playing chauffeur to me.
    “No worries. I can get myself back,” I say, my words met with a skeptical look that prompts me to add, “What kind of Seeker would I be if I couldn’t find my way home?”
    Before he can reply, before Paloma can say another word, I step away from the truck and head through the gate. Making my way across large squares of gravel and dirt standing in for a lawn, before pushing through the big double doors and stealing a moment to orient myself. But, as it turns out, I pause for too long, and a second later I nearly fall victim to a trio of girls storming the hall.
    They’re the kind of girls I instantly recognize as being in charge.
    The kind of girls determined to snag the lead role.
    Marquee girls.
    Pretty much the opposite of me—the lowly kid of a crew member, used to keeping quiet, out of sight, doing whatever it takes to avoid the spotlight.
    This may be my first day at school, any school, but I’ve spent enough time on various movie sets to recognize a social caste system when I see one.
    Their gazes are piercing and gleaming—darting like crazy—calculating the number of students checking them out, which is just about everyone within a ten-foot radius. The majority of students content to stand on the sidelines—smiling, waving, and striving to be noticed—knowing never to approach unless summoned. Never to breach the invisible red-velvet rope that separates the popular crowd from everyone else.
    I duck my head low and maneuver around them, about to make my way down the hall in search of the office, when the girls stop. Their jaws dropping, eyes popping, as the one in the middle, the one with the long dark hair and brassy blond highlights, approaches and says, “Hey.”
    I nod, force a half-smile, and meet her Hey with one of my own.
    “You’re the girl I saw on the horse.” Her eyes are dark, kohl rimmed, and narrowed on mine.
    I stand before them, refusing to confirm or deny—having dreaded a moment like this ever since Paloma broke the news about my enrolling in school. With only one high school to choose from, it was only a matter of time before I ran into the kids I saw that day on the trail. Though I was hoping I’d at least make it a little farther into the building before I was outted.
    “You are her, aren’t you?” She checks with her friends, her gaze turning first to the girl on her right wearing the gloppy pink lip gloss, and then to the one on her left with the overplucked eyebrows and iridescent purple eyeshadow, turning back to me when she says, “Even without the bandanna and the horse, I know it’s you. You were singing too—weren’t you?