Fated

connects with mine. The two of us knowing what no one else does, I’m no longer hiding.
    It’s me against him.
    Santos vs. Richter.
    Seeker vs. El Coyote.
    The game is now on.
    I turn, determined to leave it at that, or at least for now anyway. There’s no need to rush into anything, especially when Paloma still has so much more to teach me.
    Doing my best to ignore him when he calls out from behind, “Allow me to be the first to welcome you to Milagro High! If you should need anything, I am at your service.” His words met by a chorus of laughter that bursts out all around him.
    I pick up the pace, moving so fast I’m practically sprinting. Slowing only when I’ve rounded a corner where I stop, sag against the wall, and fight to catch my breath. Relieved to know it’s not Cade who set my heart beating triple time, I can and will deal with him. It’s the mean girl stuff that got me off kilter. Having avoided school all these years, I’ve never had to deal with that sort of thing.
    On the set, the snootier stars always kept to themselves, figuring they were far too important to mingle with the likes of the lesser cast and crew. This is my first time being bullied. And while I’m sure I could’ve done better—I definitely could’ve done worse.
    Much worse.
    She’ll think twice before she messes with me again.
    Or not.
    There’s just as good a chance she’s roaming the halls, sharpening her talons, gathering the troops, and gearing up for a grisly round two.
    Great. First day of school and I’m doomed. The enemy turns out to be someone Paloma never even warned me about.
    “Coulda been worse.”
    I lift my head to find a small slim girl with light brown hair, delicate features, a beautiful heart-shaped face, and soft gray eyes that look just to the right of me.
    “Being a brunette’s safer. If you were blond, they would’ve eaten you alive, for sure.”
    I peer at her closer, noting the way her gaze fails to meet mine, how she grips a red-tipped white cane in her hand—all of which leads me to believe there’s no way she could know what hair color I have.
    “Last new girl didn’t fare so well,” she continues. “Mostly on account of her being a natural blue-eyed blonde, she didn’t stand a chance around here. Lasted just shy of two months before she called it quits and enrolled in Internet school.” She shrugs. “It’s too bad. I really did like her. But I have a feeling you’ll do a lot better. Try to hang in there. Though I’m not gonna lie—chances are they’ll never come around. Yet, with your dark hair and green eyes, at least you’ll blend in, which makes you way less of a threat. If you stay out of their way, eventually they’ll grow bored and stay out of yours. That said, Cade could pose a problem. He seems to be pretty intrigued by you—and Lita, the ringleader, is not going to like that. They’ve had an off-and-on thing for years now. Even when they’re officially off, she doesn’t quite see it that way, and any girl who goes after him ends up regretting it.” She cocks her head to the side, as though working a serious mental equation—calculating the statistical probability of my surviving this school.
    Then focusing on me again, well, not really focusing, more like acknowledging, she says, “I’m Sochee. That’s how it’s pronounced: So—chee. I tell you that because if you saw the way it was spelled, you’d never guess. Anyway, It’s X-O-T-I-C-H-L, and just so you know, it means flower. Some people pronounce it with a soft T at the end, or even a shee or sheel sound instead of chee —but Sochee is the way I was taught to say it, so that’s how I say it.” She nods, signaling that’s the end of it and I can’t help but feel relieved; my head is spinning from just about everything she just said.
    “And it’s my guess that right about now your eyes are darting like crazy, frantically searching for an exit, figuring you’ve gone from the scary mean girls to a downright crazy girl with a weird name, and you can’t decide which is worse.” She laughs, and the sound is as light and bright and beautiful as she is.
    “How do you know all that … when you’re … well, it seems like you might be…” Several choices flit through my head, but I’m not sure which is politically correct, so I just let the sentence dangle unfinished.
    “Blind? Vision impaired? Lacking in visual perception?” She leans toward me, flashing a generous smile that displays a