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I clear my throat. “Actually, the opposite.” He’ll find out in all of three seconds.

“Wait, you shook my hand earlier. Did you see anything good?”

“A man pushed you on the deck of a boat and broke your arm.”

And there it is. The plastic smile slips. The curious gaze drops. Yep, suddenly, he doesn’t seem so admiring.

“What about you?” I ask, redirecting the conversation before it gets painful. “Your gift can’t be that you’re some clinical Adonis.”

“Adonis? Ha. Not exactly, but close.”

I lift a brow and wait, refusing to let him off the hook.

He looks away, and yes, something about the vulnerable shift of his expression is also extremely attractive. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m here for the wrong ailment.

“It sounds stupid, complaining about being liked, but it’s not what it seems.”

“People think the same about my ability. It’s not a gift when you can’t escape it.”

Our eyes lock, and my pulse picks up again. It helps to remember the angry girlfriend stewing in the other room. Is she even his girlfriend? My only basis for that assumption are two passing glances and a strong cliché.

“It’s complicated, but basically my endocrine system messes with the chemicals in other people’s heads. It makes me irresistible or something. I know that sounds weird.”

I breathe a sigh of relief, thanking the stars for whacky endocrine systems. At least I’m not losing my mind like I thought. “So you’re like some souped-up queen bee?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “I mean… I guess? But can we not describe it that way?”

I crack a grin, but it disappears as I consider his situation. “Actually, that sounds pretty awful. You’d never know if anyone genuinely cared about you.”

His own amusement fades, and I can tell I’ve struck something. That I’m really good at. Reading people. Killing moods.

“It gets hard, yeah. But hey, it could be worse. I could make everyone hate me.” He points to the wall separating my room from the other bedroom.

“Daniel? That’s his gift?”

I’d love to know how Clausen spins that one into “special.”

A dimple appears in Ben’s cheek when his grin returns. Dimples, even? Geez. “Nah, I’m pretty sure alienating the masses is just a practiced talent. No one knows his real gift. He keeps to himself and everyone returns the favor. No one knows much about him.”

“How’s that possible? How long has he been here?”

“Forever. Longer than any of us, at least. You’ll understand when you meet him. If you’re lucky, that won’t be for a while.”

I try to return his reassuring smile, but… curiosity. Intrigue. Mystery. Yep, I’m definitely hooked. Crap. I shove that away too.

“I don’t think anything could be worse than living on the outside where you feel completely alone,” I say, tracing the edge of my suitcase.

“Try being surrounded by smothering fans motivated by a chemical imbalance in their brains.”

I glance up, studying him again. “Yeah, okay. Point taken. What about Laura? Smothering fan or genuine girlfriend?”

“Laura hated me when we met. That’s how I knew we were soulmates.”

“She doesn’t seem to know that.”

He smiles again, and I can’t help but wonder what his smile would look like without my brain telling me it’s a sparkling rainbow sunrise. Maybe he’s actually a hideous slime bucket that looks nothing like the image in my head. Yeah, I’m starting to get his dilemma.

“I don’t know why she gets insecure, but she’ll warm up,” he says. “What about you? Any boyfriend or broken hearts you left behind?”

I huff a laugh. “No. Definitely not. Hey, maybe she’s just tired of swatting away your crushes all the time,” I add to redirect us back to anything besides my impossible love-life.

“Only the weak ones get sucked in. The strong ones can fight the attraction and recognize it for what it is.”

“Really? Good to know. Which type am I?”

I hold my breath, alternating between heat and chills beneath his stare.

“I’d say you’re one of the strong ones. If you haven’t thrown yourself at me yet, you probably won’t.”

I relax, partly amused, but mostly relieved. I have no intention of allowing my first real crush to come from an overzealous endocrine system.

“Well, I’ll let you unpack. Dinner’s at six. You should come with us, but don’t be late. Rules are big here.”

“I won’t,” I assure him, happy when he finally leaves.

Queen Bee Ben is a lot to absorb, and I need to explore my expensive furniture in peace.

Maybe there are crown jewels or first generation copies of the Declaration of Independence hidden behind these paintings.

What if that mantel covers a secret passageway to…

well, does it even matter where if there’s something as cool as a secret passageway?

Later.

Dinner is at six, and I definitely need a thorough investigation of the shower before then.

I lift the tattered remains of the Madison Academy brochure from my suitcase and gaze around the fairytale room that’s now mine.

Maybe things happen for a reason. Maybe timing is everything.

But it sure seems like a mistake that I didn’t embrace their promises sooner.

Everyone loves Ben.

I study his plastered grin with interest as we swerve through the dining hall, and chemical-magnet or not, the boy knows how to use his charm.

I sense the charisma is an act, however.

He enjoys the attention, thrives on it, which begins converting my initial sympathy into wariness.

It’s an odd reaction, considering he’s my only friend so far.

The thing is, first impressions don’t work the same for me as they do for everyone else.

Someone pushed him on a boat and broke his arm for a reason.

“Good evening, Esteemed Table Four. This is Rebecca,” Ben announces as we approach a senior table.

“Hi,” I say, taking the empty seat he indicates.

“Rebecca, meet Thomas, Liz, Lucy, and Christopher.”

“New roommate, huh?”

“That didn’t take long.”

“So have you warned her yet?”

I look to Ben at the barrage of questions, but it’s Laura who answers. “Nothing to warn her about. We haven’t even seen Daniel since Tuesday.”

“I heard he got in a fight with Instructor Matheson.”

“Again?”

“They need to kick him out.”

“They’re clearly afraid of him.”

“I bet he has the gift of Ebola.”

“No, IRS audits.”

“He’s going to end up dead in your room one of these days.”

“Good.”

“You’re not being fair about him,” the girl named Lucy says. I glance at her, curious about the dissenting opinion.

“Don’t start again, Luce,” Ben groans. Laura rolls her eyes.

“What? It’s true,” Lucy continues. “Just because he keeps to himself, doesn’t mean he’s a bad person.”

“No, but the fights and drugs and general hostility?” Ben counters.

She shrugs. “What do we really know? Rumors. You’re just jealous because I’m not the only one who thinks he’s hot. Right, Laura?”

Two of the other guys snicker.

“Seriously, stop,” Ben warns. “Don’t even joke about it. You’ll confuse Rebecca.”

I feel the burn in my cheeks at the attention. I don’t like being on the spot, and I especially don’t like being told how I should feel. “He’s the universal bad apple. I get it.”

“No. You don’t,” Laura snaps.

I study her again, surprised once more by the open hostility.

She responds with a piercing gray gaze, and I wonder if Laura despises me as much as she does this Daniel.

It hurts, of course, but it also makes me curious about her ability.

Ben’s comment in my room comes flooding back.

What’s her gift if she’s able to resist his?

And what’s with Lucy’s strange comment about Daniel and her?

Crap, please don’t let me be stuck in the middle of a Birchwood Suite love triangle.

A line of academy staff files toward the head table, ending our debate. I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved when Director Clausen leans over a podium. “Good evening, students and faculty. Welcome. Please report your absent. Table one?”

“All present.”

The director nods and marks something in a device. “Table two?”

“All present.”

I instinctively glance at the empty chair beside me.

“Table three?”

“Colleen’s still sick, Director.”

“That’s too bad. Send our regards. Table four?”

Ben clears his throat and stands. “Just Daniel Mueller, Director.”

I watch the Director’s face for a reaction, but he only moves on to table five. After we complete roll call, Director Clausen claps his hands, and we all stand in unison. I’m beginning to feel like I’m in Girl Scouts again. Well, if I’d done Girl Scouts.

“We are grateful for another day, grateful for the fellowship of friends, and grateful for our abundant meal.”

Everyone mumbles “enjoy,” and scraping chairs echo through the room as we take our seats. Then, all previous drama fades away as the magic begins.

Uniformed servers pour into the hall with steaming platters that send me right back to my princess fantasy. So what if my face is a hilarious show for my tablemates. They also probably don’t know there are eight ways to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

“Now, there’s a girl raised on toast and a microwave.”

The guy (Christopher, I think?) is not wrong, and I make no attempt to hide it. “Do you eat like this all the time?”

“Unfortunately,” Ben mutters.

“You don’t like it?”

“Ben was raised on four-star restaurants and personal chefs. He thinks anything less than a culinary magazine cover is beneath him,” Thomas explains.

“I’m not that bad.”

“Remember the vegetable lasagna?”

I ignore their banter in favor of melting at the explosion of flavors in my mouth.

Salty, sweet, sour, spicy. I didn’t even know you could cram so many adjectives into a single bite.

My mother did her best, but two part-time jobs barely paid the bills, let alone brought home meals with adjectives. Is cheese powder an adjective?