Page 3 of Stealing Infinity (Stolen Beauty)

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Natasha

A Southern California high school

Present day

“God, I hate this place.”

Mason shakes his head and mashes a plastic fork into a clump of avocado, quinoa, sweet potato, and some silky white block I’m guessing is tofu. I recognize it as one of the more popular Buddha bowls he must have picked up from the vegan café where we work. But to me, it looks like the adult version of baby food.

“I mean, what messed-up twist of fate landed me here?” He sweeps an elegant brown arm past the suburban hellscape of boring cinderblock walls to the hot-lunch station of our school’s cafeteria, his collection of silver bangles clattering softly, before pausing on the tables reserved for the popular kids. The same tables where I used to sit, back when I was another girl, living another life. “I’m ninety-nine percent certain I was switched at birth, and now I’m trapped in someone else’s dystopian nightmare.”

I pick at my bag of vending machine chips, remembering how I used to play the “switched at birth” game, too, until my mom unearthed my birth certificate and waved it proudly before me.“See?”she said, face flushed with triumph as she dragged a chipped nail across her name and my dad’s just below it.“Like it or not, we made you.”

I shut myself in my room and cried all afternoon.

“Just take me away. Anywhere but here.” Mason abandons his lunch and stretches leisurely across the bench. With an arm draped over his face, I’m left with a view of perfectly drawn red lips, reminding me of an actress in a black-and-white movie badly in need of some smelling salts. “So bored,” he groans. “Draw me a picture with words.”

“We’re in Paris,” I say, not missing a beat. It’s one of our favorite games. “We have the very best table at the chicest sidewalk café, and we death stare anyone who dares to dress better than us. Which is basically no one, since I’m wearing a silk slip dress with a faux-fur stole and jeweled biker boots, and you’re practically swimming in an elaborately embroidered tunic, vegan suede leggings, and five-inch blue velvet mules.”

“And what are we eating?” he prompts, licking his lips.

Since I’m not exactly a foodie like him, I stick with the basics. “I’m idly picking at a chocolate croissant while you nurse a dairy-free but remarkably creamy café au lait that somehow never goes cold no matter how long we linger.”

“Do you ever miss it?” He sits up so abruptly, it yanks me right out of Paris.

“Miss what?” I ask.

“You know, being part of all that?” He sweeps a hand over his shaved head and nods toward the place where I used to sit—before I ended up next to the recycle bin.

“No,” I say, quick to turn away so he won’t see the lie on my face. While I don’t miss the table or the people who sit there, I do miss the person I used to be—the one who cared about my grades, the one who dreamed of a brighter future beyond these beige hallways.

I’m about to add something more when Mason groans and starts gathering his things. “All hail the queen,” he says, and I look up to see Elodie approaching. “I can’t believe you’re still hanging with her.”

I watch as Elodie makes her way across the cafeteria. Like a celebrity on a red carpet, so many people clamor for her attention, the trip takes much longer than it should.

“She’s fun.” I shrug. “And she has access to some pretty amazing things. VIP guest lists, courtside seats to the—”

“To the Lakers?” Mason shoots me a razor-sharp look. “Since when do you give a shit about sports?”

“I’m just saying…maybe you should give her a chance.”

Mason shakes his head. “Trust me, I know a bad vibe when I see it, and that girl is trouble.” He slings his knock-off designer bag over his shoulder, wanting to be gone before she can reach us.

“Sometimes trouble is fun.” I laugh, needing to lighten the mood. But the way Mason scowls, it clearly doesn’t work.

“Magic always comes with a price,” he says.

“Are you seriously quoting Rumpelstiltskin?”

“Just stating the facts. Someday all thisfunis going to catch up with you. If it hasn’t already.”

“And now you sound like my mom,” I grumble, but then I remember how he met my actual mom the one time he showed up at my house unannounced. “Well…like someone’s mom.”

“It’s not too late.” His earnest brown eyes meet mine. “You can still turn it around, get your grades back on track. So why are you acting like the choice isn’t yours, like you’re not the one who writes your own story?”

He’s right, of course. But what he doesn’t understand is that I’m nothing like him.