Every now and then Baz will look at me with this expression that I’ve come to know as his plotting face. His eyes will narrow just slightly, and his chin will tilt up just a little, and there’ll be a tiny crease between his eyebrows, and this cloudy look in his eyes, like he’s deep in thought even while he looks straight at me.
Like I said. Plotting face.
Sometimes I catch him watching me in class with the plotting face. On those days he usually ends up picking a fight with me up in our room. Probably to throw me off my guard. I’ve seen him give me the plotting face while I’m carelessly shoving down food in the dining hall, as though he’ll find some way to use my awful table manners against me. (Maybe poison.) That day that he forged the note from Agatha and I came back in the early morning shivering, cheeks red from the cold and hair dusted with snow, he blatantly stared across the room with his plotting face.
‘Maybe that’s just his face,’ Penny says. ‘He has resting plotting face.’
‘If he has resting plotting face, it’s because he’s always plotting,’ I say.
I’ve learned to recognise the plotting face. I never know what he’s up to, so he’s always a few steps ahead, but at least this way I can know when he’s up to something. (Which is pretty much always.)