That’s when I heard it—a small metallic slinking sound. A clatter. A soft thud.

My whole body atrophied. I waited. Realized I wasn’t breathing, at which point I made a conscious effort to keep not breathing.

I heard it again.

Slink—clatter—THUNK!

This time, I was sure of it.

It was the sound of a vending machine.

And it was coming from the floor below.

I hurried to the nearest stairwell, gripped the handrail, and descended with quiet, anxious steps.

It was either Imogen or Wynonna—one or the other. I doubted it was both because it was impossible for Wynonna not to talk when Imogen was around.

Slink. Clatter. Thunk.

Whoever it was, they were sure stocking up on some serious sustenance.

I slowed my pace near the bottom of the stairs. Lurked cautiously to the corner—knowing full well that the vending machine in question was mere feet away on the other side.

Palms to the wall, I peered around the corner.

It was Imogen Klutz.

You know that scene in high school movies where our protagonist, Awkward Social Outcast, lays eyes on our lead female character, Girl of His Dreams—the first time we, as an audience, meet her—and we see her in slow motion, and her skin glows with ethereal radiance, and her hair flows like a waterfall or something similarly flow-y, and all sound cuts out to an annoying pop song, like the Smash Mouth cover of “I’m a Believer”?

Yeah. That.

Okay, so I kind of had a thing for Imogen. And that thing may have been called “obsession.” She was beautifully lanky with a long, gawky neck; a heart-shaped face with kind eyes; and sheets of sandy-blond hair that kind of frizzed around the ears. She had an affinity for sweaters and often coupled them with colorful, awkwardly fitting jeans and beautifully ugly no-name-brand sneakers.

And the eyebrows. Oh my god. Don’t even get me started on the eyebrows.

Okay, I’ll tell you.

On the surface, Imogen’s eyebrows were big, bad, and beautiful. Unplucked and unashamed. Some might go so far as to call them “colossal” or “gargantuan.” That wasn’t an exaggeration. Deep down, however, Imogen’s eyebrows were an enigma. Beneath the planes of their vast, follicular arcs, they contained the secrets of the universe. And the darkness! They were sooooo dark—practically black against the sandy blond of her hair—drawing you in like gravitational singularities. Resistance was futile. Think Labyrinth-era Jennifer Connelly and you’re on the right track. Add a dash of black magic and a pinch of metaphysical transcendence, and SHAZAM.

Those were Imogen’s eyebrows.

Of course, when I told Holden this, he told me I had a troubling eyebrow fetish, and I should probably seek psychiatric help.