A Deal With the Devil

by Angel Lawson

  In many ways, I really respect that about her. My mom is the hardest-working parent I know who’s also still involved in, like, parenting.

  “I made your lunch!” She says as she closes the fridge. The stainless-steel door is covered in an enormous, post-it riddled, color-coded calendar. Every single activity has been micromanaged down to the minute, up to and including ‘pick up lunch for the kids’. My mom cuts her eyes to the bag on the island. “Well, I packed your lunch. Spicy tuna roll, a little bit of rice, and that yogurt with the honey that you like.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say, kissing her on the cheek. I take the bag and tuck it in my backpack. She leans over to help and I jerk around in a twist to prevent it. The horn blares from the garage, eliciting my groan.

  “Your brother is anxious,” she says, rolling her eyes as well. “You know how he gets.”

  “Oh, I know.” I dig a fist into the small of my back, trying to reacquaint my spine with the weight of a backpack. “Now that Campbell’s in college and they are ‘keeping their options open’,” I use finger quotes here, “he’s on the prowl.”

  Mom’s nose wrinkles. “Honey, don’t talk about your brother like that. And Campbell is a sweet girl.” She frowns as she says this, as if she could will it to be true.

  “Uh huh.”

  Sometimes it’s easier for my mom to live in a delusion than face reality, especially when it comes to my brother. Campbell Clarke is a bitch, through and through. She has my brother completely wrapped around her well-manicured finger. But if Mom looked beneath the surface of that choice, she’d have to acknowledge a lot of the other crap my brother does, and that would take the attention off me for a second. God forbid.

  Preston Prep is everything to Emory. He’d been instantly accepted when he arrived as a freshman, his social status secured by his position on the football team and admittance into the quasi-legit fraternity, The Devils. He lived and breathed Preston Prep, the letterman jacket, and the older, more experienced girlfriend. He fully embraced the entitled, privileged attitude of the majority of our classmates.

  He’d live in the dorms if he could—if he were allowed to. But there was no way my parents would allow me to live on campus, which meant there was no way he could live there either. Even for my parents, some tit-for-tats are just inevitable. Ultimately, that was probably a good decision. Last year, during Emory’s junior and my sophomore year, the Devils outdid themselves, ultimately getting disbanded. The administration finally stepped in after a series of events that not only violated school policy, but brushed with illegal. To be honest, I wasn’t paying much attention at the time. I spent my days trying to catch up on the schoolwork I fell behind on as a freshman, and my afternoons in physical therapy. I also spent the majority of time blissed out on painkillers, to the point that most of my classmates thought I was an idiot.

  Or, so I learned over summer break. I’d been in the country club locker room when I overheard Amanda Brown ask Sydney if the accident had caused a brain injury. Apparently, she didn’t remember me being so slow.

  Ouch.

  It was only through hushed talks between my parents and gossip at the swimming pool this summer that I learned what the Devils, including my brother, had really been up to for the last couple of years. None of it was necessarily good.

  “I can’t wait to hear about your first day tonight at dinner.” Mom runs a hand through her hair, something she does when she’s a little nervous. It’s hard, sometimes, feeling all this bitterness toward her when she cares so much. She adds, “I’m making your favorite. Shrimp and grits.”

  I force a smile. “That sounds good.” It seems a little much for the first day of junior year, but I’ve learned by now that if my mom wants to spoil me, the path of least resistance is to just let her.

  The horn blasts again in the garage, and I roll my eyes, heading through the door.

  “Finally,” Emory says, as I climb into his truck. It’s a beast. My parents only relented to getting it for him if he agreed to the lower running board so that I could step up to get into the cab. “I mean, what do you even do up there? It’s not like you spend a bunch of time doing yourself up like the other girls.”

  Double ouch.

  I scowl out the window. “You know Mom doesn’t let me wear a lot of makeup.” She also doesn’t let me wear anything revealing, or go out with boys, or stay out past nine.

  “Exactly,” he replies, backing out of the garage and swinging the car around, “it shouldn’t take you so long.”

  “My leg hurt this morning,” I mutter, looking away. “I had to do some stretches.”

  “Oh.” I notice how his fingers grip the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. “Right, yeah.” The ‘sorry’ is implied.

  It’s not totally a lie. My leg didn’t hurt, but I did have to do stretches. I know from experience just how difficult it is going from a summer free of academics to suddenly having to haul books around on my back all day. The administration gives me plenty of time allowances to travel to and from my locker, but if I accepted all of them, I’d miss half of every class. Being stuck with back pain, a limp, and disfiguring scars the rest of my life was bad enough without throwing ‘never graduated high school’ into the mix.

  Aside from that, I’d also been working on my newspaper proposal. Every year, Mr. Lee, the Chronicle sponsor, chose a student to do a deep dive for an investigative topic. This topic had to cover something current and gritty, something worthy of six months of focus, and something that was of interest to the Preston Prep community without actually offending anyone or making the school look bad.

  I know people will assume I want to follow in my mother’s footsteps, and why wouldn’t they? She’s a moderately popular investigative journalist who’s made quite a name for herself. But the reality is, I’ve seen what my mother does, and while she works hard and rails about things like justice and truth, her work is just a numbers game. The number of people who care, the number of viewers it can get, the number of ads they can run during the program, the number of dollars they can earn.

  I don’t want to follow in her footsteps.

  I want to recreate them. The right way.

  I’d been considering ideas all summer long and had finally settled on what I believe to be an amazing topic; the systematic classism and bigotry that has permeated a school like Preston Prep through the generations. I want to explore how that type of environment is a hotbed for racist and classist behavior—specifically the incidents leading to the Devils being disbanded. It’s a tough topic, but one I think Mr. Lee, and the school at large, may finally be willing to address.

  I keep my topic and the idea of proposing it to myself. This would be the kind of thing my family would cling to if I told them, feeding into their desperate hope that I’m doing more than just surviving. I don’t want that kind of pressure.

  I glance out the window as Emory drives past the McAllister house, next door. There’s a black jeep in the driveway and it gives me a moment of pause. I wonder if Mr. McAllister got a new car. Seems a little juvenile for him, but he’s been flirting with a mid-life crisis for years, part of which is likely courtesy of his delinquent son.

  I shift uncomfortably, the pain in my back flaring, and divert my eyes. Although I don’t like to think about Reyn, he’s on my mind constantly. I can never forget that smile on his face as he held out his hand, daring me to go for a joyride with him. The way he confidently sat behind the wheel, peeling out of the parking lot. That moment, right before the world spun, with his wide eyes and locked jaw as he slammed on the brakes.

  And, of course, I can never forget the last time I saw him—fighting through a wall of nurses, doctors, and emergency room security—pale-faced, covered in blood, eyes wild like a man possessed as he struggled to get to me. I still hear his screams in my nightmares, sometimes. “What are you doing to her? Tell me what’s fucking happening! Is she okay?”

  Emory cranks up the music as he drives the ten miles to schoo
l, and I let it drown out my thoughts. My brother and I don’t talk much anymore. I don’t blame him. The oxy made it easy for me to check out, and he’s been focused on actually having a social life, unlike me. I know things kind of derailed for him when the Devils were disbanded. With most of the other guys—particularly Hamilton Bates—graduating last year, Emory had been in the position to take over the group. Even I had been stunned when Hamilton fell in love with his arch-nemesis, Gwendolyn Adams. The entire social eco-system had been shattered. Emory no longer had a girlfriend, nor his group. He was understandably a little adrift.

  Welcome to my world.

  He turns into the Preston Prep parking lot, securing a spot in the senior section.

  “Don’t forget,” he says, unbuckling his seat belt, “I have football practice.”

  I nod, gathering my bag. “I’m going to a meeting for the Chronicle, so I’ll probably get out around the same time.”

  His nose wrinkles. I know he hates that I’m involved with “nerdy” stuff, but good grief, what does he expect me to do? It’s not exactly like I can be an athlete or try out for the cheer squad with Syd.

  “Okay.” He commands, “Meet me out here when you’re done.”

  Sydney’s for me waiting at the edge of the parking lot. Her eyes are glued to her phone until she sees us walking over.

  Well, until she sees my brother, which will always catch her attention.

  “Heya, Em,” she says, beaming at him. He gives her a quick nod and strides across the quad, unmoved by her batting eyelashes. Sydney turns to me, fanning herself with her phone. “If it’s possible, I think your brother actually got cuter over the summer.”

  I grimace. “Hmm…”

  Syd has had a crush on Emory since before we even got to Preston Prep. There’s really no nice way to tell her that he’s not interested, and frankly, he doesn’t even like us being friends. But unlike him, I don’t have a million people lining up to become my buddies, and sure, Sydney has issues, but she’s also stuck by my side during everything. Even if it means I have to put up with a lot of her self-inflicted drama.

  Speaking of, Syd’s phone buzzes and she glances down. “Oh my god.”

  “What?” I ask, taking an awkward step over the curb.

  “Fucking Caleb. He just texted me to say that everyone is talking about me.”

  “What now?” People ‘talking’ about Sydney is a common occurrence.

  “Some insane rumor that I fucked two guys from North Ridge, at the same time, last weekend. As if.” She laughs and shakes her head. “God, when are people going to stop being so interested in my sex life?”

  I grip the straps on my backpack and don’t reply to what is obviously a rhetorical question. Sydney’s social life—her sex life—has been a constant source of gossip and fascination for years. She’s either a slut, or a tease, or a sex goddess, or a virgin, at any given moment. I stopped keeping up years ago, and after the blow up with Skylar Adams, it seemed like maybe it would slow down, but nope. According to Syd, the rumors keep flying.

  “Whatever,” she mumbles, pushing her phone in her backpack. She turns to face me, her eyes searching my face. “How are you? You ready for this?”

  Sydney is the one person who knows how much I’ve struggled the past few years. There’s part of me that knows her interest in me is probably driven by a desire to be tragedy adjacent. But there’s another part that’s grateful to just have someone around. I haven’t told her the truth about the painkillers—not exactly—but I have told her that I do have plans to get more involved this year. It all starts with the Chronicle.

  I take a steeling breath, nodding. “I have my proposal ready.”

  “Awesome, I think you’re going to kill it, and then next year you’ll get to be editor-in-chief.” I reluctantly accept her high-five.

  We walk through the clusters of students and my eyes track them all. I see Emory and his jock friends, all in their letter jackets despite it still being hot outside. A few kids say hello before side-stepping to give me space. As we head down the sidewalk, I can’t help but notice everyone taking great care to give me a wide berth. Their smiles are friendly, if distant. There’s a twinge of pity on every face, and some people won’t even meet my eyes.

  I grab Sydney’s arm to get her attention. “What’s that all about?”

  “What’s what all about?” She’s got her eye on Tyson Riggins, who is leaning against the brick wall by the main building. He’s adorable, and if social media is accurate, very much already taken by a girl at another school.

  “Everyone is looking at me,” I explain, eyes warily taking in the students around me. “And they’re all giving me room. I know I have the gimpy leg and all, but it’s not like that’s new.”

  “Uh,” Syd says, looking around, “this is pretty much how people have always treated you. You were probably just too stoned to realize it.”

  I turn to her, mouth parted in surprise. “Seriously?”

  Wow.

  I’d known I was out of it. Almost all of my high school experience up to now can be described as just that—high. Months and months of sitting in the classroom, walking the halls, lost in a delicious fog of sweet nothingness, and this is probably only scratching the surface of things I’ve missed.

  It’s so much worse than I thought.

  Before I can process this information any further, the bell in the tower tolls, signaling that we have five minutes to get to class. Syd gives me an apologetic smile and peels away, heading toward her homeroom. I do the same, taking the path toward the same homeroom I’ve had for three years now, but everything is different this year. My mind is clearer, like I can see things in a way I haven’t in a long time. I run two rough palms over my cheeks, wanting more than anything to go back to my safe place, back to when I didn’t realize how people looked at me. And the thing is, I could do it. I have enough meds stashed away in various hiding places in my room that I could probably medicate a small village. It would be so easy.

  No.

  The dead, nothing-eyed quiet girl isn’t who I want to be anymore. I’d made a commitment to see this year through, clear-headed and decidedly present. For one reason or another, my life was spared that night.

  It’s time for me to start living it again.

  2

  Reyn

  It’s weird how things always look bigger in your memory.

  For the first time in three years, I stand under the entrance arch to Preston Prep, and it seems strangely smaller than it had freshman year. Back then, the quad seemed fucking enormous. The halls felt infinite. The bell tower looked like a skyscraper. Sometimes I’d walk into this place and feel like it was indestructible, with its solid pillars and sharp steps.

  Now, it all just looks like any other hunk of stone and mortar. Like I could pull a hammer from my pocket and just start chipping this shit away, bit by bit, and watch it crumble.

  The school is definitely old, but it’s also a mixture of historic and new. From the ancient oak trees in the quad, to the stone bell tower, all the way to the shiny office furniture and state-of-the-art technology. Preston is two worlds merged into one. The end result is traditional, old-school elitism, combined with new world power. The students leave Preston with the ability to take over the world.

  Now I have to see how, and if, I can fit back in.

  I run my hand over the smooth mahogany railing as I climb the steps of the main building. I’m an hour early for my nine o’ clock meeting with the headmaster, since I was already out of bed and doing pushups three hours ago. I was so sure my first morning back was going to be full of sleeping in, dicking off, and not doing drills for once, but it turns out to not be so easy. Nothing felt right or okay until I’d rolled out of bed, hit the floor, and started counting. There was a split second, right between my thirty and thirty-first pushup that I almost longed for the familiar feeling of some jackass instructor yelling down at me. I would have even gone for my old academy’s customary sunrise run
if Fucking Jerry, the captain of our gated community’s security, hadn’t parked his golf cart across the street and just sat there, waiting.

  Jerry is the lovechild born of a slow-witted barbarian who fucked the very concept of spite. He’s also a retired deputy police chief who's high as kite off his own little nugget of imagined power. Naturally, he’s had it out for me since I drove through the gates. Messing with him would actually be a great time, if not for the fact that Fucking Jerry is a short fuse with ties to the local sheriff, and is also stacked. The guy could have me kissing pavement before I even had a chance to say ‘dime-store police brutality’.

  Fucking Jerry.

  Since I still have some time to kill, I decide to reacclimate myself to Preston’s hallowed halls. As I wander around, I get the same feeling of wrongness as I had trying to sleep in past five. Like someone should be watching me, telling me where to go, breathing down my neck, telling me I’m garbage. It’s a crawling, slimy sort of feeling that gives me the impulse to stick close to the walls.

  The main foyer of Preston Prep looks the same, with the wall of headmaster portraits looking down in stern-faced disapproval as I pass through. I note the steely eyes of Headmaster Hamilton—great-whatever of Hamilton Bates—and pause to raise a middle finger at his painting. In my brief stint as a freshman at this illustrious institution, Hamilton Bates had been only a year older than me, but was already the Prince of the Devils and Head Fuckboy by then.

  I can only imagine how insufferable that sentient jerkoff got by his senior year.