by Angel Lawson
Uncomfortably, my mind instantly flashes to that moment of seeing Vandy in her window, the way her tits looked peaking over that bra, how soft her skin seemed in the evening light, the way my hands would probably fit perfectly on her narrow hips.
Even more uncomfortably, my mind flashes to how, thirty minutes later, I was in the shower angrily stroking myself off—gut-clenched and empty—just to make my erection go the fuck away. It was only a brief respite, because there’s plenty of girls around here I can look at without feeling like sewer scum.
All these girls.
And their thighs.
Dozens—no, hundredsof pairs of thighs. This school’s dress code might actually fucking kill me. Cause of death: erection lasting more than four hours. There are all kinds of girls here, in all shapes and sizes. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, even a few pushing the dress code with rainbow-colored hair. Everywhere I look, I see little hints of skin beneath skirts. The swell of perky tits under a tight button-down shirt. Firm asses swaying around all over the place. I feel like a pervert, twenty-four-seven.
It’s a miracle I’m able to be productive at all. What was my dad even thinking, putting me in here? I’d just spent three years cooped up with sweaty, smelly, hormonally repressed boys. Mountain Point had reeked of feet and dried cum. Here? Every girl that passes smells like unicorns and dreams. Restraint, and a constant hard-on, has become my new normal. All I’d need to do is choose one and go for it.
The thought makes the back of my neck feel clammy.
I swallow a particularly dry bite of potatoes. “Still checking out my options.”
“What was it like there, anyway?” Carlton Wade asks. He’s a junior who plays running back on the team with us. He’s also got this slimy grin that constantly makes me want to put a boot in his face. “Was it just a bunch of dicks all the time? Circle jerks? On a scale of one to ten, how homoerotic are we talking?”
I swallow a mouthful of mac n’ cheese and wipe my mouth. “Not half as homoerotic as the way you look at everyone in the locker room.”
There’s a chorus of loud whooping, but Carlton just shrugs. “I’m not ashamed. I might be pussy-eating straight, but my boys got some fine asses.”
Emory returns with two cans of Dr. Pepper, tossing one to me. “Hell yeah, I do, and don’t you forget it.”
“But come on.” Carlton makes a horrified expression. “Three years without any girls? That’s some cruel and unusual shit.”
“There were girls. Sometimes.” The school administrators weren’t idiots. They knew we had to be around girls occasionally or we’d burn that fucker down. “Few times a year, they’d bus in students from the sister school for social events. Plus,” I add, popping the top on my can, “I had like a million hours of community service, and trust me, the kind of girls who are on probation?” I give him a look.
“Oh, shit!” Ben looks absolutely delighted. I don’t know much about the guy yet, except that he plays drums in the marching band, and that’s only because he’s constantly got his drumsticks out, tapping them on everything. It’s either monumentally stupid or completely genius that he’s also an offensive linesman on the team. He almost never has to actually march. “You get some of that rough trade?”
I shrug, but that’s basically the gist of it. “Had a semi-regular thing going on with an arsonist named Melody.” By the looks on their faces, they can’t decide if I’m jerking their chains or not. I won’t bother saying one way or another. Quick, flustered hook-ups in bathrooms, utility closets, and port-a-johns aren’t exactly brag-worthy. And that was only the summer before junior year. It’s been a long time.
Thank god for contraband phones, social media, and girls with either the high or low self-esteem to send sexy photos. But, Carlton isn’t wrong. Too many dicks and not enough tits. I glance over at a table of girls I’d seen the day before at cheerleading practice and feel the familiar tightening in my groin. “But yeah, but overall, it sucked. I’m glad to be back in the world of co-eds.”
“So what I want to know is,” Ben asks, gesturing with his fork, “is it true that you have a gnarly scar from the wreck?”
The whole table falls abruptly silent.
Emory slams his can on the table. “Jesus, Ben. What the fuck?”
“What?” Ben asks, totally clueless. “Chicks dig scars! I’m just saying, if it’s bad enough, maybe it’ll get you some ass.”
Carlton jabs him in the side with his elbow and gives Ben a dark look. Looks like even that asshole gets the dynamic going on. Talking about my scar like that is so fucking far from being okay. Not in front of Emory. Not after what happened to his sister.
It’s been the elephant in the room for days now—years, actually, if I’m counting all the calls and chats where we both completely ignore the issue at hand. But it’s our elephant. Mine and Emory’s. We don’t need jackasses like Ben pointing it out.
Ben adds into the awkward silence, “Well, he never undresses in the locker room.” And when that just makes it more awkward, “Probably because of Carlton checking everyone out all the time.”
“Yeah. My scars are gnarly,” I offer blankly, letting my fork fall onto my tray. My appetite is long gone. “And trust me when I say they’re not getting me any pussy.”
There’s nothing cool or sexy about the way my back looks. It’s hideous. A week in the burn unit and four skin grafts didn’t do much to salvage anything. I have skin. That’s about the most I could hope for.
After a long beat of silence, Emory stands, picking up his tray and striding away.
Ben mutters, “Tough crowd,” and I gather up my own shit, suddenly feeling exhausted by the whole day. As I walk away from the table, I can hear Ben asking someone, “Have you seen my drumsticks?”
Mine now.
“Hey,” I call out when I catch up to Emory. The hallway is empty, since most everyone is still eating. I fall into stride, jaw tightening. “Are we just never going to talk about it?”
He stops abruptly, mouth twisted into a hard grimace. “What’s there to talk about, Reyn? It was an accident. Everyone knows it. Even Vandy says that deer came out of nowhere.”
“Her being in the car wasn’t an accident.” I look away, still remembering how I’d held my hand out to her, coaxing. “And you’re the only one who doesn’t want to see me strung up for it, which is pretty weird, considering.”
Considering that I’ve been privy to four days of Emory’s vicious protective streak when it comes to Vandy. I’ve spent more time than I’d like to admit just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Yeah, well.” Emory folds his arms and shifts, eyes diverted. “What happened that night was a fucking disaster, but it was my fault as much as yours.”
I give him a look that I can only hope conveys how moronic that sounds. “How do you even figure?”
He explains, “I’m the one who didn’t back off when she walked up to the valet. I lied and got her involved. You asking her to go with you was just...it made sense. Otherwise, she would have narc’ed. At the time, it was smart thinking.” He runs his hand through his hair. “I don’t blame you for that. Not any more than I blame myself.”
“I got her into the car and then crashed it.” My voice is flat, mechanical, matter-of-fact. “I crippled her.”
Emory’s eyes flash in something bright and livid, and it’s almost a relief when he slams a hard palm into my shoulder, shoving me back a step. “She’s not a fucking cripple. You don’t know anything about it! The things she’s done, the things she can do? She’s fine. She’s stronger than either of us. Don’t ever talk about my sister like that, you fucking hear me?”
I watch him fume for a long moment, something hard and noxious settling miserably into the pit of my stomach. “You’re right,” I concede. “I don’t know anything about it. Sorry.”
It’s almost a disappointment to watch the anger drain from his face. “Do you remember that night? When I came to see you, in the hospital?”
I s
tuff my fists into my pockets, shrugging. “Only a little.” It’d been late—or maybe even early—and everything seemed fuzzy around the edges, indistinct, disorienting. Emory could have come to see me, or he could have been a hallucination. It strikes me that, until now, I never actually knew for sure.
“Yeah, you were out of it,” he says, leaning against a column. “Your mom said they had to sedate you because you were in a lot of pain, but also—” He pauses, giving me a significant look. “But also because you kept trying to get to Vandy.”
My jaw feels tense when I nod. “I remember.”
“You were a mess. Busted up, like her. All it took was five minutes with you, and I guess I just knew.” Emory nods, like this is something he’s confident about. “I knew nothing I said or did could make you feel worse about it.” After a moment of watching me, he asks, “Do you wish it’d been you? If you could take her place and—”
“Yes.” No hesitation.
Emory nods. “Then that’s enough for me. I’m not willing to lose my best friend over a horrible mistake. Are you?” He holds out a fist, and I know once I bump it with mine, this is it.
This is the last time we’ll talk about it, and then we’ll have to move on.
I bump my knuckles against his, a silent agreement passing between us as the bell rings. It’s too easy to be forgiven, but then, it was never Emory’s to give in the first place.
We head opposite directions, and as the crowd leaves the cafeteria, my eyes are drawn back to a head of shiny blonde hair, her body moving at its own, stilted pace.
I hope that Emory’s right—that Vandy is stronger than either of us, that she’s overcome it, that she’s fine.
Because deep inside, I know that I’m not.
My entire body aches as I walk off the field. Coach Morris is serious about repeating the state win, even if we die trying. Emory, being captain of the team, barks orders at the underclassmen, making them do the brunt of the post-practice field cleanup. I stop and guzzle a bottle of water, waiting for him halfway back to the locker room. It doesn’t hurt that the cheerleaders practice in the parking lot next to the gym. One of the girls spots me and gives me a little wave. I reluctantly lift my hand just as Emory walks over, carrying his helmet and a bottle of water. We’re both so drenched in sweat it looks like we just got out of the pool.
“Hey, who’s that?” I ask, nodding toward the girl. She’s small, shorter than the rest of the girls, and has long, straight, dark hair.
Plus, a nice, thick ass.
He snorts, shaking his head. “That, my friend, is trouble. Stay away.”
“She looks familiar.” I squint, trying to remember. “Did I know her from before?”
“That’s Sydney Rakestraw,” he explains, lip curling in displeasure. “Vandy’s friend.”
“Huh.” An image of a skinny, tiny middle-schooler with a mouthful of braces pops into my head. “What do you mean she’s trouble?”
We walk toward the locker room, the back door hanging open. The voices of our teammates echo back outside. Emory stops before we enter, swallowing a mouthful of water. “I hate talking bad about her because she’s been so loyal to Vandy the last few years, but real talk? That girl is a hot mess. There’s always something going on, another rumor or accusation. She posts shit all the time on social media.” He wipes his forehead with the hem of his practice jersey. “Trust me, she’s tempting—and I promise you, she will try to tempt you—but make like Nancy Reagan and ‘Just say no,’ got it?”
“Loud and clear,” I reply. “The last thing I need right now is trouble.”
Emory’s nose wrinkles and he scratches his neck.
“What?” I ask, getting a vibe.
“About that…” He gestures for me to move a little bit closer to the massive HVAC unit, away from the locker room. “There’s something I’m involved with—something I want you in on—but I know you’re on a really short leash here. I still want to give you the option.”
I blink. “I’m going to need a little more information than that.”
Two sophomore players walk off the field toward the locker room. We both give them a nod in greeting, but Emory doesn’t resume talking until they’re inside. “Remember what I told you about the Devils disbanding?”
“About them getting kicked off of campus.” I nod, wiping my forehead with a towel. “Yeah, I remember.”
He grins. “Turns out the roots of the organization go deeper than the headmaster’s directives.”
“What does that mean?”
“If you want to find out, meet me at the Devil’s Tower on Friday night after the game.”
My eyebrows scrunch together. “You trying to take me to the stairway to hell? I’m telling you dude, military school did not make me gay.”
He pushes me hard. “Shut up. Meet me or not. It’s your choice, but if you want in on something truly epic, I can make it happen.” The fact that I hesitate must mean that I’ve actually grown up a little bit since the last time I was here. When I don’t respond right away, Emory adds, “Just think about it?”
I give a slow nod. “Okay.”
“Oh,” he says, as we walk back to the locker room door, “and you can’t tell anyone about this. It’s the kind of thing that could get everyone in serious trouble.”
I freeze, watching his back as he disappears into the building.
This doesn’t bode well.
Cat.
I look down at the orange ball of fluff currently occupying the stoop in front of my side door. I’d just come out to get my cleats, which had been drying on the step. It’s almost ten at night, so the cleats are dry, only there’s this cat curled up to them.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, bending with the intention of easing my shoes away. But the cat peers up at me balefully, tail twitching, and I snatch my hand back. “They’re mine,” I inform the cat, gesturing lazily to the shoes.
I watch in surreal disbelief as this cat extends a paw, spreads its toes, and sinks five long claws into the top of a shoe.
“You gotta be shitting me.”
The cat gives me a look that clearly says ‘I’m not shitting you one bit’.
I sigh, peering around the yard, wondering who this jerk belongs to. “I’ve easily got a hundred and sixty pounds on you.”
The cat doesn’t even blink.
I’m still engaged in this staring contest when the side yard is suddenly flooded in a wash of porch light. When the door to the neighbor’s house begins opening, I know there’s only a twenty-five percent chance that it’s Emory. Maybe I’ll be lucky.
I’m not.
Because standing there in the doorway is Vandy Hall, sweater wrapped tight around her body as she crosses her arms. There’s a long stretch of silence where we just stare wide-eyed at one another, nothing but the distant sounds of crickets and a purring cat filling the space between us.
She visibly swallows, eyes dropping to the cat. “Firefly, come.” Firefly kneads a paw full of claws into my shoe and stays right where it is. Vandy makes a ‘pss-pss-pss’ noise and holds the door open, coaxing the cat into the house. Firefly is clearly having none of this shit, because the cat simply adjusts, making itself more comfortable.
Vandy meets my gaze again, and she probably tries to hide it—that reluctant, fearful thing swimming in her eyes—but I can see it. It’s even worse than watching her limp across the distance between us, this agonizing realization that she’s afraid of me.
“I’ll just...” She gestures to the cat, but before she can reach down to pick it up, the cat springs to its feet and darts across the yard, disappearing right into the open door of Vandy’s house.
Asshole.
Vandy tugs the sleeves of her sweater over her fists, eyebrows low in a surly expression. “Okay, then.” She turns to leave and I jerk forward, like there’s a fishhook in my chest.
“Wait.”
She freezes, slowly turning to give me a blank look from over her shoulder.
And I
’m not even sure why I asked her to. So many things need to be said that it feels like I’m drowning in the tidal wave of it. She could stand there all night, her pretty blonde hair rippling on every passing breeze, and I’d still only be able to scratch the surface.
I want to say that I’m sorry. I want to tell her what I’d told Emory before—that I wish it’d been me. I want to say that I think of her every night when I fall asleep and every morning when I wake up. I want to say that I spent the last three years paying for it in sweat and blood and isolation, and that it still isn’t enough, and that I know it.
I want to say that I’ve missed her.
I release a long exhale, shoulders slumping. “Wait here.” I don’t catch her reaction as I turn back into the house, pulling my bookbag from a kitchen chair. I dig around in the front pocket until I find it, shuffling back to the door.
She’s facing me now, something both defeated and defensive in the way she hugs her middle, eyebrows pulled tightly together. Her face instantly goes slack when I hold up the tube of lipstick, though. I broadcast the throw with a couple bobs of my hand before tossing it over the distance.
She catches it against her chest a bit clumsily, eyes wide as she inspects it. “How did you...?”
I shrug, turning to head back inside.
“Yours now.”
5
Vandy
I don’t know what’s stunned me more.
Seeing Reynolds standing there on his porch—a pair of loose grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, threadbare black tee stretched tight over his broad chest—had been like a punch in the gut. The porch light just barely illuminated the sharp angles of his cheekbones, and with the way he was standing, so inhumanly still, he looked like a statue carved out of midnight and obsidian. In the low light, his eyes were nothing but two dark hollows of vacant shadow, but it didn’t matter. I knew he was looking right at me, could feel myself pinned under the heavy weight of it, defenseless and paralyzed.
