by Angel Lawson
“I heard him and…uh, Reyn,” I look away, tripping over the shape of his name on my tongue, “getting home late last night. I was just wondering.”
Her nose wrinkles. “Who knows. They were probably at some football circle-jerk. Wanking off to their win.” Sydney makes a crude gesture with her fist, pumping it in her lap.
I snort. “Gross.”
Sydney laughs quietly, wincing like it hurts to do so. “Sorry, I know he’s your brother, but still. You know how tight those guys are. You can take the Devils out of the school, but you can’t take the Devil out of the boy.”
“That literally makes no sense.”
She shrugs. “You know what I mean.”
I do, which is why I’m suspicious of whatever it is those two were up to last night. Not only was their conversation a little cryptic and strange, but Reynolds’ reaction to catching me out there? Jesus. Talk about intense.
You nosing around like this? It’s just going to get you hurt again.
I still don’t know if it was a threat. The truth is, I don’t know this version of Reyn. I don’t know the meaning behind his stillness, or his quiet, or the hard edges of his face. But I know he’s trying to ‘stay away’ from me, and I know he feels my unhappiness at him being back is fair—“I deserve that.”—and I know there’s always something tight at the corner of his eyes when he looks at me. But I don’t know him enough to recognize it as anything distinct.
I know what he smells like, my brain annoyingly reminds me. And it’s true. I know the shape of his body against me, solid and strong. I know the warmth of his breath as it gusted against my hair. I know how it made me feel, like my skin was being stretched tight around a suddenly liquefied middle.
I know that I spent all night banging angrily against the sensations, willing them to leave.
The woman doing my pedicure sits on the little stool in front of me, gently lifting my foot out of the water. She starts the process of cleaning up my toes. From here, you’d never know I had a limp. It’s not like it used to be, last year, back when I still wore a brace. Gait training has brought me a long way from that horrified thirteen-year-old girl who couldn’t walk at all. Incomplete spinal cord injury, they called it. They said I was lucky. They said sometimes, bad things just happen to good people. They said if I worked hard and kept the faith, I could walk again—that I could be normal.
They said it wasn’t my fault.
The truth is that I do carry my own blame for getting hurt that night. I’d followed the boys to stop them from doing something stupid. All it took was one smile from Reynolds, one peek at those dimples, and I happily went along for the ride. The sick truth of the matter is that I’d been elated for him to hold my hand instead of focusing on driving—a suspended moment of shiny girlhood glee that overrode all sense.
So, yes. I know what he smells like. I know the shape of his body against mine. I know the way it makes me feel. But I’m not the same girl who was sitting in that passenger seat. The image of his two dimples sitting on my memory card at home will not make me pliable, and neither will his words—threat or otherwise.
This time, I’ll stop them before it goes too far.
It takes me until Tuesday to find an opportunity.
The rain comes in a sudden, rippling blanket of downfall. Everyone in the quad instantly scampers for cover, fanning out every which way. I don’t bother trying to run like that—couldn’t even if I wanted to—so instead I walk toward the closest awning, in front of the arts building.
It’s there that I see him.
He’s standing alone in the narrow, covered path that connects the old academic building to the athletic fields. I watch as his gaze slides down to his wet arms. He gives them two feeble shakes.
I walk toward him without giving myself a moment to think about it, shoes squelching in the wet grass as rain pelts my head and shoulders. Every step that brings me closer to him makes my heartbeat quicken, until it’s a sharp, rapid percussion in my chest. When I reach him, he’s turned away, and I spend a prolonged moment staring at the shell of his ear, stomach churning.
“I need to talk to you.”
Reynolds tenses, shoulders hitching up just enough to be noticeable. He turns to peer at me over one of his wet shoulders, those green eyes tightening. “We’re not supposed to be together.”
I’d suspected as much. Not that anyone told me. “That’s why I waited until I could catch you alone.”
“Christ,” he mutters, head shaking. “I’m not doing this.” He moves to continue down the corridor and I reach out, grabbing him by the bicep. It’s rock hard and bigger than my fist. He easily jerks away, eyes flashing as he turns to me. “Are you deaf?”
I swallow, and my voice isn’t anywhere near as hard and sharp as I’d like it to be. “I just want you to answer one thing for me.”
He chews out a terse, “What?”
“What is this secret thing you and Emory are planning?”
He snorts a humorless laugh, gaze jumping to a group of students in the distance. “So you were eavesdropping.”
“No,” I insist, grasping the straps of my bag in a tight, frustrated grip. “I was saving a chipmunk while you guys were loudly discussing something nefarious.”
“Nefarious?” He rolls his eyes, the muscle in the back of his jaw going rigid. “Just leave it alone. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“No,” I say, and there it is. The sharpness. The determination. Finally. “The last time I left something alone with you two, I regretted it.”
His eyes finally land on mine, something dark and full of warning within his gaze. “Drop it, Baby V.”
The nickname clings to the air like a memory of something painfully personal. He’s the only one who ever called me Baby V. I see it now for what it always was; a way of putting me in my place. It’s how he got me in that car. It’s how he manipulated me.
Not anymore.
“If it’s not a big deal,” I say, raising myself to my full height, “then tell me what you were talking about.”
His shoulder jerks up in a stiff shrug. “Can’t.”
“Why not?”
The curve of his brows pucker in annoyance. “Because, I promised your brother I wouldn’t.”
Great. Because stupid teenage boy loyalty always works out so well. “Tell me one thing,” I demand, not flinching at the darkness in his eyes. “Is this going to get the two of you into trouble?”
His eyes hold mine. “Not if I can help it.”
A flare of irritation runs through me and I hold up my hands. “God, why are you doing this? You just came back home! Emory is so excited that you’re here. Last year was super shitty and a lot of bad stuff went down. Most of his friends graduated, his girlfriend graduated…” I implore him with my eyes, “Why are you risking getting kicked out again?” I might not know this new Reyn, but one thing is for sure. “You’re not this dumb.”
Something in his expression shifts at my outburst, the crease in his forehead transforming to something seeking, confused. “It’s not like that.”
“How would I know?” I scoff, my anxious gaze tracking two passing students. I wait until they turn the corner to ask, “If it’s not dangerous, then why can’t you just tell me?”
With his hand clenched around the strap of his backpack, he turns away, face shuttering. “We’re done.”
“Wait.”
He doesn’t.
Moving as fast as I can to keep up with his long strides, I ask, “Why did you say we’re not supposed to be together?”
At this, he stops, pulling in a hard breath. “Because it’s a condition of my probation for coming back here.” He uses fingers to quote, “Vandy Hall is off-limits.”
Off-limits.
Story of my life.
“Why?” I blurt. “Because I’m so pathetic? So vulnerable? So—” Broken.
The words won’t emerge from the tightness in my throat. It feels like the last three years crashing back down on me and
I’m drowning in it, fighting against a current I can’t beat back.
He stares at me for a long moment, eyebrows pulling together. “What? That’s not—” He waves a hand, something irritated and dismissive about the gesture. “I’m the one who’s the problem. I’m like the bad fucking seed around here. Got to keep me away from sharp objects, you know. I’m a danger to pretty girls, sweet old ladies, and small fluffy animals.” Despite the thread of levity to his words, the tight smile he wears is edged with bitterness.
Of course, all I can think about is the fact he kind of just called me… pretty?
I work so hard to push that thought away that I physically shake my head.
“You’re not—” He looks away, that tight smile transforming into a stony frown. “You’re not pathetic.”
“Tell that to the rest of the school.” I snort, following his gaze to where a puddle is collecting nearby. “They treat me like I’m a delicate flower. One swift wind or a hard rain, and my petals fall right off.”
“Well...” He reaches up to rake a hand over his wet hair, back to front. “That’s lame.”
I laugh grimly. “No one seems to think so. Between Emory, my parents, and the school, I basically live in a bubble.” Except that if I lived in a bubble, I could probably breathe. “No fun for Vandy. But hey, I can get a pedicure every now and then.” I slide my gaze to his, offering my own bitter grin. “Without adult supervision, even.”
Reynolds looks back at me, blank-faced but for the single eyebrow that curves upward. “I have to get frisked by Fucking Jerry every other day.”
I counter, “I’m not allowed to go to parties.”
A corner of his mouth tugs up. “I live next to someone I’m not allowed to even look at.”
“If I’m in public and I need to go to the bathroom, my mom comes with me.”
He shifts his shoulders, seeming to really get on a roll. “If I don’t win enough games, they’ll probably pull my scholarship.”
I bob my head. “I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ll probably be thirty by the time I do, and Emory will probably scare him away before the appetizers arrive on our first date.”
Reynolds looks away, pushing a long ‘pssshh’ from his lips. “I think if your biggest problem is that people actually give a shit, then that’s probably a good problem to have.”
“No,” I say, nostrils flaring in anger. “My biggest problem is that I’m constantly suffocated and slowly dying of boredom.”
“You work on the paper, right?” He suddenly says, brows drawing together. “I saw you taking pictures at the game the other night. That’s…” He shrugs, seeming momentarily lost for words. “Well, I don’t know. It’s something.”
“Nice try. I get to cover sports, which isn’t even something I’m interested in.” I roll my eyes heavenward, noting the emergence of the sun. “I actually proposed a topic for the investigative journalism spot, but the school is too scared to let me really dig into the seedy history of this place.”
“What kind of history? Privileged, asshole white kids being institutionally molded to thirst for global domination?” He scoffs. “I think the jig is already up with that one.”
I shake my head. “You missed a lot of crazy stuff over the last few years. There was an underage sexual assault scandal—one that was completely covered up by the administration and involved families, might I add. Besides the ongoing bullying of one particular senior, there was the homophobic harassment of her brother, a middle school student. Like, a legally legitimate hate crime. I’m not even including the pervasive sexism among the Devils. The way they treat girls, like they’re possessions or something, is repulsive.”
Reynolds makes a swooping movement with his finger. “Wheel keeps spinning.”
“Yeah, well, not all of us are down with being cogs.” I look around the campus, noting that students are beginning to filter out from the shelters. The air is humid and smells like damp concrete. “They don’t want their dirty laundry aired, so my idea was instantly rejected.”
He levels me with a look, and I’m not sure what’s happened over the course of the conversation, but I think I’m beginning to realize that his face isn’t actually always hard-edged and blank. He’s harder to read than he used to be, more subtle, but if I look hard enough, I can tell.
Right now, he’s looking at me like I’m an idiot. “Fighting a place like Preston Prep is futile. These people will never change, even if they pretend to. You should just lay low, get out of here in two years, and move on with your life.”
“That sounds like what you need to do, not me.” I level him with my very own ‘you’re dumb’ look, thrusting a thumb at my chest. “Me? I’ve got a pristine record. Straight A’s, no behavioral problems, the perfect picture of literal virginal innocence. I can risk ruffling a few feathers, and I’ll come out unscathed.” Because I’m slowly learning to read his bare expressions, I almost miss how he blanches at the word ‘virginal’. Almost. “But you need to take your own advice. Stay out of whatever you and Emory are messing with, because if there’s one thing I know about Preston Prep, it’s that secrets rarely stay secret for long.”
His eyes grow harder at this. “You’re saying this like I have any control over what Emory does.”
“Because you do,” I insist, shifting to meet his gaze. “You might now know it, but he’ll follow your lead.”
Reyn just shakes his head. “Not with this, he won’t.”
It’s obvious that I’m not going to change his mind, so I play my final card. “If you don’t tell Emory to shut down whatever you’re doing, then I’m going to the dean.”
He blows out a puff of laughter. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would. Last time, I didn’t stop you, and look what happened.” Instinctively his eyes flick to my leg. I don’t know if I’m bluffing, but from the hard set of his jaw, I’m pretty sure he believes me. “I won’t make that mistake again.” I turn away and have already made it halfway back to the building before I stop and add, “You have until tomorrow night.”
8
Reyn
“You ready?”
I shift my shoulders, settling onto the bench. “Yeah.”
Emory stands over me to spot as I start my next set of bench presses. Preston Prep has an awesome training facility, including a weight trainer. He’s created a specific workout to help improve my performance on the field. It’s the little things like this that make Preston a cut above everyone else. Mountain Point had a sledgehammer approach to most things. Nothing was targeted or focused. We all ran. We all ate the same shit, and the same amount of it. We all did the same exercises, day in, day out, rain, mud, or shine. We all had the same muscles, the same aches, the same conditioning. It was a conveyor belt of cattle.
But Preston is precise, surgical. If they want a wide receiver, they train him as a wide receiver. It’s foreign, this feeling that I have something specific and useful, excelling at a skill that people actually want to see nurtured.
Probably because this skill is actually legal.
Lately, I’ve been finding myself—sort of embarrassingly—motivated at the mere thought of it. But not so much today. My arms strain against the weight of the bar, but I push through. Today, I’m pissed about Vandy and her little threat.
Was she for real? Would she really do it?
Well, that’s what I get for letting my guard down around her.
I lower the bar and take a deep breath before pushing into the next rep. Squealing on her brother seems out of character, but do I even know Vandy’s character anymore? She’s always just been Emory’s little sister—sweet Baby V, the girl I ruined—but maybe she’s someone else now. Beneath the threads of fear and uncertainty in her eyes lurks something cynical and restless. Our earlier conversation made that much apparent.
It’s not like I haven’t heard the chatter. People like pimply-faced George seem a dime a dozen around here—people who see her as something to be gawked at and gossiped about. For them
, she’s entertainment. It only makes sense that people want to protect her from it. From assholes like George. From criminals like me, who are ultimately responsible for all of it.
Nevertheless, there’s something ironically kindred there. Being gossiped about and watched, every waking second? Oh, I’ve got that shit down to a science.
My lips twitch as I think ‘maybe we should start a band’.
Sensational and Surveilled.
The parallels stop there, though. I’m despised and suspicious. Vandy is pitied, placed behind glass. Look, but don’t touch. Seventeen, and never had a boyfriend? That is pitiful. God, she even dropped that she still had her v-card. Hell, I spent the last three years literally locked up, and even I found opportunities for action. Given the way she looks, all innocent and sweet, there should be a line of fuckboys just waiting to dirty her all up. Then again, maybe that’s why Emory and everyone else are so quick to shut it down. Because it’s true. She even looks pure as driven snow, and that shit definitely draws a certain type.
Up and down the bar goes. Sweat pools on my lower back. There’s one more thing I learned about Vandy during that conversation: She’s a shit stirrer alright, wanting to write that article about the skeletons in Preston Prep’s closet. That takes balls. And with the knowledge comes a stark realization that I’ve been clutching to for hours now.
I hadn’t broken that part of her.
The problem for her in all this is that, if what Emory said is true—that the school wants the Devils back, even in a new iteration—then what happens to Vandy if she narcs?
Nothing good, that’s for sure.
Not for any of us.
My arms start to quiver, shaking under the weight. Sweat drips into my eye, but I can see Emory watching me, waiting for me to ask for help. I lower the bar one more time but just don’t have the juice to lift it again.
“A little help,” I grunt, feeling the weight pressing down on my chest. Emory moves quickly, grabbing the bar and lifting it back over the rack.
