by Angel Lawson
I wrinkle my nose. “I’m not sure my mom will let me.”
“Just tell her that you’re looking for all the deep, behind-the-scenes action for the paper. The gritty details. Like those women reporters who go into the locker rooms.” She gives me a wink.
Honestly, it’s not a bad idea. Even Mom can’t resist the allure of getting a good scoop.
“I’ll see if I can pull it off.”
The bell tower chimes, so we head into the school, parting to our separate lockers. I pause when I open the door to mine. There’s no note inside, but there is a small box. Discreetly, I open it up and see a long leather cord inside. A key and a silver devil’s head are attached. Quickly, I loop it over my head and drop it under my shirt. I have no idea what it’s for, but I do know who it’s from.
And, as I close my locker door and start down the hall, I suspect I’m not the only one who got one.
When I asked Emory for a ride back to school for the game, I didn’t realize Reyn would be riding with us, too. He pauses when he sees me standing by the truck—for just a fraction of a second—so it must be news to him, also.
“Hey,” he mutters, walking over with his bag of football gear. He’s wearing a dark blue baseball cap, and he pulls it low enough as he approaches that it almost hides his tired eyes. His gaze doesn’t linger on me for more than a second, but he grabs the door handle before I can, jerking it open. “I’ll take the back,” he says, crawling through the gap between the front seat and the back. His shirt snags on the seatbelt as he wiggles his long body through the space, revealing a narrow swath of tanned skin and the top of his boxers.
His lower back is muscular, sloping down to his waist. There are two indentations just above his boxers. I guess he has four dimples—two on his face, two on his lower back. I’d seen Reyn shirtless a million times as a kid, but this isn’t that. This is a man’s body, strong and capable. As he situates himself, I try to shove aside the swooping sensation that knowledge gives me, but it’s difficult. I get the strongest vision of what it’d feel like to touch that skin, to have him hovering over me, moving.
I take a clumsy step back, willing my face to stop heating. Reyn McAllister has always made my body do things I couldn’t control. It’s unnerving to know that, despite everything, that hasn’t changed a bit.
Emory starts the truck and glares at me out the open door. “AIS, V.”
I blink and scramble into the cab, flipping the AC on blast the instant I slam the door.
“What the hell?” Emory readjusts the dial. “Don’t touch my settings.”
“It’s hot.” I fan my face, refusing to look at the back seat.
“What? Are you having some kind of teen-girl menopause?”
“Shut up,” I shove him with one hand and flip the AC up again with the other.
He turns it back down, batting my hands away as I bat his. “My car, my AC!”
I mock, “My car, my AC. You’re such a baby,” and turn it back up.
He thrusts a finger at me. “I will take you down, kid.”
“I’d like to see you try, kid!”
A snort bubbles up from behind us and we both look back. Reyn’s resting his head back against the seat, looking down his nose at us, and his mouth is curved into a crooked smile that’s big enough to reveal a single dimple. “Good to see you two are still status quo.”
I turn back around to hide my smile—and my reddening cheeks—because Reyn probably doesn’t realize just how un-status quo that little scene has been lately. Maybe Emory had taken our talk last night to heart.
Emory adjusts the AC to the middle position, which is slightly higher than he keeps it normally.
Wow, a compromise.
He backs out of the driveway and asks, “So Mom really gave you permission to ride on the bus?”
“Yeah,” I say, checking the camera in my lap and making sure I didn’t forget the list of game notes Coach Morris sent for the newspaper. “She wasn’t happy about it and kept aggressively ‘offering’ to drive me, but I think she’s just ecstatic that I’m involved in something at school.”
My brother glances at the rearview mirror and says to Reyn, “Until last night I thought Vandy was just a boring nerd hiding out in her bedroom all the time. Now I realize she was just getting high.”
I jab him with my elbow. “What happens in the dungeon stays in the dungeon,” I snap.
He holds up a hand defensively. “Last time, I promise!”
My eyes flit up to the rearview mirror, checking to see Reyn’s expression. The smile has faded. I have no idea what he thinks about my confession, but I’m not going to let anyone judge me, least of all him. I was in pain for a long time. Sometimes, I still am.
Emory talks about the game the rest of the drive, but Reyn’s responses are all rote and quiet. When we get out of the truck I call out, “Good luck,” before walking over to the non-player bus. Emory raises his helmet in response and Reyn meets my gaze, offering a tight smile that’s nowhere near the dimpled easiness as before.
I bite back a sigh and look for Syd.
The bus I’m riding on is filled with cheerleaders, members of the dance team, and their coaches and sponsors. Micha Adams is standing in a grassy area behind the bus with a cluster of cheerleaders showing off his backflip. Sydney glides up to me the instant she sees me, eyes focused toward the field house.
“Did Reyn ride with you?”
“Yes.” I dig in my bag for a pen.
“Oh.” She frowns, eyes following them to the bus. “So, you two are like… cool now?”
“Um.” I chew on my lip for a moment, thinking. “I don’t know if I’d call it that. We’re neighbors, and he’s Emory’s best friend. Civility just seems the best way to handle it.”
She looks at me, eyebrow curved upward. “I heard he’s not allowed to have anything to do with you—per Headmaster Collins.”
“Well, Headmaster Collins can stuff it.” My bristling tone is only half meant for Collins. Some of it’s reserved for Syd’s snarky tone. “It’s not a big deal. I mean, we weren’t friends before he left. We just had—” A life changing event? A shared tragedy? An epic failure? “Well, nothing really. He’s back. I’m me. We definitely don’t reside in the same social circle. Other than rides to school with Emory, I doubt our lives will even cross.”
As I say it, she glances at my neck and says, “What’s that? A new necklace?”
I touch the metal hanging at the center of my chest. “It’s nothing.” But right when I say it, Afton walks by, dolled up in her cheer uniform. She does have a necklace on, but it’s a delicate chain with a cursive ‘A’ hanging in the V of her top. But then she raises her hand high into the air and I see it. The black cord is wound around her wrist.
And like that, we’re connected.
“Devils!” Afton shouts, fingers snapping. All the girls—plus Micha—focus on her intently. “Gather all the stuff and get in the bus, we’re leaving in five! No dawdling, got it? You all know what it’s like when the players get there before us.”
“Well, I don’t think you can sit with the squad on the way there,” Sydney says, giving me an exaggerated frown, “Afton likes us to do this whole ‘bonding’ thing before the games. It’s super lame. But we can talk at halftime, okay?”
“Yeah.” My smile feels a little tight. “Sounds great.”
She skips off, her little skirt flouncing behind her. I know by now that climbing on the bus and navigating the aisle will hold the people behind me up. I’m waiting for everyone to file on first when Elana walks up in her black and red sparkly dance leotard. She stops next to me and bends to tie her shoe.
“So listen,” she says, and it says a lot that it doesn’t even register that she’s talking to me, “some people are coming over to my place tonight. You’re invited if you want to come.”
I look around, blurting out a confused, “Me?” and her eyes jump to mine.
She’s looking at me like I’m dumb. “Yes, you.”
“Uh, yeah.” My reply is somehow both too enthusiastic and overly flat. “I’ll um… think about it.”
“Cool,” she says, tightening the bow of her lace and walking off. She gets onto the bus and I’m left standing there, wondering if it actually happened.
I’m still wondering, minutes later, as I pass her and her friends for one of the last available seats on the bus. I look over and see the black cord tucked just beneath her leotard, and on impulse, I reach up to touch the key under my own shirt. I have no idea what the key actually goes to, but one thing is clear.
It’s definitely opening doors.
My mom didn’t exactly give me permission to go to the party, but she did say I could hang out with Sydney after the game. In her mind, that probably meant milkshakes and cheeseburgers at The Nerd, but hey. To-mayto, to-mahto. Technically, it’s not a lie. She didn’t ask for specifics. This only makes the guilt a little stronger when I take the glass of red punch from Sydney. My mom trusts me not to be a liar.
All I do is lie.
I tip the plastic cup back and swallow a gulp of the concoction Sydney gave me. It burns my throat and I fight a gag. “Jesus,” I cough. “What the hell?”
“Grain alcohol.” Syd makes her own face after taking a sip. “You get used to it.”
“Yeah,” I peer down in the cup, “not sure I want to.”
What I’d give to be high right now. Pills are so much better than this. Only one swallow, no flavor, and hours of melty goodness. A waft of skunky smoke rolls past us and I observe a circle of kids passing what I assume to be a joint. I mean, hey. Maybe if I wanted to branch out…
Across the room another group of boys—all in letter jackets—get rowdy and a shout comes too late, not enough time for me to get out of the way as a body slams into me. I lurch forward, a big wave of punch leaping from the side of my cup. It hits the floor with a messy splat by my feet.
“Oh god,” I groan. Smooth fucking move, Vandy. I stare at the red mess, knowing my cheeks are just as bright, semi-frozen. I look around. “Is there a rag? Uh, paper towels?”
I have a moment of silent, chest-clenching panic. I can feel it, sense it. Someone ran into the crippled girl. Everyone is staring at me, down at my leg, back at my face. This is why I’m not invited anywhere. I’m a liability. A buzzkill.
I search for Elana, but predictably, she’s nowhere to be found. I can’t just let people drag toxic punch through her parents' house.
“Here.” A roll of paper towels suddenly appears, offered by George, the guy from my art class. “Let me help.”
He yanks off a stretch of sheets and hands them to me, then pulls off another bunch. We both drop to the ground and start mopping up the mess.
“Thank you,” I breathe.
“Sure,” he replies with an easy grin. George is one of those guys that have been in my classes for years, but I know very little about him. He seems nice enough. He’s the best in the class with pastels. He’s a bit reserved, like his sister, and has a really unfortunate acne issue, but that’s about the extent of my knowledge. Like everyone else, I’ve kept him at a distance. He holds the soaked towels in his fist and offers, “I think there’s a trash can in the room off the kitchen.”
He stands and I follow him, walking past a series of increasingly curious eyes. Oh, nothing to see here, folks. Just the loser limping around with dripping paper towels. Ugh. When we arrive in the kitchen, he pushes a pedal on the floor. A silver trash can opens and he dumps in his wet towels. I toss mine in next. The room is quiet, dark, and I take a moment to catch my breath. I don’t know why it bothered me so much. I know it’s dumb. I know it’s not as bad as it feels. But for some reason, my body is just not getting with the program.
I feel like I just ran ten laps.
“You okay?” he asks, watching me closely.
“Yeah.” I nod, pressing my palms to my warm cheeks. “I just feel stupid about making such a mess. Way to make an entrance, right?”
He laughs. “Well, you know the saying, ‘it’s not a party until someone spills the punch’.”
I stare at him. “Is that really a saying?”
He laughs again. “No, but it is now.”
I drop my head in my hands. “Oh god, what a disaster. My first party and I’m a punch-line.”
He bursts out laughing, but when he sees my not-so-amused expression, he stops abruptly and frowns. “Wait. That wasn’t a joke? The punch-line thing?”
I grimace. “Unfortunately, no.”
“It’s really not that bad.” George rolls his eyes, leaning back against the counter, next to me. “Jason Floyd puked all over Campbell Clarke’s pool table last year at one of her parties. That was a disaster.”
An image of Jason Floyd, lead in all the Preston Prep musicals, hurling on Campbell’s pool table appears in my mind. Then, a picture of Campbell losing her shit. That makes me smile. “Okay, yeah, that beats me. But still, I think I’ve confirmed the party scene isn’t for me.”
I cross my arms over my stomach, inhaling carefully. My heart has been racing ever since we got here, and the spilled punch only made it all worse. Obviously, I need to find Sydney or Emory and get out of here, cut my losses.
George places a hand on the counter between us and says, “I can hang out with you for a while, if you want.”
“That’s okay—” Another commotion comes from the other room. Someone shouts “Thistle Cove can suck my dick!” which is met with a round of cheers and applause. “I think I should probably just—”
Without warning, George swoops in, eyes falling closed, hand cinching around my waist. I throw up two hands and shove him back before our mouths connect. “Dude, what the hell?”
“What?” George blinks at me, gesturing at the space between us. “I thought there was some chemistry.”
“You thought wrong, dumbass.” The words come out fierce, but inside I’m crumbling. I push past him to get out of the small, secluded room, and reenter the kitchen. At least two dozen more people showed up while I was with George and I skim the crowd for Sydney or Emory. I can’t find either of them.
Too many people. There are arms everywhere, and it’s loud—so loud—and the air feels thick with smoke and sweat, and is it just me, or does this room seem smaller than it had ten minutes ago?
Spinning on my heel, I make for the front door but slam into a hard body. I look up into Ben Shackleford’s surprised face. Peeking out of the top of his shirt is the black cord. Now, all I can think about is how he knows the truth about me—my secret. The feeling of being exposed is so overwhelming, it’s like I’ve been flayed open.
Fuck. I need to get the hell out of here. Now.
“Vandy?” Ben frowns down at me. “What’s—”
I shove him aside and weave through the crowd. I end up in a back hallway, passing a line outside the bathroom, and turning the corner. There’s no one back here, and I can finally take a breath, trying to choke down some air. I press my back against a closed door, and it gives, dumping me into the room.
Immediately, I realize I’m in an office, or maybe a library due to the rows of books on the wall. But it’s quiet here, so I shut the door behind me, blocking out the noise from the party. I shudder out an exhale, willing my lungs to contract, and start to take a step into the room.
I freeze when I realize I’m not alone.
Sitting behind the desk, flicking a cigar lighter in his hand, is the last person I want to see me like this.
12
Reyn
I hear the music before I can see the house. The slow thump of bass bouncing off the tall pine trees is a nice change from the oppressive nothingness going on at my place. Elana’s house is on the far end of the lake, so I take the path behind my own, the one that leads past the treehouse, through the woods and out to the other end of the neighborhood. At least I know Fucking Jerry can’t get his golf cart through the woods. Not that he wouldn’t try. Fucking Jerry might be stacked as hell, but I’ve got runn
ing legs. No way he’d catch me.
At first, I’d begged off, thinking all I wanted was to relax after the game. It’d been a tough one. Those assholes down in Thistle Cove play dirty and we’d sustained a few injuries. Still kicked their asses, though. I guess once their old coach got arrested, the team fell apart, leaving a spot for Preston to slide in and take the championship. Looks like they’re not any better this year.
Once I got home and took a shower, I realized I was tired of sitting at home alone. Dad’s off doing something—or someone—and god only knows when he’ll be back. That’s something else I’m not used to. At Mountain Point, there had always been people around. While you slept, while you shit, while you jerked off. My whole time there, all I wanted was some peace and quiet. But now that I have it, 'round the clock, it’s driving me up the wall, making me restless and overly-vigilant. When things got quiet back at Mountain Point, it meant some serious shit was going down. It’s a hard feeling to shake.
This is why, when I enter the party, squeezing between a cluster of girls by the door, I brace myself for the comfortable lull of voices and too much energy.
“Hey, Reyn.” A girl I don’t recognize touches my arm and I look down at it. “Good game tonight.”
I flick my eyes up to her face. She’s cute. She’s got a Devil sticker on her cheek, left over from the game, and a quick glance downward tells me she definitely isn’t wearing a bra.
I could tap that.
“Thanks.” I don’t know her name, and I don’t ask.
“There’s beer on the patio and punch in the kitchen,” another girl adds helpfully. It’s a sketchy sort of feeling, everyone knowing who I am while being total strangers to me. A few faces are vaguely familiar, and I figure that maybe I knew them when I was a student at Preston the first time around. It doesn’t matter. Everyone has changed a lot.
Especially the girls.
“Great.” I give them a tight smile and work my way to the kitchen, pulling my baseball cap lower in hopes of hiding a little. I might be twenty-four-seven horny, but I’m not stupid. I don’t know how old that girl is, or if she has a boyfriend or an Emory-esque brother, or if she’s going to run around telling everyone about it tomorrow. Party hookups require a hell of a lot more recon that I’ve come equipped with.
