I’m so early that there are only a handful of people in the hallway as I rush in. I climb the stairs, pushing my way through the oak door of the music room. I look around the classroom. Mr. Taylor hasn’t even arrived yet, much to my sort of relief—I really want to be alone right now, no distractions.
I sit at my desk, plug in the keyboard, watching it come alive with its usual zap sound, and then I close my eyes. I decide not to use my headphones, since nobody else is in here.
I picture the sea, and the usual images filter through …
Me underwater … sinking … and then suddenly I’m on the beach; people are laughing and running across the sand. The sun is blinding; I run toward the water again to escape it. But bare arms trap me, holding me back from the sea. I struggle, but they won’t budge. I turn to look at who it is—
My eyes flash open as I stumble off my chair, chest heaving. I look up and Jack is standing over me.
“What the fuck, Jack!”
“What the fuck? The fuck is I thought you were taking care of it?”
Taking care of what? Everything Jack had a problem with is solved. Dre already broke up with me, his brothers are safe. What the fuck is there to take care of? He doesn’t even hang out with me anymore.
“I did—”
“Taking care of it is lying low. Taking care of it is not fucking Terrell Mc-Creeper-son from middle school!”
I swear my heart stops beating.
I can’t handle any more pictures or videos. I want to live my life without having to constantly look over my shoulder.
“You know Terrell?” I manage.
Jack shakes his head in disbelief at me.
“Of course I do. My brother told me he saw you guys walking home together. Everyone knows Terrell’s a fucking weirdo.”
I didn’t know he existed until last Friday.
My insides feel shaky and unstable. At least it’s his brother telling him and not a school-wide blast about me.
“You do this to yourself, Devon. You do this all to yourself. We studied, we got into this place, we both had the chance to be normal. To leave middle school habits in middle school—but nah. You come here, and you act as weird as Terrell. You deserve everything coming to you.”
Jack moves back.
“Have a nice life, Devon,” he spits.
Then he leaves.
I forget about trying to attempt the piece again, just stay seated on the ground and let my body do what it wants. I don’t hold back; I don’t shove things into corners or boxes. I can’t anymore.
I think about Ma and how she’s struggling and how I’m so fucking helpless. How I need to do well and get a job and get a scholarship and get into college. I think about Dre and how he said he loved me, then dumped me, like love doesn’t mean anything. I think about how I love him so much it hurts, and how I can’t make him drop everything for me like I would for him.
I think about Jack and how—despite the fact that we’ve been best friends for years, done everything together; despite the fact that I was there for him when he lost his parents, like so many of us do; despite the fact that he told me he’d always have my back when they took my dad away—as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he’s always hated this part of me.
I remember when I first told Jack I liked guys, and the pained expression on his face. I remember the way he handed me his game controller and said he needed to go and check on the burgers in the oven. I remember feeling so shitty, but taking the controller and finishing the level he was on and not bringing it up again. Jack hated it when I started dating Scotty. He was never happy, and I told myself it was because Scotty was a dick, not because he had a dick. Jack would “joke” about girls that he knew with short haircuts and muscled arms who I could date, like who I’m attracted to is as trivial as appearance. And he would flinch when I spoke about Dre.
And on top of everything, there’s Aces—this person, or people, hell-bent on ruining my life.
I feel so lost.
Maybe I’m just cursed or broken … Maybe this is unfixable.
I keep sniffing as my nose blocks. God, I hate crying. I can’t breathe, and the more I gasp, the more tears fall, the more my chest hurts and squeezes.
The more I want to leave this place and never come back.
18
CHIAMAKA
Friday
In all my years of school, I’ve never gotten detention before. Now, somehow I’m on my third.
Sure, I’ve done things that could have resulted in one, but I’ve never been caught for anything.
And now here I am, in the year it matters most, no longer Head Prefect and standing next to Richards, being given our labor tools.
Usually, I don’t see him in detention—or outside of it, for that matter. But today Ward took us both to the same classroom, handing Devon the trash picker for outside and giving me the gum scraper for inside. I almost feel sorry for Devon. It’s raining pretty badly.
“No talking,” Headmaster Ward says, giving us one last look before exiting the classroom.
Richards quickly moves toward the door, but I stop him, placing my hand on his shoulder before he can leave. I’m relieved that I’ve managed to catch him in time. I’ve tried to talk to him the past two days, but I barely see him at school. He hardly goes to his locker, doesn’t hang out in the cafeteria either, and when I do see him, it’s like he can’t wait to get away from me.
He gives me a What? look, but I press my finger to my lips, waiting for the sound of Headmaster Ward’s office door.
Slam.
There it is.
“What?” he finally says.
I let go of him, walking up to the classroom door and shutting it gently.
I turn back to look at him.
“We’re getting rid of Aces.”
His eyebrows furrow together. “Getting rid?”
“Taking them down. I’ve been working on a plan, and this is what I know. One: Aces has to be a student here, because they know things only a Niveus student could, and have access to places only a student does. Two: They are following me, us, to watch what we do and document it. Three: They’re clever. Very clever. Four: They seem to have a reason to want to take us both down.”
“Yeah … I figured. I didn’t know I was important enough to take down, though,” Devon says.
Not going to lie, I was thinking the same thing. I’m being objective here: Most people had no clue who Richards was before this all started.
“Apparently you are—I don’t get it either.”
I catch him rolling his eyes at me, which is surprising. Most people don’t have the confidence to be rude to me—correction, didn’t have the confidence to be rude to me. Since Aces started revealing my secrets, the other students have been getting braver and braver. I’ve barely seen or heard from Ava and Ruby, which I have no doubt is because of Aces and my steadily growing social-pariah status.
The depressing fact about Aces is that they could literally be anyone. They could be people in my close circle, or people from the past, like Scotty, or anyone I used to get to where I am now. In the rise to the top, I’ve probably pissed off most people at Niveus. I just can’t quite figure out how Devon fits into all of this.
“So, the entire student body is your suspect,” he says with a tired sigh.
“Don’t be so negative. I’ve drawn up a list of people it could be, and I’ve spoken to a tech guy in my AP math class who might be able to help us solve this.”
“You want a high school tech guy to solve this.”
Why is he so negative?
“Obviously, not just any tech guy. Peter is a hacker. He is going to trace the messages and see who sent the texts, and he’s already getting the CCTV to see who planted the USBs and to recover the files on them. I heard he even turned down early admission to MIT last year because some top-secret federal guy hired him to hack into a Russian database. He’s really good. And at the moment, he’s our best chance at getting closer to finding out who’s do
ing this to us.”
While I’m terrified about what might be on the USBs, I need to know what else Aces has on me—on us—so I can work out how to stop it getting out.
Devon stares at me for a little while, his expression carrying no hope in it whatsoever. It’s always nice to have a partner who has zero faith in your mission.
“Okay,” he says, before walking past me and out of the classroom, the door slamming behind him.
I’m a practical person, which is why the sciences are the subjects I like most. I love that everything can be objectively proven; I love that there are formulas and methods that you can fall back on. I love the security.
I wish Richards would trust me on this one. He’s an arts boy. They see everything as questionable, subjective.
I don’t. I live in a world of facts and figures.
And I won’t roll over and let someone else take my crown. Not in a million years.
* * *
I get home and can smell Mom’s rice and efo riro cooking in the kitchen. With their busy schedules, it’s rare for both Mom and Dad to be home, so I’m a little taken aback at first when I hear them talking in the distance. Whenever they are both home, they like cooking together and bonding, which is nice and all for them, but I’m not in the mood for rice or idle chitchat.
“Mom, can I order pizza?” I ask, walking up to the door. Mom’s standing, flipping the pages of some book she’s reading, while Dad’s stirring the pot of white rice. He has his reading glasses on, which fog up as he stirs, and he’s let his beard grow out recently, which he hardly ever does.
“Food is cooking,” Dad answers, taking his glasses off to wipe them against his apron. Which means no.
Starting an argument over this isn’t worth it, so I go upstairs to my room, throw my bag down, and throw myself onto my bed.
I’m about to text Peter to ask him if he’s found anything yet when my phone buzzes.
Finished today’s round of child labor yet?—B
I smile. Belle and I have been growing close since she confronted me on Tuesday. I wonder why I disliked her so much in the first place.
Thankfully! I’m now in the comfort of my bedroom, about to watch Pretty in Pink.
What’s Pretty in Pink?—B
UHM … only one of the greatest movies made.
… Then why haven’t I watched it? Chi, you are failing as a friend by not forcing me to watch it.—B
Friend …
You should come over.
I should.—B
See you soon.
Throwing my phone down, I hurry around my room, shoving clothes in my closet and looking around for imperfections before rushing downstairs to the kitchen, where my mom is now chopping and my dad is next to her, blending.
“Belle’s coming over,” I tell them.
Dad looks up. “Who’s Belle?”
“Pretty blonde who came over last week,” Mom says before I can.
“Ah.”
They glance at each other, doing that thing where they have their secret soul-mate meeting without speaking.
Mom laughs. “So true.”
“Mom, Dad, can you stop talking in each other’s heads for a moment? Am I allowed to order pizza now that my friend is coming over?”
“Why can’t she just eat efo, like we are?” Mom asks.
The truth is, I don’t want to make Belle uncomfortable—which I feel bad for even thinking, because it’s not like I’m ashamed of being Nigerian …
“Honey, what if she can’t handle the spice?” Dad says.
“Ah … she’s an oyinbo. I forget not every oyinbo can handle spice like you.”
“You bet I can.” Dad’s arm wraps around Mom and I look away, erasing this moment from my brain.
“Chiamaka, the efo is almost ready. I’m sure your friend will love it.”
* * *
“That was really nice, Mr. and Mrs. Adebayo,” Belle says.
Dad looks at me, his thoughts seeping through his expression like, See what we told you!
I roll my eyes at him with a smile.
“Okay, so Mom and I will tidy up; you guys go and hang upstairs.” Dad is doing his I’m a cool Dad, I promise voice.
Belle follows me to my room, where she immediately takes a seat on my bed comfortably, like we’ve been friends forever. I like that there isn’t the need to be too weird around each other—even though I’m still scared my room isn’t clean enough.
Her Camp Niveus shirt glimmers under the dull lighting of my room. It’s burgundy and the silver ring of the camp logo stands out to me most, reminding me of the way Jamie’s used to when he wore it, and her ripped jeans are frayed in an awkward way that distracts me from why she’s here in the first place.
“So … Pretty in Pink…”
Belle’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts, and I realize I’ve been staring at her way too long.
I sit down on my bed, opening my laptop up. “Prepare to have your heart broken.”
“And if it doesn’t break?”
I raise an eyebrow at her.
“If it doesn’t, you’re not human and this friendship is over.”
“Okay, but do you have enough tape to fix me if I am broken?”
My stomach flips and my heart does its thing.
Belle’s face goes really red. “That was incredibly cheesy—sorry.”
I shake my head. “I’m used to cheese. Every movie in my top ten—if you discount the Marvel films—should be renamed Cheesy Movies one through ten,” I say.
She smiles at me, her cheeks still flushed—it is quite cold in here, I should probably offer to turn the heat up …
“I would never peg you as a rom-com girl, Chi.”
Jamie said the same thing to me once. I’ve spent so long building up an image of myself at school—an indestructible two-dimensional mask—that I forget sometimes it’s only me who sees behind it, sees who I actually am.
I love chemistry, biology, and physics so much I could marry the subjects and have this huge polygamous family, and I love all those criminal science investigation shows and films about mutants, but it doesn’t mean I can’t also like sappy things like The Notebook and When Harry Met Sally.
“I like happy endings,” I tell her.
Her smile turns into a grin.
“Me too,” she says.
19
DEVON
Monday
I’m lost.
Reason being, I decided to listen to Chiamaka fucking Adebayo.
After detention on Friday, she attacked me again and forced her number into my phone, and then sent me a message this morning to meet her in lab 201—wherever the fuck that is.
A hand grabs my arm and I almost scream. My heart’s near to exploding as I swing around, only to see an annoyed-looking Chiamaka.
“You’re late.”
Think I don’t know that?
“I didn’t know where lab 201 was.”
She doesn’t seem impressed, and I don’t think I really care. I want Aces to stop, I want Dre to speak to me again, and I just want to get into Juilliard and be done with Niveus.
She pulls me into a random room—lab 201, I guess—and I’m met with a lanky guy seated at a desk with a laptop opened up.
She hits my arm. “Give him your phone.”
I look at her, hoping she feels the dagger I’m mentally throwing.
“Why my phone? Why not his or yours?”
Chiamaka gives me the look my ma gives me when I give her lip.
“Peter doesn’t have a phone—which is shocking, especially for a tech guy, I know. He’s already got my phone, but because I don’t get the blasts about me, we need your phone too. Is that okay with you? Or do you need me to explain again, slowly?”
I should just leave; her condescending tone isn’t worth it. But I don’t. Like a zombie, I give the guy my phone and he plugs it into his computer.
“Were you able to get into the USB? I told Devon to bring his too—”
>
Peter shakes his head. “It’s impossible. All the files are unusable. I could look at his too if you want, but the files on your USB seem to be deliberately corrupted, which I’ve never seen before…”
“We’ll just see what comes up with tracing the messages back … How about the CCTV?” Chiamaka asks.
“I looked for the CCTV that covers the area by your lockers at the time you thought the USBs were planted, but there was a power outage just before. It killed the lights and the cameras and didn’t restart until just before first period.”
Aces always seems to be several steps ahead of us; they are very sophisticated too. I try to think of anyone I know who might secretly be a tech genius and who might have something against me, but my mind goes blank.
Peter hands my phone back. A black screen with a bunch of code pops up on his laptop.
“It’s done, everything I need is here,” Peter says, which kind of makes me nervous.
It’s not like I have anything too incriminating on there … just messages, and really, what message can be worse than the damage Scotty’s old phone archive has done?
“I’ll work on tracing the locations these messages were sent from, shouldn’t take me too long,” Peter says.
“When can you have it done by?” Chiamaka asks.
“I have a lab report due, so maybe before the end of the week…”
She touches his shoulder.
“Peter,” she starts, cocking her head to the side. “It’s very urgent, I’m sure you understand that.”
He nods, his face turning red.
“Good, so I can count on you to have it done by first thing tomorrow?”
Peter looks both terrified and turned on. That alone creeps me the hell out, enough to make me want to leave this lab, but I stay put for reasons unknown to my conscience.
“First thing tomorrow,” Peter repeats.
Wow. Is that all the convincing straight boys need?
“Thank you, Peter.” Chiamaka ruffles his hair, which he doesn’t seem to like so much, and then she pulls me toward the exit.
I move to open the classroom door, but Chiamaka stops me, pressing her hand to my chest.
Ace of Spades Page 15
