“Yeah, right.” Jarret grinned just as his phone buzzed in his back pocket, notifying him of a new text. He watched Roland hobble off, a bit relieved that he didn’t want help. His old conceit and arrogance pushed hard to regain their footing. The attitude appealed to him, called to him, but he didn’t want that. Maybe he could walk a line between the old and new. Keep his image but make better choices.
Drawing his phone from a pocket, he checked the message. Heard about Nate. Totally your fault.
The words stung a bit, then made him angry. Who would blame him for that? His gaze shifted to the previous message: Changed my mind. Not interested.
Chantelle?
“Wait.” Jarret checked the last message she’d sent him, the one where she given her name. It came from a different number. So who was this one from?
“Hey, there you are.” Kyle strutted toward him and raised a hand in greeting. He always wore the worst colors for a freckled redhead. Today he had on a fluorescent orange t-shirt.
Jarret reached up, gave a hi-five, and turned to walk with him.
“You’re in my World Lit class, right?” Kyle checked his schedule.
“Yup.” Jarret had only needed to check his schedule once. Now he had it all committed to memory.
“You really missed out over the weekend. We had a blast at Sherman’s house.” Kyle laughed. “That boy can par-tae. Then at the park downtown, and one night we snuck onto the Hossen’s farmland. You probably heard the rumors already. So the Hossen’s got that barn back there...”
Gazing down the hallway at nothing in particular, letting his vision blur, Jarret tuned Kyle out. Afraid of messing up, he’d ignored his friends’ calls and messages. A bit of ire built inside, making his eyes narrow up. He had missed out, and for what reason? He didn’t need to avoid his friends entirely just to stay on the straight and narrow, did he? Was he that weak? Maybe he was being scrupulous.
“Yo, check her out,” Kyle said as they neared the classroom. “She’s got her eyes on you already? Know her?”
Jarret looked to see and a burst of heat struck him. He had to force himself to not break his stride.
Chantelle stood outside the open classroom door, leaning her shoulder against a locker and hugging her books, her hip sticking out, emphasizing her curves. And yeah, her eyes were on him.
He held her gaze and maintained his stride as he closed the distance between them. What would he tell her? What excuse could he give? He could’ve lost his phone or broken it. Maybe the battery died. The thought of lying stood like a door that he’d have to swing open if he really planned to do it.
Maybe he shouldn’t lie. But he couldn’t tell the truth. Any chance the bell would ring and he wouldn’t have to tell her anything? He reached for his back pocket to check the time on his phone but stopped. He didn’t want to remind her of it and the text she’d sent.
“Hey, you’re the girl from the bookstore, right?” He stopped two feet from her, closer than he should’ve stood, but her sulky expression drew him.
She huffed and straightened, readjusting her books. “The girl from the bookstore.” She shook her head, looking disgusted. A lock of blond hair fell over one eye. “My name’s Chantelle.”
Chantelle with a “sh” sound, like in chic, chiffon, champagne... Jarret swallowed hard, coming to his senses. “Sh” as in chaperone. Which is what he’d need if he dated her.
“Hey, Chantelle. How’s it going?” Jarret leaned his forearm up on the lockers now, looking her over and flirting like nobody’s business. He needed to knock it off and get in the classroom. Ring, bell.
“Didn’t you get my text? Or was that really your number you wrote on my arm?” Her thick lashes fluttered as her gaze bounced around his face.
Her attention made his lips burn. “I got it.”
She arched a brow and huffed again, offended. “Oh.”
He laughed. Then smiled. Then touched a lock of hair that draped over her shoulder. Hands to yourself. What are you thinking? He shifted his books to his right hand. “So you really go to the same school as me. I don’t remember you from last year.”
She glanced, the look in her eyes saying that she didn’t know whether or not to trust him. “We just moved here.”
He didn’t even get to say “Oh” before the bell rang and they both winced. Seemed like they stood directly under it. She swung into the room without another glance.
Relieved, yet disappointed, he exhaled and followed. When she veered toward the front of the classroom, he turned in the opposite direction, toward Kyle who sat in the middle row in the back.
“You know her, huh?” Kyle waved his pale brows.
“I will.” Jarret regretted the overconfident attitude, but he couldn’t help it.
LATER IN THE DAY, THE bell rang and Jarret shot out of Physics before everyone else. Mr. Weiss hadn’t finished giving the assignment, but Jarret could get it from Keefe. Too bad he and Keefe had nothing except lunch and study hall together. Jarret wanted to talk to him. Teachers probably did that on purpose, not wanting them together because they were twins.
Jarret walked with attitude in his step. First day of school hadn’t been too bad. One more class and he could go home. Next semester, he and Keefe would get to cut out two periods early.
Turning toward the main hallway, Jarret started the long journey to his locker as kids emerged from classrooms and the hallway filled up. Should he grab all the books he needed to take home or just take a notebook to his last class? He didn’t want to go back to his locker after Art Appreciation, but he didn’t want to carry all his books to class either. Every teacher had assigned homework today, and he’d only finished one subject in study hall. Guess it wouldn’t matter if he blew out of school a few minutes later than he’d like. If Roland wanted a ride home, he’d have to wait for him anyway. At least he didn’t have to wait for the bus.
His thoughts turned to his Chrysler 300, the way it looked in the sun after a wash, the way it felt cruising down a lonely stretch of road with the window down. Then his thoughts soured, turning to the smell that he couldn’t get out. Eyes narrowing, Jarret scanned the hallway for Peter. Thank God, they hadn’t crossed paths today. He could still see himself slamming Peter against a row of lockers and making him pay in one way or another. He couldn’t see himself avoiding it.
A hallway branched off to one side. Jerky movement at the end of it and loud voices made him look twice. A commotion drew a few observers in the otherwise empty corridor. Maybe a fight or a freshman hazing. Jarret turned his attention back to his destination, his locker a few yards away. Then a familiar sound rose above the chatter and the lockers slamming shut, the squeaking sneakers and stomping footfalls. Jarret froze.
Somewhere down that hallway, aluminum crutches clattered to the floor.
Backing up his steps, he considered for half a second whether he should keep his cool and walk to check it out or tear down the hall like a madman. Could something else have made that sound? Something other than Roland’s crutches?
Heart rate accelerating, Jarret cast cool to the side and bolted down the hall toward the gathering crowd. Two girls in his way forced him to slow. He weaved around them and other slow-moving students. Could Roland have fallen? The cast would protect his leg, right?
He’d gone halfway down the hall when three teen boys raced out of the farthest classroom, one of them laughing but none of them close enough for Jarret to identify. Panic pushed Jarret harder and he sprinted to the classroom.
Stomach turning in expectation and fearing the worst, he thumped into the shady room.
Roland stood hunched over and facing the far wall, wiping his eyes or something. Crying? His crutches lay at odd angles on the floor between them, one partially under a desk.
“Roland?” Jarret set his books down. A tingling sensation started in his chest as he stepped closer. “You okay?”
Roland lifted the bottom of his shirt to his face and wiped it again. He stood on his own two legs, even
with the cast and no crutches, and didn’t seem hurt. What could’ve happened?
“My eyes sting.” Breaking from his wiping efforts, he turned his head an inch to one side. “Are there a lot of people in the hall?”
“Uh, yeah. What happened?” Jarret came up behind him, reached for his upper arm, and hesitated. Then he grabbed him and turned him around.
Jarret jerked back, the tingling sensation spreading to his neck and face.
Dropping his chin, Roland looked up at him and opened his mouth as if wanting to say something. His entire face had been sprayed orange or tan or something, a sloppy, uneven job. His shirt hung half open, one button hanging by a thread, and they’d gotten his chest and neck too.
Flames flared inside Jarret and shot out his eyes. “Who did this?” he growled, anger making it hard to speak, guilt slamming through him. He should’ve listened to Roland this morning. Why hadn’t he taken him seriously?
Dropping his gaze to some point behind Jarret, Roland shifted his weight. “I need to get to the bathroom, try to wash it off.” He lifted his arm in slow motion and pointed. “Could you get my crutches?”
Jarret sucked in a sharp breath. He stepped backwards and leaned for the crutches. An orange bottle of spray tan lay a yard away. “Who did this?” he demanded again. “You’d better tell me.”
“Na, I’m sure it’ll wash off.” He stared at the crutches in Jarret’s hands.
“That’s not gonna wash off.” Closer inspection of Roland’s face inflamed Jarret’s rage and had his mind shifting through possible suspects. Someone had recently said something to Jarret about Roland’s pale skin. Jarret flipped through memories, stopping at the party at his house. C.W. had plopped down on the couch next to him, yammering on about whatever. But he’d also talked about Roland. “That boy is white,” C.W. had said.
Now he knew the identity of the three dudes he’d seen running from the room: Trent, Konner, and C.W.
Jarret handed Roland the crutches and backed toward the door.
Roland stuffed the crutches under his arms. Then he met Jarret’s gaze and flinched as if reading Jarret’s mind. “Let it go.”
Too angry to speak, Jarret shook his head and bolted from the classroom. He could not let this go.
CHAPTER 16
C.W. hazed his brother, made a laughing-stock of him, a kid on crutches. He was gonna pay.
Jarret’s boots pounded the floor. With hands balled into fists and jaw clenched, he stormed down the hall. His destination: C.W.’s locker. His purpose: retaliation. C.W. would learn a lesson he’d never forget. Nobody messes with a West boy.
Kids stumbled out of his way, eyes wide with shock. A girl shrieked and then giggled to her friends.
Then he glimpsed something strange... A figure appeared in his peripheral vision, someone familiar, someone who cared about him. Golden light surrounded the figure. A migraine aura?
No, not a migraine. But something felt so familiar. Something... What was it? Maybe he’d forgotten something important. But what?
Jarret rounded the corner, and the questions slipped away.
His gaze snapped to C.W., who stood reaching into his locker a few yards down the hall. In a hurry to get to class before the bell rang? Running late because of the time it took to torment Roland?
Without giving a warning or explanation, Jarret grabbed the back of his shirt with both hands and yanked him.
C.W. staggered back, cussing, and turned to Jarret. He smiled, but the blush of guilt crept to his face too.
Angry and wound so tightly he could’ve snapped, Jarret spit out questions. “Did you do that to my brother? Huh? Think it was funny? He’s getting around on crutches, and the three of you gang up on him?”
C.W.’s eyes opened wider than seemed possible, the whites showing all around his irises. He shuffled back a few steps from Jarret.
Unable to stop himself, Jarret moved in, an imaginary band drawing them together.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, bro.” C.W.’s hands went up in a gesture of innocence. His eyes darted back and forth.
Jarret’s gaze clicked to C.W.’s elevated arm and his right hand. And the orange stain on his index finger.
Words no longer seemed necessary. Or possible. A surge of adrenaline kicked him into action. Jarret pulled his fist back and—
Before he let fly... a warning flashed in his mind. It was as if he stood before a closed door, with a choice. He could leave the door closed and walk away, or he could open it and obey the heat of his passion. But he would need to intentionally open it before he could throw that first punch.
Another image flashed in his mind, swallowing up the warning. C.W. had orange paint on his finger. He did that to Roland.
With a burst of fury, Jarret willed open the door in his mind, the thing holding him back. And his fist met its target.
C.W.’s body jerked to one side under the impact.
Rage controlling his actions, Jarret swung at him again, but C.W. jumped out of the way. Unwilling to let C.W. get away, Jarret lunged for him.
The rest unfolded as an electrically-charged blur, Jarret throwing punches and grabbing C.W. to control him, C.W. dodging, squirming, and wrestling to get away. Within seconds, the fight went down to the floor with Jarret on top.
But as Jarret made a move to pin C.W. to the floor, muscular arms snaked around his chest from behind.
Not ready to stop his attack, Jarret resisted for a moment and continued trying to pin C.W.’s arms. Thinking better of it, he yielded to whoever had grabbed him.
He was yanked to his feet and shoved down the hallway.
Hot white anger still flashing in his vision, Jarret glimpsed a few faces. Apparently, kids had gathered to watch the fight. No one followed as Jarret’s escort led him down a breezy hallway and to a room across from the principal’s office.
“Wait in here.” Jarret’s escort—a young male teacher, new to River Run High—held open a door and motioned Jarret inside. He didn’t seem angry. Just businesslike. He probably wanted to take care of C.W. or hunt down the principal. Or call the police.
Jarret obeyed, and the door closed behind him.
Pulse racing, body still tense, he stood alone in a little room with a long table and no windows. The old fluorescent lights hummed and turned the walls a sickly grayish yellow.
Jarret took a deep breath, wanting to calm down. He could hear his heart thumping in his ears. He scraped a chair away from the table, pushed it against the wall, and sat down. The knuckles of his right hand hurt, his arms ached, and his cheek smarted. He sucked in a few deep breaths. After shaking his hand out, he slumped forward and rested his arms on his thighs. His heartrate slowed to a sickening thud.
Had he hurt C.W. badly?
He buried his head in his hands, and his thoughts tangled in his mind.
Several minutes later, the door swung open and Jarret sat up.
The principal, Mr. Freeman, a short man in jeans and a dress shirt, marched into the room. “Jarret West.” He directed a stern look to Jarret as he sat at the head of the long table. “You’re a senior, right? Last year was your first year with us? I seem to remember you causing some trouble last year too.”
Jarret remained expressionless and stared at a choppy smiley-face carved into the tabletop. The fight had drained him and everything ached.
Mr. Freeman rambled on about school policy, ending with, “So why did you do it?”
Jarret met his gaze. “Did you see my brother? See what C.W. did to him?”
His eyes drooped and mouth fell open. “Uh...” He pushed his chair out. “You stay here. I’ll be back.”
Jarret yanked the band from his ponytail, slouched in his chair, and pulled his hair over his face. How should he feel about what he’d done?
KEEFE SLUMPED OVER his desk. He’d made it to his last class of the day: Spanish. Mr. Segura, a tall suave man in his fifties with a melodic voice, rattled on in Spanish, directing the class’s attention to an
image on the screen in the front of the classroom.
Drawn blinds, low lights, and the warm, stuffy air made Keefe’s eyelids droop. He struggled to stay awake. The forty sleepless hours in the woods were taking their toll. But he didn’t want to doze off at school. Whenever he closed his eyes, he still faced that Japanese warrior. And his failure moved to the forefront of his mind.
Keefe’s head bobbed. He jerked to attention and snapped his eyes wide open. He couldn’t wait to get home. First thing he was doing: crashing on his bed. But then he’d have that dream again. Why the dream? Why the verse? Why not an answer? Did the dream mean something?
“Hey, Keefe.” Sherman Maher slumped forward in his seat, his head of blond-streaked spiky hair resting on his arm outstretched across his desk. “Is it past your bedtime?” He gave a quirky grin and stifled a laugh.
Keefe wiped his sweaty face and took a deep breath.
“So Jarret showed C.W. who’s boss, huh?” Sherman still lay with his head resting on his arm, looking at Keefe with amusement in his eyes. “Sometimes that kid’s a big jerkwad anyways. C.W. Not your brother.”
Not sure what Sherman referred to, Keefe squinted and shook his head.
“You know what your brother just did, don’t you? Like right before class?”
Worry removing all traces of drowsiness, Keefe shook his head again.
“Out in the hallway after last period? Yeah, Jarret gave C.W. the smack-down. C.W. threw a few punches of his own, but that boy was wrecked.”
“What?” Warnings bells went off in Keefe’s head. He glanced at the door, anxious to go. What had Jarret done? Had he been taken to the principal’s office? Probably. And they’d have called Papa.
“After what C.W. did to Roland, who could blame him?”
Keefe snapped his gaze back to Sherman, his stomach rolling. “What’d he do to Roland?”
Sherman sat up and ran a hand over the back of his hair, disbelief on his face. “You don’t know?”
“Tell me,” he commanded, fear ripping through him.
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