The Forever Crew

by Stunich, C. M.

  “Ranger,” I say, because I wouldn't put it past Mark to mention this incident to my father, and I'm afraid that by pissing my dad off, I've put the guys in an awkward sort of spot. I don’t know how I’d function if one of them was expelled. “Let him go. People who hate from a place of ignorance can't be beaten into submission; they need to be educated.”

  “Spoken like a prissy little girl,” Mark spits, and Ranger just loses his shit, punching the asshole again. The two groups of boys come together in a raucous of flying fists, and for the first time ever, I get to see what Church can really do.

  Eugene's taunts echo in my mind: “Right. One of your cronies, but never you personally, huh? Are you scared to fight Church?”

  Two of the guys come our way and my hand reaches down to the weapons in my pockets. I don't get the chance to use them, however. In the blink of an eye, Church is moving between our would-be attackers, and then they're both lying on the floor holding their throats and coughing. What. in. the. actual. fuck?!

  “Krav Maga,” Church explains casually, naming a type of military self-defense from Israel, and turning to look back at my shocked face with a smile. “I've been taking lessons three times a week for years.” He turns back to the fight in front of him and then heads for the brutal but unpracticed beatdown that Spencer's giving the team's new wide receiver. Church touches the guy's shoulder, and when the asshole throws an elbow back, Church steps to the side, blocks the blow with his forearm, and then hits him in the face with a punch that drops the kid to the floor.

  “Oh, my poor, sweet ovaries,” I murmur, because even though I know that violence isn't the answer to my problems, it's still pretty hot to see the guys I like kick serious ass. Within just a few minutes, the football dicks are lying on the ground, moaning and holding their heads, and the Student Council is standing above them.

  It's pretty hot … until the door opens and Archibald Carson walks in.

  His eyes go from the collapsed boys and straight over to me.

  Oh. Shit.

  I'm in big trouble, aren't I?

  “This is all your fault, Woodruff,” Mark sneers, mucking the floor of the chicken coop as he glares at Ranger's back. It's not technically our turn to help with the chickens or mind the organic vegetable garden that feeds the school, but … it is now. For the rest of the motherfucking semester.

  “Shut your mouth, Grandam, or I'll shove chicken shit down your throat and smile while you choke on it.” Ranger puts the last of the eggs in a basket, and then glances down at the little yellow chicks chirping near his boots. His cheeks flush for a moment, but when he sees me looking, he storms over and grabs my hand, putting the basket in it and taking the broom from me. “Go deliver these to the kitchen, and I'll finish this up.”

  “I can handle a little sweeping,” I grumble, but Ranger's pushing me out the door anyway. “Don't think I didn't see you snuggling one of those chicks earlier,” I murmur, but I really don't want Mark and his toxic masculine bullshit to hear, so I head off with the heavy basket.

  Spencer joins me with his own basket, his split lip and slightly swollen and purple eye oddly charming.

  “I totally ruined the season for Diego,” he says with a sloppy bad boy grin, pausing as a pair of chickens waddles across the path in front of us. “You know what's coming, right? Why did the chicken cross the road …?”

  “Noooo,” I groan, bumping into his shoulder with mine. I almost lose an egg when it slips out the side of my basket, but Spencer grabs it in mid-air, spins it around on his finger, and deposits it into his own. “You think that made you look cool, huh?” I ask, and he grins, his silver hair falling across his forehead in just such a way that I feel my heart melt.

  “Didn't it though?” he asks, and I roll my eyes. “By the way, Jack bailed and sent me some bullshit text about being out of town for a while.”

  Ah, right. Jack … I'd almost forgotten in all of the hubbub yesterday that Spencer's brother was there at all. By the time we were done being lectured by Archie, and all the boys had been patched up by the school nurse, he was gone.

  “Did he say anything about what he wanted? Or why it was so important he couldn't text you?”

  Spencer shrugs loosely and then pushes in the kitchen door with his shoulder to let me pass through, turquoise eyes dark. He doesn't want to believe his brother's involved anymore than I want him or Church to be. Not that I blame him. Wondering if my dad’s involved is killing me. But last night, I had a little revelation: I’m convinced that Dad, Mr. Murphy, and Mr. Dave know something about what’s happening on campus. I’m also convinced that, despite the evidence, they’re on our side. Based on the way Church reacted when I told him last night, I feel like he agrees.

  I shift the heavy basket from one hand to the other and then turn to find Ian Freaking Dave standing in the kitchen waiting for us. Speak of the devil.

  My mouth drops open, and I damn near drop the basket of eggs.

  “What … what are you doing in here?” I choke out, because it's only Saturday, and Dad said Mr. Dave wouldn't be back until Monday. Looking at him now, you'd never know that Church Montague helped him remove a hunting knife from his body just a few weeks ago.

  “Mr. Carson, Mr. Hargrove,” he says as Spencer grits his teeth for a moment, making a split-second decision. We could run, or we could stay here and see what the big, gruff man who just so happens to be dating my mother has to say. One of the kitchen staff members comes forward and collects our baskets, just before we hear a shout from the storeroom, and I realize with a small sigh of relief that we're not alone in here with Mr. Dave.

  Even if he is one of the killers, he can't get us right now.

  Spencer steps forward, letting the exterior door slam shut behind him, his gaze wholly focused on Ian Dave, the perfect shot at the shooting range, the asshole, the enigma who didn't like me snooping around in the library.

  “What happened between you and Church?” is the first question Spencer asks, and I raise an eyebrow. I've made the decision to trust the mysterious, stoic amber-haired boy who put a ring on my finger, but I also haven't forgotten what the twins said in Disneyland, how Church was missing the week prior to my attack at Santa Cruz High. There's something going on with him, regardless of whether it has to do with Adam or the murders.

  “Jesus,” Mr. Dave grumbles, sneering like only a villain would. “You kids are idiots, you know that?”

  “Church removed the knife for you,” I say, repeating the story as I've heard it, waiting for surprise or shock to register on Mr. Dave's face. Instead, he just glares back at me with dark eyes and sighs, reaching up to run fingers through his thick head of hair. I imagine he's closer to Mom's age than Dad is. No thinning hair here. “Not a great medical decision, by the way, but I trust you had your reasons.” I cough into my hand. “But who actually stabbed you?”

  “Yes, Mr. Montague helped to remove the knife. I'm not at liberty to discuss who attacked me in the first place, but I have mentioned to Headmaster Carson on numerous occasions that letting you all traipse around campus like amateur detectives is a terrible idea.”

  “If you hadn't noticed, we're on chicken and garden duty,” I snap back as Spencer reaches over and plucks a feather from my hair. “And if we are ‘traipsing’”—I make snarky little quotes with my fingers—“it's only because the police and the administration are useless. Nobody believes us about what we saw in the woods.”

  “Just like they don't believe Eugene and Jenica were murdered,” Mr. Dave says with a long sigh. He looks so goddamn tired, I'm surprised he didn't ask for a few more days off. Spencer and I exchange a look before glancing back in his direction. “But I do. I believe you.”

  “You do?” Spencer blurts out, backpedaling a bit, like he's drowning in disbelief. I mean, after all the crap we've gotten from the adults around us lately, I'm not surprised. I turn back to Mr. Dave, surprising myself with my own inner calm. I'm not usually like this, you know, calm. It's a foreign thing for
me.

  “Yes, I do,” Mr. Dave says, moving several steps closer to us and lowering his voice. “And that's why I'm asking you to stay out of it. Keep your heads low, stick together, and let me handle this.”

  “Like a librarian is anymore qualified to deal with this shit than we are,” Spencer scoffs, folding his hands together behind his head while looking Mr. Dave over like he doesn't believe a word coming out of his mouth. “You're probably one of the masked creeps we saw in the woods. Like, seriously, we're supposed to believe you just happened on Charlotte's mom in the middle of Los Angeles?”

  Mr. Dave closes his eyes for a moment, nostrils flaring, as his big, meaty hands work themselves in and out of fists. He's very clearly frustrated with us, but there's something going on between him, Mr. Murphy, and my dad. I'm sure of it.

  “My relationship with Eloise is none of your business. I truly care about her, and I promise you, our ongoing communication has nothing to do with this case.”

  “This case? Um, like that's not at all creepy,” Spencer says, putting a protective arm around my waist. A little thrill chases through me as I run my finger over the engagement ring again. For whatever reason, it's become a symbol of the whole Student Council, and not just Church. “Dude, you're just digging yourself an even deeper hole. Come on, Chuck.”

  He steers me away from Mr. Dave, but I pull back, turning to face the librarian one more time.

  “I know Mr. Murphy's been writing me those notes,” I say, and Mr. Dave's nostrils flare again, though he doesn't confirm or deny the accusation. “And I know that whatever he's up to, you and my dad are in on it.”

  We turn and leave the room, letting the door slam shut behind us, but I've got that little niggle of an idea in my head again, and there's no getting past it.

  I know what I need to do.

  On Monday, I break my usual routine of sleeping in, waking up too late to brush my hair, and rushing to class in rumpled clothes, skewed glasses, and a bad mood. Instead, I'm up as soon as Church starts the coffee brewing, lifting one perfect brow in my direction as I whisk open the closet doors and stare at the uniform I stole from Dad's house. I'm pretty sure he came down to the dorm the night of the fight to yell at me over it, but lost his train of thought when he saw the mess my boys had made of the football team.

  So, now it's mine.

  The choice is mine.

  And I’ve made it.

  “Are you sure about this?” Church asks, hiding a genuine sort of smile with his coffee mug. “This changes everything.”

  “I'm sure,” I declare, unzipping the plastic garment bag and pulling the outfit out, so I can study it. “Positive.”

  Church helps me carry my makeup bag, nail polish, and blow dryer into the bathroom; the rest of the Student Council boys empty the room and guard the door, giving me time to shower and do my hair and makeup before they help me into a winter coat with a hood. It messes with my hair a bit, but oh well. I curled that shit into ringlets this morning.

  “You take almost as long to get ready as we do,” the twins say, pointing across at one another. “Being a girl is hard.”

  “Have you ever heard The Sexy Getting Ready Song from the show Crazy Ex-Girlfriend?” I ask, pursing my freshly glossed lips and giving the boys a look as I swirl a finger around indicating my face. “This is a bunch of patriarchal bullshit. This doesn't make me a girl. I just … it's like armor or something, okay? I feel calmer wearing it. I want to wear it. That's feminism right there: choice.”

  “No arguments here,” Ranger says, his usually deep, calm voice a little ragged. When I squint, I swear I can see spots of color on his cheeks. He quickly grabs my shoulders and turns me around to face the door, his hands burning me, even through the thick wool of the jacket. If we don't resolve our little sexual tension problem soon, we're both going to explode. “But let's march out there and own that femininity, shall we?”

  He pushes me out the door and into a sea of boys sneering and glaring, holding their dicks and bouncing up and down in anticipation of using the bathroom. Spencer and Church finally step aside and allow the horde into the bathroom.

  “Fuck you guys,” Mark sneers, storming past us. He eyes me suspiciously as he goes, but I've got an entourage of Student Council members around me; I feel untouchable. We head back to my room, and I toss off the jacket, fixing my hair in a handheld mirror while all five guys stare at me.

  “What?” I ask, popping my lips to even out my lip gloss. With a sigh, I put a fist on my hip, my pleated skirt swishing with the movement. “Come on, it's not like you guys haven't seen me all dolled up before.”

  “No, but …” Spencer starts, lifting up a finger and then dropping his hand by his side. His dopey lovestruck grin fades into a smirk. “It's just, our little Chuck-let is all grown-up and tackling Adamson in a skirt. It's a proud, but scary moment for your harem.”

  “My … what?!” I choke out as Ranger grits his teeth, Church raises a brow, and the twins grin.

  “We're living a reverse harem,” they say in unison, nodding and then exchanging a look. Tobias reaches into his front pocket, pulls out a little Ouran High School Host Club button with all the characters on it, and attaches it to my own blazer pocket, right next to the Student Council pin.

  “There,” he says, his grin getting a little lopsided as he looks me over with those pretty green eyes of his. “Now everyone knows.”

  “And,” Micah adds, lifting up a finger. “This gives us carte blanche to beat up anyone who says anything derogatory.”

  With a sigh, I shake out my arms and close my eyes. This isn't going to make things easier for me here at Adamson. No, it's going to make things harder. But I'm also fairly certain that this is the best way for me to get at the heart of this mystery.

  “Alright, let's do this.”

  The boys check the hallway to make sure the coast is clear, and off we go, my fitted blazer buttoned beneath my breasts, the little blue ribbon tied into a bow at the throat of my fitted white button-down. The skirt is plaid, a mix of champagne, honey yellow, and navy blue that swishes around my legs as I walk. My knee-high socks are held up with garters (totally stole them from Monica when I was in Santa Cruz), and I've donned the same, plain shiny brown loafers I wore as a boy.

  I'm pretty sure gender is just a ridiculous social construct, but also … the world sometimes subscribes to social constructs, and I'm standing knee-deep in the middle of it.

  All of a sudden, I'm finding it hard to breathe.

  I stop on the path, the boys pausing around me, a glorious mix of champagne blazers and navy ties, and I close my eyes for a minute, listening to the wind in the trees, the hoots of those stupid short-eared owls. Just breathe, we'll get through this, I tell myself, opening my eyes again to find five concerned sets of eyes looking back at me.

  “It's not too late to change your mind,” Church says, crossing one arm over his chest and resting his chin in the palm of the other hand. “If you want to go back and change, nobody here will think less of you.”

  “No, I'm doing this,” I state, lifting my chin and choosing to ignore the trembling in my hands. With another deep breath, I continue down the path, passing a few random students here and there who look up in shock. Pretty sure some of them are recording me with their phones, taking pictures and video, but I don't care.

  Instead, I head right up to the double doors of the main building and throw them open with an unnecessary amount of force and dramatics. The twins catch them and hold them wide, leaving me silhouetted against the gray light from outside, my skirt billowing in the breeze, my chin held high.

  Bet I look like a total badass, huh? I could be Regina George in Mean Girls or something, ruling this entire school and looking fab while doing it.

  “What the hell?” Mark asks, blinking at me as I move into the hall and pause, a good three dozen boys standing in the foyer, staring back at me. I scan the room, meeting as many pairs of eyes as I can.

  Without a word, I s
trut forward and head straight for my locker, the presence of the Student Council deflecting any commentary or questions. At least for now. We manage to make it through an awkward breakfast in the cafeteria with everyone staring at me before my dad finally shows up, his face that funny purple-red color, eye twitching.

  “Charlotte Carson,” he warns as I push my breakfast tray forward and stand up, lifting my chin in defiance. Without a word, I leave the Student Council boys and exit the cafeteria to stand in the hallway with Archie. “Do you want to explain to me what this little stunt is about?”

  “Stunt?” I ask, unintentionally taking on the snark tone without meaning to. It's just force of habit with Dad at this point. That, and I feel like he always comes at me on the offensive, making it ridiculously easy for me to fall into an aggressive defense. Why couldn't he just put his hand on my shoulder, smile softly, and say, 'is there a reason you decided to change the game plan without telling me, honey?' Hah. Like that could ever happen. “This isn't a stunt. This is what you and the school board wanted all along, isn't it? I'm taking control of my own fate at this academy.”

  “Is this a cry for attention?” Dad asks, reaching up to adjust his round glasses. “Do you need something more from me?” He sounds almost desperate as he leans in, teeth gritted. “Because I've only ever done what I thought was right by you.”

  “Really? Like not telling me Spencer was alive. By refusing to believe me when I told you I saw Jason Lambert dead in the woods. That I saw a group of people wearing fox masks.”

  Dad's hand lashes out and he grabs me by the upper arm, dragging me down the hallway as I struggle against his grip. The cafeteria door opens a second later, and there are the boys, with Ranger in the lead. He looks about two seconds from tearing my dad's hand off my arm, but I wave him away and follow Archie outside.

  Dad doesn't stop walking until we're standing at the edge of the woods, the shadows around us like a curtain of privacy. This time, when Dad looks me dead in the face, I see a hint of father and a whole lot less headmaster in his gaze.