by Angel Lawson
Nevertheless, my smile tightens. “I wish I could. I have a big test tomorrow.”
“Sure, you do,” she replies, skeptically. There’s no anger in her voice. Debbie understands why I moved on campus at the beginning of the year. She just doesn’t like it. “Don’t stay away too long, okay?”
I nod and the carpool monitor waves her forward. Michaela and I wave as she drives off.
“How was trick-or-treating?” I ask the twins. They had big plans for costumes and had been preparing them for weeks. They’d gone as Willow and Jaden Smith. Micha had been particularly excited about wearing a dress, which is understandable. Preston Prep has a pretty strict dress code. Individuality is frowned upon, and Micha definitely marches to the beat of his own drum. My little brother has had to learn to choose his fashion battles wisely from the start, and I doubt he understands yet just how unfair it is. Michaela can wear pants, boots, and graphic tees marketed to boys, and at most, she’s just a bit of a tomboy. But for Micha, a bit of glitter and lip gloss are the makings of a full-blown scandal.
“I got so much candy,” Micha says, gripping the straps of his bedazzled backpack. The sequins and glitter match the laces in his shoes, and something inside of me softens and glows. Because even with the strict dress code at Preston Prep, Micha finds his own little ways to do the complete opposite of me—not hide. “And Mom let us eat as much as we wanted before bed.”
I’m sure. Why set limits?
The twins talk about Halloween the whole way to their building—the middle school wing—giving me a breakdown of the best candy. Snickers are at an all-time high, but Milky Way futures are way down. Better invest in fun-size boxes of Nerds, as the trick-or-treat economy as it relates to our particular gated community is experiencing a serious chocolate deficit.
“When are you coming home?” Michaela asks. It’s a common question. My answer is the same every day.
“Not until after graduation.”
She gives me a sly look. “Mama said if you don’t move back by Christmas, she’ll let me have your room.”
It’s an empty threat. Debbie already told me that Michaela moved into my room three weeks ago. She’d brought in her blanket and a least a dozen stuffed animals. If anything, this is a test to see how soon she’ll have to move back into the room she shares with Micha. Because Micha is painfully earnest and unassuming, but Michaela... Michaela schemes.
I sigh overdramatically. “That’s a risk I’ll have to take. It’s not that I want to stay away. It’s just easier for me to do my schoolwork and swim practice when I live on campus.”
Micha gives me a long look but says nothing. It’s not that I haven’t noticed that things have been strained between us since I moved to the dorms. The twins see all our adopted siblings as their own. As twins, they’re innately used to having siblings, but to them, siblings should always be there. Me moving to the dorms makes the third of us to leave. Clearly, this is not proper siblinghood.
“When does the swim season start?” Michaela asks.
I squeeze her hand, giving it a jiggle. “Next week.”
“Maybe once it’s over, you can come home.”
“Maybe,” I lie, halting by the door and giving one of her braids a soft tug. “Okay, we’re here. You’ll have a good day, yeah?”
Michaela gives me another hug while Micha throws me a peace sign in his wake. I push my worry aside as they disappear into the building. They’re too young to really understand what happened with Skylar and no one at school is allowed to mention it.
Ever.
That was the deal my parents made with the school and the other parents. No one would call the authorities about the culpability of the Preston Prep students as long as no one discussed it ever again. Because, it was agreed, they had some accountability, even if they didn’t participate. This is a problem for both the school and the kids, like the Devils that I’d seen there that night. They knew Skylar was in that room and what she was doing, and they let it happen. Maybe even worse, they stood back and had a good time, relished in it, took something sordid and horrifying and made it into a sick joke, a currency of high-fives and muffled laughter.
Sky confirmed this all long ago, that no one had intervened, but none of them had participated. Truthfully, I’m not convinced she’d admit to anything that might mean getting them into trouble. It’s not about protection. It’s about her need to belong, to feel approved of. I can handle being shunned. Being silenced. Being cast aside. It’s not fun, but it won’t break me. For Sky, this would be worse than a nightmare—it’d be an unspoken validation of her every single insecurity.
“Who was it, Sky?” I asked that night, struggling to keep my attention on the road as I drove us home. I can still remember the ache in my knuckles as I strangled the steering wheel. “Was it a Devil? Was it Ansel? Heston? Did—” I had to take a moment when my voice cracked, but I forced the question out through my teeth, “Did Hamilton make you do this?”
I glanced at her only long enough to register her frown, her eyes a mixture of confusion and innocence. “I wanted to do it,” she said, shocking me to my core. “It was fun.” She touched her jaw. “Although I am a little sore.”
Jesus.Christ.Superstar.
I walk toward the main high school building, feeling a million years older than I had that night. It was then that the shiny façade of this place was ripped away. I could never again look at it, or the students, the same way again. Not the historic architecture—arched windows, original leaded, wavy glass. The thick, carved doors, the floors; hardwood in the west wing but stone in the older, east wing. Portraits of the headmasters line the walls. The third one down has a familiar name. Hamilton.
As in Hamilton Bates’ great-grandfather.
I glide through the throng of students like a salmon swimming upstream. It’s bumpy and full of resistance. Despite the code of silence, the word “freak” is muttered it at least twice. I don’t even try to put faces to the jabs anymore. What’s the point? I just keep walking and take a breath when I get to my locker.
The first person I told about Sky was our nanny, Debbie. She’s always been the rational one in our home. Our parents are smart, educated, and successful. Both Ivy League. Both lawyers. Both with hearts of gold. Both...how do I describe Mark and Becca Adams? Oh, right, they’re idiots. Freedom of expression, personal conduct, individuality...that’s the most important thing to them, not security or stability or safety. Not the thing kids want and need. Debbie stalked Sky’s social media and found DMs between her and another girl where she bragged about what she’d done the night before. Mom was horrified that Sky’s privacy had been invaded. Debbie tried to explain that fifteen-year-olds don’t get privacy. The fight was huge, but ultimately Mom had to admit something was wrong. The gossip mill was churning and close to out of control.
Sky needed help, and they had to actually step up for once and be the adults in the room. The school board, my parents, and the other parents came to an agreement. Skylar would go to a residential treatment program. The Devils and anyone else at the party would not be punished, but a zero-tolerance policy was enacted. No gossip, no texts, no bullying, no whispers, nothing was ever to be discussed about that night.
To their credit and my complete surprise, everyone held up their end of the bargain. No police. No gossip. The rumor mill stopped completely. To the extreme. I don’t know who made the call, although I have my suspicions, but if the students were going to pretend Sky Adams didn’t exist? Then none of the Adamses existed. Particularly me.
After that meeting I became a ghost in my own school, as if I’d done something wrong by protecting my sister, by revealing that these heartless assholes couldn’t be bothered to protect a fellow classmate, even if her blood isn’t the right color. Truthfully, there’s something worse than being openly bullied.
It’s just being outright cancelled.
I rummage around for the books I need for my next class, knowing that they can pretend I don’t exist,
that that night didn’t exist, but me? I don’t have that luxury.
I remember it every time I walk down the hall. Every time I see their fancy cars and expensive shoes. Every time I see those goddamned letterman jackets. I know it when I see their smug faces—his face in particular. I remember Sky’s mascara, running in sad lines down her cheekbones even though she swears she wanted it. I remember knowing that was a lie and I remember just how badly I wanted the steering wheel I’d been strangling to be someone’s throat. I remember how I felt standing in that hallway, like a live grenade had just gone off in my chest.
I told him I would make him pay, but I haven’t. How do you even begin to make these guys pay? They have everything. Money, power, entitlement…
It’s the Devil’s fault she was there that night. He’s the leader. He has, as he brags about ad nauseum, power. At best, he let Xavier invite her, play with her, make her feel special, and then leave her to the wolves.
And, at worst... well.
Hamilton isn’t just some random guy who sat by and watched, he’s my biggest rival. We’ve spent the last four years vying for valedictorian and are in competition for captain of the swim team. Yeah, me, the kid without a ‘pedigree’, has been holding her own against the prince of the school. He can’t truly ignore me because I’m the thorn in his side. The risk to his coronation. The Michael to his Lucifer.
So that’s it. That’s how I make him pay.
By being better.
Like every other morning, I glance at the tiny mirror affixed to the inside of my locker. I look beneath the mask at my dark hair and blue eyes and repeat an affirmation.
“You’re better than him. Smarter. Faster. Stronger. Don’t play his games. Make him play yours.”
I smile and replace the mask, prepared for another day of battle.
I moved to the dorms the day after Skylar left for the residential program in Texas. Did it seem counterintuitive to move to the place I was being frozen out of? Yes. But being at home was worse. I couldn’t face my parents.
Mark and Becca…I do love them. They took me in when I was three, rescuing me from a truly shitty situation of neglect and addiction. It’s strange, because I know that living with them meant I had guaranteed shelter, top-notch academics, and opportunities I never would have had with my birth mother. But it takes more than money and good intentions to make a good parent.
As much as I hate the Devils’ obsession with lineage, sometimes there is this nagging worry that people like Hamilton may have a point. Take my older brother Brayden, for example. He was adopted first—as a baby. He never knew anything else, just the life Mark and Becca gave him; wealth, opportunity, entitlement. He was even a Devil himself, star JV quarterback. His birth mother was, as I understand it, a thirty-something from Biloxi with a transient housekeeping job and an intense addiction to a little drug called Whatchya Got. My parents, high off of a lifelong bender of righteousness and delusion, wholeheartedly believe in open adoptions and encourage us all to make a connection with our birth family.
So Brayden did.
He met his mom. And I’m not entirely sure what went down or why, but here are the facts: Despite a long history of academic and athletic excellence, his grades began to slip. The boy who used to be one of the most promising Devils only just barely met the credit requirements to graduate. Now he’s working part time at a mechanic garage, cleaning bathrooms and floors, hoping for an apprenticeship.
Then you’ve got Sky, two years younger than me. She was one when Mom and Dad brought her home, cute and smiley despite the cigarette burn marks on her arms. Even as a baby, I think she knew the best way to survive was to pretend everything was fine. She followed all of us around all the time. Our smiles made her smile. Our happiness made her happy, like an adorable little emotional sponge. It was cute, back then, before I realized what it said about where she came from, what had happened to her. It was cute before I realized how easily she would be manipulated, taken advantage of.
The twins were merely infants when my mom brought them home. A boy and a girl. That was the year things changed for the rest of us. There was no more pretending outside the home we were true Adamses. Their skin color told the truth. We loved them, of course. I still fondly remember sitting in their nursery, in the months after they moved in, wishing one of them would wake up and fuss so I could hold and soothe them—my very own baby brother and sister.
But outside the walls of our eclectic home, people weren’t as understanding. Our classmates knew we weren’t like them, with all their long family trees that dated back to the Mayflower. Sure, the Adams family did, but in the eyes of our peers we weren’t really Adamses. We didn’t count. We were charity cases. Rejects. Discarded and abandoned.
Mom and Dad told us not to believe it, but come on, right? At a certain age, all of us begin getting it. Brayden did. And then eventually, I did, too. The playdates stopped. Friendships grew cold. Why do they think Sky needed so much approval? Why do they think Michaela schemes and sneaks? Why do they think Micha feeds the world little bits of himself in the tiniest increments? Why do they think I don’t want to come home?
Mom and Dad may have saved us from a hard, uncertain life, but they tossed us into the lion’s den, and I’m not sure that’s any better. Honestly, it’s probably worse.
2
Hamilton
“Dude, dude, where did you even go last night? We looked all over for you,” Ansel asks as we meet up in the stairwell leading from the boys' dormitory. “That party was fucking lit.”
“You’re such an idiot.” I reply, “I was there, didn’t you see me?”
Ansel, who has been one of my best friends since middle school, looks at me through his ridiculous hipster glasses and asks, “What was your costume?”
“Michael Phelps. Speedo, swim cap, and goggles. I even had a stack of gold medals hanging around my neck.”
“Seriously? How did I miss that?” Ansel looks just like someone you’d expect named Ansel to look. Every part of him, from his non-prescription glasses to his manbun, has been pieced together with carefully derivative dumbassery. Sometimes the urge to slap him upside his big dumb head is so strong, it almost chokes me to death.
It’s usually best to just give in to these impulses.
“Hey!” he squawks. The velocity of my palm sends his glasses lurching off his nose and he indignantly adjusts them. “Uncool!”
“You were trashed.” Our smarter friend Emory explains, falling in step. Unlike Ansel, Emory has an impeccable memory. He got tested once, but it turns out, he isn’t eidetic, he’s just really into being a know-it-all. He’s a year younger than the rest of us but fits in nicely. “You took Elana Maxwell behind Connor Hall. She showed up thirty minutes later with puke all over her tits, screaming about what a dickhead you are. Xavier and I hauled your ass up to your room before security found you.”
“Ah,” Ansel says, as if it all suddenly makes sense. “That explains the messages from Elana on my phone.” He glances down at his phone, warily. “Thirty-six so far.”
Xavier not-so-subtly coughs, “Stalker,” and even I smirk.
Elana Maxwell is a stalker. Classic Stage 5 Clinger. Once she gets her hooks into you, it’d be easier to get rid of the clap. But Ansel, being the insufferable dumbass of the group, is our peak romantic. He’s always on the lookout for love, although a consistent fuck buddy has never gone amiss. Elana’s been around for a few months now. It was only a matter of time.
Truthfully, I didn’t stick around the party long at all. I made an appearance—as was expected—fooled around with Reagan for a bit—as was expected—and then went back to my room. I’ve got too much on the line over the next few weeks to blow it all on one night of Halloween partying. I can celebrate after I’ve been named captain of the swim team. Then I can add that detail to my college applications and solidify once and for all that Gwendolyn Adams is done at this school.
It’ll be the final nail in the coffin, and I can’t wait t
o pound it in.
“What’s with the weird look?” Emory asks me. “You look like an evil villain or something.”
I shrug, smirking. “Just plotting to overtake the world.”
He snorts. “From you, I believe it. Geez, I wonder who’s pissed you off this time?”
It’s a rhetorical question. Everyone knows who is number one on my shit list. She’s been perched there for six months now. To be fair, maybe even longer.
We reach the main landing and I look around the crowd, making sure Reagan’s not around. She’s clingy—not as bad as Elana—but she’s looking for something. A date to the winter formal? A relationship commitment? A ride on my cock? None of those things are going to happen. Don’t get me wrong—she’s hot. Sexy. Not to mention, seriously good at giving head. But sometimes at this school, it’s like shooting fish in a fucking barrel. Absolutely zero challenge. Sometimes it’s almost like I want a chase. Which doesn’t make sense, either. Easy pickings is what I really need.
Zero distractions, right?
I breathe a small sigh of relief when I don’t see her anywhere, but I do catch sight of a pale face and dark wavy hair cutting through the crowd. Her eyes are focused straight ahead, oblivious to everyone around her. Mine narrow.
Xavier’s fingers snap in front of my face. “Hamilton!”
“Huh?” I ask, dragging my eyes away from the girl.
“I asked if you wanted to use the box seats this weekend. Dad’s out of town on business. He said I could have them.”
“The United game?” I raise an eyebrow, and he nods. If Ansel’s thing is being a dumb hipster and Emory’s thing is being a smartass know-it-all, then Xavier’s thing is being the guy with connections. “I’m in, definitely.”
“Awesome. I’ll text you details. We can get there early, there’s a full bar.”
