by Angel Lawson
The morning air is cool and humid, and the campus is quiet in that eerie, hushed blanket it always transforms into on early morning weekends. I’m surprised when I realize that Hamilton has beaten me to the athletic field, his silhouette standing stark against the vacant expanse. As I approach, I see he’s at least better dressed for the task this week in worn, faded jeans and an old Devil hoodie that’s already ratty and frayed. He’s even wearing a pair of old, battered sneakers. The clothes make him a lot less intimidating, like he’s just any other normal high school guy who rolled out of bed at the crack of noon and pulled on the first items of clothing that entered his sightline. He and Dean Dewey watch me approach, waiting. I notice a cup of coffee in the dean’s hand and two in Hamilton’s.
Hamilton thrusts one to me, his gaze diverted.
Huh.
After a pause, I reluctantly take the warm cup in my hands. “Uh, thank you.”
Well, the dean did tell him not to bring coffee for himself if he didn’t provide it to everyone.
“If you two are ready to get started, I’ll leave you to it,” the dean says, looking between us. When neither of us replies, both avoiding the other’s gaze and awkwardly cradling our drinks, he nods and walks off.
I take a hesitant sip of the coffee, surprised to taste the dark, sugary goodness of a mocha—my favorite. I frown into the cup, then back at Hamilton, who has begun pulling out the drop cloth. How on earth does he know what I like to drink? Fluke, I assume.
I fidget with the cup for a belated moment, trying to figure out how to approach him. I ultimately just blurt, “I have something for you.”
He spreads out the cloth, his long arms billowing it wide. “Do you now?” He spares me a quick glance over his shoulder, and the knowing glint in his eye is enough to make my cheeks heat.
I do my best to ignore him, knowing he’s just trying to rattle me. Without any ado, I toss him the bag and it lands limply at his feet.
He bends to retrieve it, peering inside with a frown. “What are these?”
“Gloves, Bates. I’m sure you’ve seen them before.”
“Yeah, no shit, smart ass,” he mutters. “Why are you giving them to me?”
“To protect your dainty, cello-playing fingers. I found them in the garage at home.”
“Hm.” He tugs them on and stretches his fingers, a slow smirk spreading across his face. When he meets my gaze, his eyes are dark and glittering. “Well, I guess you would be invested in the welfare of my fingers.”
My jaw drops, but I’m at a loss for any sort of retort. He has actually stunned me speechless. Instead of trying, I focus on finding the little key-tool to open the can of primer, doing my best to pretend like my body hasn’t just lit up like a Christmas tree at the thought of just what those fingers can do.
Thankfully, he doesn’t seem interested in goading me about it any further.
For about three minutes.
“So I’m thinking,” he begins, taking in the wall with a pensive expression, “we can split this fucker in half. I’ll take the bottom—” That smarmy ass grin returns. “—you can take the top.”
And that’s how, ten minutes later, I find myself on the ladder, fighting the wobble of the uneven surface as he paints the lower portion of the wall. It takes me a while to realize just how deftly he’s manipulated me into taking the harder part of the job. When I do, I pause, my paint roller stuttering to a stop against the wall.
He’s whistling.
Insufferable fucking jerk.
I set my jaw and keep painting.
The best part about it is that, since we start on opposite sides and agree to meet in the middle, we’re far enough apart that there’s no encouragement to speak. Hamilton solidifies this by placing his phone on top of the box of supplies and cranking up his play list.
Perfect.
As the sun rises, it grows warmer, and the first hour goes quickly. Hamilton finishes his first coat before I do and lazily drops his roller into the pan, but I continue with the final section at the top. I try to ignore him in my periphery, pulling his sweatshirt over his head and laying it on the ground before dropping onto it. He stretches out languidly, legs crossed at the ankles, leaning back on his elbows. It’s impossible to tune out my awareness of him. His gaze sweeping over me as he watches me work is like a constant heat on the back of my neck.
Nope.
Not today, Satan.
I paint faster.
“Yo, Bates,” I hear a distant voice call. I look back over my shoulder and see a pack of Devils coming our way. Xavier’s twirling a baseball bat and Heston’s clutching a glove to his chest, while Emory and Ansel each hold a ball and glove. Heston swings a bat hand to hand. It’s not uncommon on the weekend for the students on campus to use the athletic fields recreationally if they aren’t in use. “So this is what Dewey has you doing at the ass-crack of dawn on a Saturday? Lazing around while you let Adams do all the heavy lifting.”
I’m well aware that it looks like Hamilton’s fucking off while I do all the work.
“Hey, I did my share. It’s not my fault I’m just better at everything,” he says, smirking meanly at them, “but I guess that’s par for her course.”
“Well, the view’s not bad,” Ansel says, eliciting laughter from the others.
Hamilton waits a beat before responding. “I guess I am pretty lucky that Adams is my partner for this. Her background makes her more prepared for shitty menial labor. Isn’t that right, Morticia?”
“It is nice to get through one of these without you bleeding all over the place because of your massive levels of psychosis and incompetence, Norman.”
The guys howl with laughter, and I swipe the roller over the last section before starting down the ladder. They snort themselves into silence when I walk over, roller hanging limply in my hand. Hamilton gets to his feet, spurred on by my insult, but I speak before he has the chance. “If anyone’s unlucky to be out here, it’s me, having to deal with such a pathetic, privileged, sorry excuse for a human being. I sincerely hope you manage to stay in your daddy’s good graces, Bates, because if he snatches away that trust fund and you have to rely on anything other than your face or dick to get by in this world, you’re completely screwed.”
Hamilton stares at me, the familiar twinkle of evil in his eye. It sends a physical reaction through me, and I don’t even know what the hell. This Pavlovian response I’ve developed to pissing Hamilton off can’t possibly be healthy. He’s wearing the same expression he had before I slapped him in the office. Or before he kissed me in the locker room.
Fuck.
Not the result I was asking for.
“Dude,” Heston says, when Hamilton doesn’t have a snappy comeback, “I think she just said you should be a whore.”
Unfortunately, Hamilton’s had time to think. “At least I have people willing to fuck me, Adams.” He takes three stalking steps toward me, his eyes narrowed. “Because you’d have to pay someone to stick their dick in your haunted, dusty, self-righteous, death trap of a pussy.”
“Damn,” Emory says, eyes bulging.
How fucking dare he.
I move without thinking, inches away from him, “I swear to God, I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” His eyes flicker with excitement and his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. “What exactly will you do, Adams?”
I feel the Devils watching us, drinking us in like a fine wine, but I’m not giving them one ounce of satisfaction. I take the roller in my hand, push it against Hamilton’s forehead, and spin it down his pretty face, leaving a trail of white primer across his flawless skin.
Everything goes quiet. He doesn’t even move. He could slap it away, but it just rolls over his chin unimpeded.
Hamilton gapes at me, frozen.
The other Devils do the same.
I drop the roller onto the cloth and storm away.
He must try to come after me, because over my thundering heart, I can hear a commotion between the guys—shouts and d
emands for Hamilton to calm down.
“You know how she is… she’s a fucking snitch, it’s not worth it, you’ll just regret it,” one of them says, their words bouncing off the stone facade of the building.
They’ve got one thing right.
Hamilton Bates will regret ever fucking with me.
14
Hamilton
I lean against my car to avoid my impulse to pace. Something about my house always makes me want to pace. Maybe it’s the shrieking silence of it all, the stillness, the lack of life. Or maybe it’s the coldness of it, the starkness, like nothing is ever really touched—like you can never really make a mark on it. Like you could live in this fucking place for seventeen years and it’d never really have a trace of you. It wasn’t always something I realized or understood—not until I moved to the dorms.
Sure, I complain about living in a 500 square foot shoe box versus my father’s 12,000 square foot home overlooking the lake. But the dorm has life. I’m able to mark it up with bits of myself, here and there. I can put my jacket on the couch and it’ll still be there in the morning. It remembers me.
Slowly the dorm began feeling more and more like home. Now I’m standing in front of my house, its wide empty windows staring down at me, and I know the second I cross the threshold, it’ll feel like a vise is squeezing the life out of me.
This time is worse, of course, because I know what’s coming. And I can stand out here all night, staring up at the gaping windows and dreading it, but it won’t change a fucking thing.
I already know what’s coming. Disapproval. Disappointment. Pity. And that’ll just be his reaction to the things he knows about. If he found out about Gwendolyn?
That can never happen. Even imagining makes my blood run cold.
It takes me a few more minutes of not-pacing before I man up and finally approach the front door. It feels strange to walk in without knocking now, as if I owned some part of this place that never remembers me.
I walk into the main hall, aware that being here should feel like home, but the house is ridiculous, even by Bates standards. It’s big enough for a family of fifteen, yet now it’s just my mother and father rattling around with a housekeeper. I know why my parents bought this home: expectations. Obviously, my father couldn’t have been regarded as truly successful without the excessive mansion in the gated neighborhood on the north side of town. And my mother, well. It’s her staging area, isn’t it? Her way of proving her value, that she can entertain guests with the finest snobbery a Chanel wallet has to offer. It’s as sterile as the dormitory, maybe even less. The kids, at least, provide entertainment and companionship. Here, it’s like walking through a museum with a single exhibit: twenty-first century upper-class showmanship.
The back doors are open, so I head out to the patio where the outdoor dining area is set for three.
“There you are,” my mother says, placing her drink on the table. My mother is probably a beautiful woman to most people. Her long blond hair is always impeccable. I half suspect she goes to bed with it styled. There was a time, years ago—back when Hollis’ name could still be spoken in this house—where I’m pretty sure I could remember her smiling without the wrinkles spreading out from the edge of her eyes. Before the Botox, back when her eyebrows could still make an expression, she used to look sort of annoyingly sly.
Really, if I think about it, she almost reminds me of... Reagan.
I super do not think about it.
She stands and gives me a kiss on the cheek, but frowns as she studies me. “Goodness, what’s wrong with your face?” She touches my chin and moves it back and forth before rubbing at my eyebrow. “What is all that muck?”
“It’s paint.” I shrug, trying to tamp down my nerves at the thought of my father walking in, at any moment. “I got a little on me.”
‘A little’ is the understatement of the year. Gwendolyn fucking coated me. It took me hours to get it off and I only managed that by calling Reagan. She arrived quickly with a carrying case of makeup supplies, particularly some sort of industrial strength remover. I didn’t want to call her—every interaction with her only confirms that I need to break off whatever this is—but I didn’t have many options. I’ve never really been that into her, no more than the other girls I’ve dated at Preston. Campbell was probably the last girl I really liked—goddamn, she’s a spitfire—but too into petty stuff like looks and social status. Reagan’s just a follower, though. A sheep. I’m not even sure how I let her latch on.
She’d tried to hang out this evening. Thankfully, I had this awful fucking dinner with my parents as an excuse. If I were smart, I’d do what Xavier suggested and bring her with me to get them off my ass, but I couldn’t make myself do it. It would give everyone the totally wrong impression.
“Are you taking art?” Mom asks cluelessly.
My father takes that moment to stride in, carrying his own drink, and comments, “I’m assuming it’s from your detention, correct?” I stiffen, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. He scoffs at my surprised reaction and takes his seat at the table, gesturing for me to do the same. “Weekly reports, son. I’ve been getting them since you moved on campus.”
Ah, of course. Why loosen the reins?
He continues, “I’m well aware of your detention. I’m also aware of the fact you’ve taken your car out recently. Past curfew.”
I take my own seat, my shoulders already tightening in frustration. I realize that he knows about the captainship. He’s just drawing it out, trying to trap me. “I had an errand to run for the swim team. It’s not like I was out joyriding.”
Renata, our housekeeper, walks in pushing a cart full of food. Conversation pauses as she places plates of food in the center of the table. She glances at me and smiles warmly. She’s always been kind to me. Not like a second mother so much as a gentle aunt. She’s the only source of sincere warmth I come home to anymore, and the thought makes my face darken.
I bet when Gwen goes home, there’s laughter. There’s probably a big meal, all of them sitting around the table, sharing smiles and stories. It’s probably a whole event, all of them being happy to see each other. Hell, I bet they even look forward to it. Her parents probably just ask her about her week, and I doubt she stands in her driveway for an hour dreading her own answers.
I have Renata, who is nice—who smiles at me—and who I, in some sense, pay to do so. When she finishes plating the food, and walks back into the house, my father resumes speaking.
“So,” he folds his napkin into his lap, “when were you going to tell me about the coach’s decision?”
I smile bitterly at my plate. Ah, there it is. “Doesn’t seem like you needed me to tell you anything. You’ve got your minions doing it for you.”
“Don’t take that tone with me.” He cuts into a big piece of steak, bloody juice gushing over the bone white china, then looks across the table at me. It’s worse than I thought. If he were merely disappointed, he’d push his plate away to talk, one-on-one, giving me all of his attention. I guess it’s difficult to make someone feel two inches tall when you’re not completely focused on the task.
No, this isn’t disappointment.
It’s fury. “You know why I have people keeping me informed? Because I don’t want to get blindsided again. It’s not like you’re going to tell me when shit’s about to hit the fan. I learned that lesson with the Adams incident last year.”
I suck in a sharp breath, stomach churning uncomfortably. Even knowing that this isn’t school—that we’re free to talk about it here—it’s like I’m conditioned to recoil at the mere mention of it.
“Do we have to do this now?” Mother asks, pushing her salad around.
My plate is still empty.
“Bridgette, your son is floundering.” He punctuates this by stabbing his fork in my direction. “He’s insolent, he’s inadequate, and he keeps screwing up. I don’t know when the time is right to discuss it. Over his rejection letter from UVA? Maybe Duke
?”
“Jesus, Dad, I am not going to get rejected from college because I got a detention for being thirty-seconds late to class.” I stretch my neck in an attempt to ease the tension in my injured shoulder. “I’m also not going to get rejected for being awarded co-captain with the most competent female swimmer on the team.”
His gaze is like a dagger, barely veiled rage burning in his eyes. “You don’t know that. Word travels. The Adams girl and her family have already done their damage by getting their tentacles into Preston Prep. I won’t let her ruin you or your chances for future success. Working with her as co-captain is detrimental to your academic and athletic career, not to mention the personal implications of being around a family with such—” He flounders here, mouth turned up in a sneer.
“Such what?” I ask, voice harder than I’d like. There’s a threat in there. Against me? Against Gwendolyn? I may want to throttle her for what she did today with the paint, but Jesus Christ. She’s just Gwen.
He gives me a warning look and continues, “Such different values and expectations. Gwendolyn may seem competent, or even high achieving, but after what happened with her sister, I don’t think you can let down your guard.” He eats belligerently, like the steak he’s cutting into has caused some great offense. “It is entirely possible she may try to destroy you out of vindictiveness and revenge. There is nothing she or her family would like to see more than a Bates be taken down. Or worse, infiltrated.”
Infiltrated.
I glance into the house through the open French doors. I can see the massive fireplace from my seat and the painting hanging above the mantle. It’s of the three of us; my mother, father, and me. It used to be a different painting, one that included my sister Hollis. A guest would never even know she existed, because this house—this fucking house—doesn’t remember. She’s just been erased. Or rather, in my father’s opinion she was ‘infiltrated,’ and therefore removed like an infection.
Like a tumor.
Like we can’t even talk about her anymore, because it would give her power, and there would be nothing worse than that.
