Devious Minds

by Germaine, KF

  “Allison? Why didn’t you just use the ceiling light?” Glancing around the room, I could see she was the only one here. “Who’s us?”

  “What?” Allison asked, crossing one slender leg over the other.

  “You said, ‘Nice of you to join us.’”

  “Oh.” She kicked an empty chair toward me. “They always say that in the movies.” Allison pointed her finger at the chair. “Sit.”

  I knew what was coming. Let me have it.

  Allison knew my secret, and I was about to get the shit kicked out of me by Ninja Barbie.

  “I’m not like you,” she said, acid dripping from every word. “Unlike you, Sydney, I have a soul. I’m a good person.” She pointed a finger to her chest and leaned forward. “I was voted most likely to go to heaven in my preparatory school.”

  “Allis—”

  “Shut up,” she snapped, grabbing a stack of paper off my desk. “You’ve certainly dug yourself into a hole this time. I almost went through with it.” She pinched her thumb and forefinger together, showing me a sliver of space. “I was this close,” she said with a hiss.

  “This close to what?”

  She tossed a paper toward me, and it dramatically swept up into the air and landed behind her. She did it again, and this time it gracefully landed under my bed. Finally, she leaned over and handed me a third one. “Here you go.”

  SUNDAY LANE IS SYDNEY PORTER it read along the top. Hmmm, very straightforward and to the point. Then there was a picture of me lying by a pool, wearing sunglasses and a bikini, pretending to grab a cabana boy’s butt when he wasn’t looking.

  “Where did you get this picture?” It was taken two years ago on a trip to the Dominican Republic with my friend Lucy.

  “Facebook. No one hides from Facebook. It’s God’s naughty or nice list, and you, Sydney Porter, have been a very, very bad girl.”

  Chapter Forty

  Between pacing my bedroom and checking my phone every minute, I was slowly losing my mind. Sydney’s radio segment was prerecorded. I knew it was old because I’d heard that same diatribe about the dubious cafeteria sloppy joe meat before. Sydney had questioned the meat’s authenticity. She speculated the campus’ feral cat population had conveniently declined at the same time the sandwiches made the Northern menu.

  So what was she doing all this time? And did I really want to know?

  It was close to eleven when her truck pulled into the driveway. When I heard her douse the engine, a mixture of trepidation and relief settled into my already churning stomach, but mostly the fear part.

  This was it.

  I was going to tell Sydney the truth and lose her forever. Or I was going to tell Sydney the truth and probably lose her forever. So you could say I was screwed.

  Dread won over relief when angry footsteps stormed down the hall. Then as quickly as they came, they stopped, right in front of my door.

  A nearly inaudible knock sounded against the oak, and I jumped.

  “Gray?” Sydney’s soothing voice crept under the door like a poisonous gas. “Baby, open up. It’s Sydney.”

  She called me baby? This is a trap. All men know the female trap, and Sydney was laying down a snare at this very minute.

  “Sydney, I can explain,” I said, locking the door and checking its strength. “Are you mad?”

  “Why would I be mad?” Her honeyed voice was coated with bitterness. “It’s getting cold in the hallway. All I’m wearing is lingerie. I bet Chance’s room is warm.”

  I placed my hand on the knob but jerked back as if it were a hot flame.

  Trap, Gray.

  “Sydney, please.”

  “Please what?” Her voice turned into a siren’s roar, almost shaking the door from its hinges.

  “I can explain everything.”

  She slid a piece of paper under the door, and I swished it around with my foot. Satisfied it wasn’t laced with any fine white powders, I picked it up.

  Syd, Great time tonight. I totally agree with everything you said. Jacob is better for Bella than Edward. Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you read the book. No need for threats.

  Anyways, my phone battery is dead. Jack’s taking me home. Ur my best friend. I love you so much. Ur like the cool older aunt I never had.

  Hugs and smooches ~Ally (followed by a series of asymmetrical, badly drawn hearts)

  “A note from Allison?” The paper was familiar, and when I examined the torn edge, I realized it came from my sketch pad.

  Fuckity fuck.

  “Turn it oooovvvvveeerrrrr.”

  Flipping it over, I saw my handwriting. Then I saw my words. Then I saw my sentences. Then I saw my life flash before my eyes. It was my detailed notes on Sunday Lane.

  Ripping the door open, I pulled Sydney inside before she could clock me. Which she was just about to do, because her fist was already raised toward my left eye.

  “Stop.”

  She slammed her palms into my chest. “You made me wear an Iron Man costume,” she said through clenched teeth.

  For a second, I lost myself. It was all I could do to keep from laughing at her adorable scrunched-up face… that was now turning red… that was now turning purple…

  “Sydney, I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to tell you I love you. I was going to tell you about this, I swear.” Open mouth, insert every foot under this roof.

  Holy crap, is there a color deeper than purple? Yes, blue.

  Sydney was blue-faced, and dropping my arms to my sides, I closed my eyes.

  Slap me. Punch me. Do whatever you want. I wanted her to get it out of her system, but nothing came.

  When I opened my eyes, she was sitting on my bed, tears pouring down her face.

  “Shit, Sydney.” I rushed over but kept a healthy distance. “Please, I’m so sorry. I was pissed about my car, and it all just spiraled, but I didn’t mean for it to go this far. We were playing a twisted game.”

  “I don’t even have time to waste being pissed at you, Peters.”

  I moved to rub her back, but she jerked away.

  “I have bigger problems—my identity is coming out.”

  “No, it’s not. Allison won’t say shit.”

  “Not Allison, you idiot—Katharine DeSonna. That emaciated bitch. She knows about me, and it’s your fault.”

  “Katharine?”

  “Yes, and I can’t stop her.” She moaned as a fresh round of tears slipped down her cheeks. “Is this it?” she asked, grabbing the note from my hand. “Is this all, Gray?”

  I had to blink a few times. Was this possible? Sydney was forgiving me?

  “You’re gonna forgive me?” Sinking down on the bed next to her, I ran my palms over my eyes. I couldn’t believe she wasn’t tearing up my room, screaming in my face, shredding my curtains with a knife.

  Wiping her arm across her eyes, Sydney angled her body toward me. “Just tell me you screwed with me for a few weeks… ran me around campus… tried to steal Jack’s virginity? That’s all?”

  “You’re not mad?”

  “No, I’m fucking livid.” She narrowed her eyes to thin slits. “Allison had to wrestle a pair of scissors from my hands. I had this big, elaborate plan to come here and snip your dic—” She paused, staring directly at my crotch. “Anyway, Allison told me I was a terrible person,” she said, dropping her head to her hands. “She reminded me of all the awful things I did to people, including you, and she’s right.”

  “No, Sydney.”

  “She forgave me,” she whispered into her palms. “Allison forgave me for calling her a shallow puddle. She said sometimes people say things or do things they don’t mean, and she’d only forgive me if I put away the scissors and came here to forgive you.” Grabbing my pillow, she wiped her snotty face across it. “Allison said… Well, she thinks you do really care about me.”

  Dropping to my knees in front of her, I rolled my hands over her thighs. “The word care doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel about you, Sydney.” I took her hand
and lightly kissed her palm. “I’ve never felt so scared to lose anything or anyone in my entire life as I have these past weeks.”

  Sydney laughed through her tears and grabbed my other hand in hers. “I can forgive you, but you have to promise me our game is over.”

  I opened my arms, and Sydney slid into them, sniveling into my sweatshirt.

  She forgave me, but not for everything. The worst part was still to come.

  “Don’t leave me,” I whispered. Stroking her hair away from her neck, I brushed my fingers over her tattoo. Memorizing it with my fingertips. The tattoo owned by a perfect, witty, sassy girl. A girl who would no longer be mine to mess with.

  “I sent that letter to the radio station,” I said, and her body stiffened in my arms. “There’s no internship offer. There’s nothing, Sydney.”

  Slowly, she pushed herself from my lap, and I braced myself for her wrath but was met with deadly silence. She said nothing, but she didn’t have to because her eyes said it all.

  They were so filled with venom I could feel its painful sting in my own. Soon, I found myself blinking up at the ceiling, taking short, shallow breaths. “Sydney, plea—”

  “Don’t,” she whispered on a sob. Clutching at her chest, she released a pitiful noise and doubled over, lying on her side. “Do you know how happy I was?” Her voice was thick with emotion, and I was too much of a coward to look at her. “I told my mother, and she said, Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you are talented, Sydney.”

  She rolled over on her knees and lifted her swollen cheeks to mine, and it was impossible to divert my gaze. “That’s the nicest thing she’s said to me in years.” Then she slid her cheek across mine until I could feel her breathe against my ear. “There’s no forgiving that,” she whispered, and I closed my eyes. “You deserve nothing but the worst, Peters, and I hope you get what’s coming to you.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Whoever said, Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me, was a fucking liar.

  Back in grade school, I wrote a heart-warming rap for the love of my life, Jacob Deris, and I performed it in front of my fifth-grade class. A week prior, I’d been tucked under blankets on the couch with a 103-degree fever and a crush the size of Siberia (which is one and half times bigger than the US, FYI). In my delirious state, I came across the magical syndicated TV program, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.

  After seven episodes, I spent the rest of the afternoon sweating through my nightgown and beatboxing. Somehow I’d convinced myself my rapping skills rivaled the young Will Smith’s.

  Jacob Deris didn’t agree.

  At recess, Jacob chased me across the bark dust, carrying a piece of dog poop on a stick. I took refuge atop the monkey bars, and all the kids joined in the fun. Soon, I had not only canine feces tossed my way, but the ugly, nasty words that cut me to the bone. I’d never admitted my feelings about a boy again. That was until Gray Peters, and words—especially his—hurt.

  “What? What the hell?” I jerked my eyes open and looked down. Arms were wrapped around my waist, I was sleeping on a pile of silk, and all I could smell was apples. A soft neighing, reminiscent of a horse who’d spotted a carrot, blew into my ear, and I turned my head. “Allison?”

  Allison opened her eyes and gave me a lazy smile. “Morning, beautiful.”

  Ripping her arms off me, I sat up in bed. “Allison, what are you doing in my bed?”

  She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and yawned. “I heard you crying last night in your sleep, so I jumped in next to you. You fought me at first. Mumbling something like, ‘Hand’s off, micro-dick,’ but then you cuddled against me and went off to Sleepyland.”

  Slipping out of the bed, Allison pulled down her skimpy tank top.

  I wanted to lay into her, but she’d forgiven me last night, so I swallowed my tirade.

  And she was right. I was a mess.

  After I left Gray’s house, I drove for a while, listening to bad ‘80s break-up ballads, and ate three cheeseburgers at a drive-in while sobbing into my fries.

  “Yum.” Allison bent down and snatched up a half-eaten cheeseburger from the floor. “It’s good to eat your carbs in the morning,” she said through packed chipmunk cheeks, devouring my leftovers. “That way you have all day to burn it off.” Flexing her scrawny bicep, she sank next to me on the bed.

  Yesterday, Allison had told me Katharine was incensed when we showed up at Gray’s party. In fact, she’d threatened to kick Allison out of Kappa Delta. Understandably, an enraged Allison had handed over the note, thinking it would help her situation, but it didn’t.

  Katharine had instructed Allison to ditch all things Porter, including Jack. And worse, she’d ordered Allison to publically reveal Sunday Lane by Monday or risk her dream of staying a Kappa.

  “I thought you were staying at the sorority?”

  “Screw Kappa Delta,” Allison responded, tossing the wadded wrapper across the floor. “I’m sick of being pushed around, and I’m sick of Katharine.”

  “Allison, I need time to formulate a plan. Katharine’s going to expose me today because you didn’t show up there last night.” I began to panic, thinking now I had less time to prepare.

  Allison turned with a wicked smile. “Oh, I went to the sorority last night.” She suggestively patted her tummy. “After our pledge dinner, I grabbed three cans of refried beans from the pantry and smeared them all over the bathroom.”

  “What? Allison, that’s disgusting.”

  She nodded. “Then I moaned from inside, and when Daphne Anderson walked by, she opened the door and screamed, ‘Oh my God, she’s shitting all over the bathroom.’ Katharine was so freaked she kicked me out and cordoned off the restroom.”

  Allison crossed her arms, sporting a self-satisfied smile. “But before I left, Katharine said, ‘Do it by Wednesday, puddle, or you’re out.’”

  Rubbing my palms down my swollen face, I laughed as they fell to my lap. “Allison Meyers, you faked explosive diarrhea for me? That’s the most disturbing and sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.” I gave her a hug.

  “And I bought you two days,” she said, arching a thin eyebrow. “Now, what happened with Gray?”

  Before I could say anything, a knock came from the door, and I grabbed my covers, pulling them over my face. “If it’s Peters, don’t tell him about the BOMB IN HIS CAR,” I yelled through the cotton comforter.

  I heard Allison skip to the door and then a string of frantic smacking noises.

  Jack.

  “I missed you, sugar bear,” Allison squealed, and I tried to poke my fingers into my brain through my ears.

  “I know, sweets. I missed you, too. Where’s Sydney?”

  Strong hands ripped the blanket off me, and Jack hovered over my face. “I know, Sydney,” he said, sitting on the edge of my bed. “Gray called me last night. He told me about Sunday Lane.”

  I felt a fresh roll of anger sweep over me. “He did?”

  “I just feel sorry for Chance,” he said with a sigh. “Some people just want to make sure they’re in love before they have sex.” He glanced over at Allison, and she blushed.

  “What?”

  “Brown-eyed Virgin.” He laughed under his breath. “He said Chance was pretty upset, but he’s okay now. But Gray, he’s a mess, Sydney. It’s not like you haven’t been awful to him. Can’t you just forgive him?”

  “It’s complicated,” I growled, and Jack scooted down the bed. “And it’s over, so we’re not talking about it.”

  Jack lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Just thought I’d drop off a ticket for today’s game.”

  “I’m not going to the game.” I slammed back on my pillow and pulled up my covers. “No F’n way. Besides, Mom’s in town, right? She texted me last night that she was coming in this morning. It would be the first game she’s seen. Give it to her.”

  Jack sighed. “It was for her. She called this morning and said she wanted to go shopping instead and that maybe sh
e’d hang out after, but she might be tired, so she’d see us in the morning for brunch.” His voice faded with a subtle ache only a Porter could detect.

  Margot Porter had always been selfish, and even though Jack was playing it off like he didn’t care, he did.

  “All the other moms will be there, Sydney.” He looked down with red-tinged eyes. “It doesn’t surprise me, though. Mom never liked football, so I don’t want to put her through that.”

  I wanted to shake Jack for making excuses for Mom. She didn’t like football, that was true, but she was supposed to love her son. She was supposed to be there screaming and cheering with the other moms, bragging about Jack, the greatest running back Northern’s ever seen.

  “Give me the ticket.” I held out my hand. “I’m going.”

  The stadium was something out of my worst nightmares. There were thousands of Northern fans dressed in their favorite player’s numbers. Everywhere I turned, #24 Gray Peters slapped me in the face. Jack’s ticket had a special seat number for the players’ families, so at least I had some direction as I waded through the sea of blue and grey.

  Making my way down corridor twelve, I located aisle B and glanced down the long row of seats. It was a prime location just off the fifty-yard line. I would be well protected in a mob of Betty Homemakers, and, bonus, maybe someone brought homemade cookies.

  “Hi there.” A blonde in her mid-fifties greeted me as I sank down beside her. “Ready for the big game.”

  I nodded, distracted by her large sunstone earrings (okay, this is the one time geology had paid off).

  “You look a little young to have a player out there,” she teased, and I echoed her warm smile. “Who’s your boy?”

  “My boy?” I asked, stiffening against the cold plastic stadium chair. “Jack Porter is my brother.”