by Callie Hart
Pres frowns. “Wait. Are you gonna tell me why you were at the hospital?”
“They had a blood drive, that’s all. I went there to donate.”
“Good for you. Dash must have thought you were sweet for doing that.”
“I don’t care what Dashiell Lovett thinks of me.” What. A. Fucking. Joke. Even I laugh my ass off at that. Internally. I haven’t surrendered all self-respect just yet. If I openly admit that I have a crush on the guy to Presley, the charade will be over. I’ll have to acknowledge that I’m just as susceptible to his pretty face as all the other swooning morons who fall down at his feet.
Presley chuckles. She’s braiding the fringe of the throw on my bed into little plaits. “I hate to say it, but you’re obsessing over this run-in at the hospital a little hard. Like you said, this happened four days ago. D’you think Dash is in his room, stewing over his brief encounter with you?”
Out of the all the students at Wolf Hall Academy, only three of them aren’t resident borders. Only three of them are permitted to live off campus on their own. Freshmen are packed into dorm rooms, ten to a room, for the first year of their internment at Wolf Hall. Once you’ve completed your first year at the academy, you’re given your own room, thank god. But Pax Davis, Dashiell Lovett, and Wren Jacobi? They’re special cases.
Individually, their families are richer than the rest of the remaining student body’s families combined. That kind of wealth scores you crazy perks at a place like this. And so, that is how Dash, Pax and Wren came to live at Riot House, and how they, in turn, became Riot House boys. They’re supposed to have an adult guardian living in the house with them, but everyone knows it’s just the three of them, even Principal Harcourt, the head mistress of the school.
Such utter bullshit.
I can see the lights from Riot House if I turn and face east and lean out of my window a little. Not that I’d want to do that, though. That would be weird.
“Well.” Presley says, dropping the throw fringe. “It’s almost time to leave.”
“You sure you still wanna go?”
“To the party?” She glares at me like I’m planning to back out on her. “Yeah, of course I wanna go. I haven’t done anything fun in months. Plus, I really don’t think you have anything to be worried about. Dash won’t even be there. You know they hate crashing townie parties.”
Her words are supposed to be reassuring, but she sounds gloomy; she wishes what she just said wasn’t true. The Riot House boys don’t like crashing townie parties. Dashiell won’t be there, which means that Pax won’t, either. I’m stubborn for refusing to acknowledge my crush on Lovett, but Presley isn’t like me. She isn’t bound by the same rules. She’s as true as an arrow. When she announced that she was in love with Pax eighteen months ago, standing outside Gilbertson’s Coin Operated Laundry and Video Game Arcade, I believed her without question. Once Presley settles on something, or someone, that’s it. The end. She’ll be loyal to that person until the end of time, regardless of whether her feelings are reciprocated or not. She’s been in love with Pax Davis for nearly two years now, and I can’t for the life of me reason why. The guy needs to be lobotomized.
“If you’re so sure none of them will be there, then why are you wearing the dress?” I ask.
Ahhh, the dress. It reminds me of space—a deep royal blue, shot through with a fine silver thread that looks like shooting stars. Pres glances down at the very tight, very short garment she poured herself into half an hour ago, blushing again. Six months ago, she overheard Pax telling someone in the dining hall that his favorite color was royal blue. Pres has been wearing this dress to what she considers ‘key’ parties and social gatherings ever since, in the hopes that Pax will see her in this scrap of blue material and be brought to his knees. So far, he’s been absent from all of the aforementioned events.
“It’s my party uniform. My party armor. I’ve worn it so much, I can’t wear anything else now,” she says.
I sweep my eyes up and down her tall, slender frame. She’s classically beautiful, with a regal look to her. It’s pure insanity that Pax hasn’t noticed her yet.
I’ve never once tried to dress in a way that might snag Dash’s attention. What would be the point? I hear Alderman’s gruff voice in the back of my head, reciting rule number three in an adamant tone, the way he always does whenever he calls: No boys. I repeat, absolutely NO boys. No dating. No falling in love. No nonsense of any kind. I mean it, kid. NO BOYS!
I’m not supposed to fantasize about Dashiell Lovett. I’m not supposed to even think his name. The trouble is that Dashiell’s incredibly difficult not to think about. He’s a fair-haired, hazel-eyed colonial at a private American school, and he descends from nobility, for fuck’s sake. English nobility. Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility-type nobility. Even if I wasn’t living under Alderman’s edict, it wouldn’t really matter what I chose to wear. I could dress in the most constricting, ridiculous Jane-Austen-approved attire known to man and it still wouldn’t matter. I’d still be unworthy and overlooked. He proved that the other day when he looked up at me like he’d never set eyes on me before in his entire, spoiled existence. Arrogant motherfucker.
Anger eats away at my insides, and as always, it galvanizes me. Setting my jaw, I jerk my chin at Presley’s dress. “Take it off, Pres. We’re getting dressed. Properly dressed. We’re going to wear what we want to wear and fuck those guys.”
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”
The party’s on the outskirts of Mountain Lakes—a sprawling farmhouse, set on a plot of land south of Upper Mountain Lake itself. I’ve never been here before but plenty of the other Wolf Hall students have. I’ve always been too busy sticking to Alderman’s rules to let loose. Parties have always been a no-go. But lately, I’ve been feeling a little…suffocated. I do everything Alderman asks. I keep my head down. I don’t ask questions. I work hard. I haven’t deviated from the plan we so meticulously formulated together before I came to the school. I’ve made myself small, when everything inside of me is screaming to be BIG! And so, tonight, for one night only, I’ve decided that I can have this one thing for myself. A simple party. It isn’t as if I’m going to take a bunch of drugs and get arrested.
Alderman would say there is no such thing as a simple party. He’d come up with a million reasons for me to stay behind at the academy and shut myself away in my room with my little telescope. But y’know what? Alderman isn’t here. He’s back in Seattle, doing whatever it is he does in that dark office of his. I’m the one stuck here in New Hampshire, so he can suck it.
Fog clings to our breath as we head toward the clamor of light and sound spilling out of the house. To our right, a bonfire rages in the yard, bright orange flames leaping up into the night sky. People scream, scattering away from the strengthening fire, but not me and Pres. We’re on a mission, headed for the kitchen of this godforsaken hellhole. That’s where we’ll find the booze.
“It’s purple. And big,” Presley moans. We’ve reached the entrance to the house. “Dude, this was a mistake.”
I pause, hand resting on the doorknob, settling an even, calm look on her. “Was it? That tutu came out of your wardrobe. Do you hate it?”
“Uh…no?”
“Do you think it’s hideous or something?”
“No.” A little more confident this time. “I think it’s awesome. I just…well, other people are gonna think it’s weird.”
I let go of the doorknob and face her, placing a hand on either one of her shoulders. “Listen up. I’m only gonna say this once.” I clear my throat for added gravitas. “Who…Gives…A…Fuck…What…Other…People…Think.” I really mean it, too. This isn’t just some bullshit designed to make her feel better. I couldn’t care less what anyone thinks of me. Every single person I meet on the street, in a hallway or a classroom makes their minds up about me in the breadth and space of time that it takes for a healthy heart to beat. They’re going to think whatever they’re g
oing to think. That’s just what people do.
Alderman would prefer me to toe the line. His policy is that of all concerned parents: he wants me to conform. To fly under the radar. Preppy little cardigans and blue jeans aren’t effective armor for me, though. I tried wearing that shit and it didn’t help. I tried straightening my hair and taming it down, so that it wasn’t so wild. I wore the kind of stuff that future Yale and Harvard girls might wear to their college interviews, and the only thing I accomplished was making myself feel uncomfortable. Now, I wear whatever the fuck I feel like wearing. Presley, on the other hand, isn’t quite as impervious to other people’s judgment.
“Who gives a shit if people think it’s weird? I’m wearing bright yellow corduroy overalls. Our outfits couldn’t clash harder if we tried. So what? We came to have fun at a party. Let’s do that, and screw what anyone else thinks.”
Presley steels herself, then lifts her head. “You’re right. Screw what anyone else thinks.”
3
CARRIE
SIX YEARS AGO
I’m small for eleven, which makes him mad.
“Well then?” He slams my head against the stained mattress. “Are you? Are you bleeding yet? Answer the fucking question!”
My mother’s boyfriend sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, wetting it, and the sudden look of hunger on his face makes me panic. “N—no, sir. I haven’t.”
His top lip twitches, curling up and exposing his yellowed front teeth. They’re rodent-like. Every detail about Jason has a ratty quality to it, from his thin, greasy hair, to his beady, too dark, inhuman eyes, to the way he hunches over when he walks. He looks pissed.
“Better not be lyin’ to me, you sneaky little bitch.”
“No, sir, I promise. I wouldn’t lie.”
Quick as a striking snake, he grabs me by the hair, yanking my head up toward his, off the mattress. “If I find out you are…” The threat hangs there in the inch of space between his face and mine, sharp as a knife. I nod as much as I can, with him grasping hold of my hair so tightly.
“I’ll tell you, I promise. When I start—” I let out a terrified hiccup, “—I’ll tell you, I swear!”
His grip tightens. Pain prickles across the back of my skull, the roots of my hair protesting. “Good.” He lets go, shoving my head back onto the mattress so hard that my skull bounces off the mattress and my teeth clack together like castanets. “Now git off your ass and git down those stairs. Make me some fucking food.”
4
DASH
Lovett Estates
Fri 6.38 PM
Reply-To: [email protected]
To: Dashiell Lovett
Your economics paper was disappointing. Re-write and submit to Hansen by the end of the week. Include more relevant references. Cull all erroneous, colloquial language. Remember, you are representing not only the Lovett family name but a sacred and respected royal lineage. You embarrass us all when you conduct yourself this way. Your teachers might be satisfied with this kind of lackluster performance, but you will demonstrate to me that you can do better.
— Dashiell Lovett III, The Rt Hon. Duke of Surrey
A motherfucking A minus. That’s what I got on that paper. I rue the day the academy upgraded their reporting system to an online dashboard. We get our grades early and can keep track of our submissions, yeah, but who gives a crap? Principal Harcourt gave our parents access, too. My father, who rarely condescends to use technology—“Only poor people have mobile phones, boy. Nothing wrong with using a secretary”—now has Hansen, his personal assistant, check my work. If it’s anything less than perfect, you can bet your fucking ass I’m getting an email about it. That’s the only time when the hypocrite will utilize technology.
So here we are. It’s Friday night. Sitting at the old upright piano in the corner of my room, I’m surrounded by blank sheet music, obsessing over the complex melody that’s looping around in my head. All I want to do is stay here and finish the piece, but no. I’ve disappointed the old man once again, and now I have to re-write an economics paper that does not need fucking rewriting, and—
“COME ON, LIMP DICK! WE GOTTA GO!”
—I’m not going to have time to rewrite my stupid paper because guess what? I have to go to a party.
Pax, who so charmingly shouted at me from the bottom of the stairs just now, is driving this train, which automatically means that it will end up derailed, but I have no say in this. The kids from Edmondson High lacrosse team painted a dick on our front door, and so now this is happening. They’re having a party, so we go and fuck up their shit. We humiliate them, and then we come home. The end.
Demonstrate to me that you can do better…
God, I hate my father. Like, fucking HATE him.
“NOW, LOVETT! Get your Limey ass down here, man! I ain’t fuckin’ around.”
I might hate Pax, too. Just a little bit.
The Edmondson Lacrosse team has plenty of reasons to paint a dick on our door. At some point, all three of us have done something to piss off the kids at the neighboring high school. Pax has fucked half of their cheerleading squad. Wren’s fucked the other half. I made it my business to fuck the lacrosse team captain’s girlfriend last semester, so—
Okay, okay. Fine. Hindsight. I’m at least seventy percent responsible for the sloppy blue dick that was painted on our front door, but let’s not dwell on that, okay? We’re going to a party. I’m still ‘injured’, so I won’t be participating in tonight’s little escapade. My job is to provide moral support and keep an eye out to make sure we don’t get busted. I can handle that. Be nice if we could all just stay at home, polish off a bottle of whiskey and play Xbox, though; these Edmondson parties are the worst.
In the car, pulling up to the farmhouse, Pax is so geared up that I’m waiting for him to break out a map and start talking about pincer moves. Neither of his parents are in the military, but he plays way too much Call of Duty. “Okay, Wren. Divide and conquer. The moment we’re through the front door, we separate. I take the upstairs. You take the ground floor. Once we find our mark, we take care of business and then get the fuck out of dodge. Lovett, you see anything suspect and you text us both 911. You got it?”
“Yeah. I got it.” Sarcasm 101, boys and girls. I roll my eyes. “Thank you for the fifteen-thousandth recap. I know what I’m supposed to do.”
Pax rolls up to the house and finds a spot in the make-shift parking lot slash field at the back of the house. He kills the Charger’s engine and looks at me; this is the Pax Davis trademark look. The one he uses to disembowel his enemies. He opens his mouth, no doubt about to say something scathing and salty, but then he pauses. He gives me a once over and his nose wrinkles, like he’s just registered the tang of something spoiled in the air. “Yo, what are you wearing?”
“What?” I run my hands over the front of my black bomber jacket. “I’ve had this for ages.” This is not a lie. I’ve owned the jacket, the t-shirt and the jeans for well over a year. I’ve just never worn any of them.
“You look like you’re trying to fit in,” Pax says disapprovingly.
“That’s the point. Was I s’posed to show up in a button-down and an ascot? I’m sure I’d have gone totally unnoticed wearing a Tom Ford suit to a fucking kegger.”
He snarls. Wren, who’s been staring up at the farmhouse, huffs loudly. “Come on. Let’s go.” I had hoped he might put a pin in this nonsense, but I should have known better. He thrives on this kind of chaos.
The three of us get out of the Charger. The smell of smoke and cooking meat floats down the slope from the house, and my stomach rumbles, reminding me that I forgot to eat earlier. Doesn’t matter, though. Fingers crossed, we’ll be out of here within the next hour and we can grab some food from Screamin’ Beans on the way home.
These thoughts are all background noise. I’m still stewing over Pax’s commentary on my c
lothes. It was intentional, my choice of attire for tonight’s outing. Yeah, I wanted to make sure I didn’t stick out like a sore thumb, and I have a way of doing that a lot of the time. But…Christ, the comment Carrie Mendoza made at the hospital four days ago lodged itself inside my head and has been rattling around in there ever since, irritating the shit out of me.
I own regular clothes.
Informal clothes.
Clothes that were not sent from Brooks Brothers of London, in neat garment bags to save them from getting rumpled.
At least half of my clothes are casual.
Yeah, your workout clothes, a smug voice reminds me.
Asshole.
“Okay. This is gonna be a shit fight, so be ready,” Pax says. “Half the fuckers at this party are on that lacrosse team. They’re gonna raise hell if they find out that we’re stepping onto their turf. You both know what that means, right?”
Some people are always ready for disaster. Some people are always prepared for an emergency. Pax Davis is always ready for a brawl. His hands are fists more often than they’re not. His teeth are permanently bared at the world.
“Means I should be back at the house, in my bed, with an ice pack resting on my dick. If I tear my stitches—”
“Stitch,” Wren corrects me.
“—I’m gonna be livid. And not just a little bit. A whole lot.”
Pax frowns at Wren. “Has he always been like this? I don’t remember him being such a little bitch.”
