The Smiths lived on a street called Holiday Road, and with a name like that, there was no way anyone could not feel like they were in paradise. Large house after large house lay before me, and the Smiths’ palatial estate was no different. Some properties were larger than the next, stretching across acres of land with fancy gates at the ends of their driveways. None of the houses were styled the same. The house next door was more Mediterranean compared to the contemporary structure that was the Smiths’ house, and a house across the street was almost entirely composed of glass and metal. Back home, in some neighborhoods, we had nice cribs, but not like this—I couldn’t get used to this.
The area was quiet. The only signs of life were a lone jogger across the street, running by with her dog, and a couple of gardeners out attending to colorful flowers or watering green lawns. A car or two passed as I looked up and down the block, noting that everyone had to feel safe and secure in Pacific Hills.
Some guy on a longboard was coasting down the street. When he spotted me, he stopped in front of our walk and eyed me from head to toe.
“Fresh meat,” he muttered. One of his eyes was blue and the other was hazel, and his jet-black hair was a little wet from the perspiration he’d acquired out in the hot morning sun. Even the tank top he was wearing was beginning to stick to him.
He grinned at me. “Who might you be?”
Without answering, I stared, wanting him to get on with his longboarding.
My silence didn’t deter him. He smiled more, gesturing to himself. “Travis Catalano.”
Behind me, the front door shut and someone marched down the path.
Travis gazed behind me, and a salacious look passed through his weird-colored eyes. “Nandy, hey, I see you have another victim.”
When I glanced at Nandy, she was smirking at Travis. Good to know she was generally a bitch to everyone. “Come on, Tyson, let’s go.”
“Later.” Travis set down his longboard and glided down the street, angling his body as he steered and balanced on the board.
I got into Nandy’s car. For a girl who’d taken her time in designing my room, I found it odd that she drove what looked to be a brand-new white BMW. Even if she had a sour disposition, something about Nandy screamed color. The tie-dye scrunchie looped around her gear shift along with the pink dream catcher hanging from her rearview mirror added some spark of personality that seemed all Nandy.
“Stay away from Travis Catalano,” she warned. “He’s trouble. Behind him is nothing but a trail of used condoms, broken hearts, and tickets from the law.”
That was exactly the mental image I needed to prepare for summer school.
She started the car, and we were immersed in some sad-sounding song by some white woman singing in a whispery voice.
I waited for Nandy to change the station, but she pulled out of the driveway and started driving.
“This is Lana Del Rey, Tyson—”
“It’s Trice,” I corrected as I pulled my attention away from scowling at her stereo.
“—and in my car, I listen to what I enjoy. Don’t like it, get your own car.”
I sat back in my seat and stared ahead, knowing full well that I was going to kill her by the end of the summer. I had two months to decide what to do with the body.
Less than ten minutes later, Nandy parked in front of the entrance to Cross High School. She barely turned to acknowledge me, and I knew that was my cue to get out of the car and give her space.
“Look, I don’t know how long you’re going to be, but I’m sure you can walk back. I mean, it’s not like it’s that far from here,” she said.
She had to be kidding. A six-foot black guy walking around the posh streets of Pacific Hills, trying to find his way home? I’d be arrested by local security in five minutes for looking like I was casing the place.
But fuck it, I wasn’t about to play that game with Nandy.
Outside, I could see that only a few other vehicles were in the parking lot. A sign nearby illustrated that this parking area was for staff only. I faced the main entrance. In the distance, above the doors, was a mural reading HOME OF THE KNIGHTS along with the image of a knight posing with a shield and sword.
Ready or not.
I got out of the car and wasn’t even fazed when Nandy drove off without a goodbye after I’d shut the door.
There was a fountain a few yards to my right, and the sound of gushing water was tranquil, alleviating the small bit of tension remaining from my continued strife with Nandy.
Taking a deep breath, I eased up and made my way inside.
Some woman in a polo top and shorts was going somewhere with a stack of papers, and I made it my business to follow her in hopes that she was heading for the main office. It was just my luck that she was.
Along the way, I noticed photo upon photo of Nandy. One of her at some field game for some cause, another at a bake sale, and a few more at various school events. Max hadn’t been kidding; Nandy was a big deal at this school, and I had no doubt that she was highly admired in Pacific Hills. Stuck-up or not, her reputation was impressive. At least she wasn’t a credit-card-carrying socialite with no real attributes, like some cliché.
Maybe, beneath her bitchy facade, she was actually a decent person.
Maybe.
At the main office, the secretary gave me instructions to head up to the second floor, where the junior office was located. Once there, I found a few students waiting as well and took a seat near some kid who was kicked back with his arms crossed over his wide chest, his thick, dark hair poking out from under a trucker hat.
As I filled the seat next to him, the boy sat up. He stared at me without shame, his dark eyes assessing me boldly.
“You new?” he asked.
I sat back and nodded.
“Where you from?”
“Lindenwood.”
The boy whistled. “Shit.”
This was going to be the typical reaction from everyone I met.
“Hey, man, I’ve got some family in the ’Wood, trust me, I know it ain’t no joke. But at least you made it. Can’t say the same for some of my cousins.” He held out a tan hand. “Warhol, Warhol Gómez.”
“Like the artist?” I wondered.
“Yeah, my parents were big fans. My twin sister’s name is Edi,” he continued.
“Tyson Trice, but most people call me Trice.”
“Pleasure serving time with you, Trice.” Warhol smiled, exposing pearly white teeth. “Let me tell you, if it was boring as hell the first time learning it, it’s sure as shit worse the second time. This is my second summer in this place. Sometimes I’m sure I’ll die in these halls.”
“I’m here for math and English.”
“Lucky you. I’ve got chem to make up for, no bueno.”
The door to the office opened, and in walked a black guy who was as tall as I was and a couple shades lighter. He greeted Warhol with a fist bump. “I knew I’d see your dumb ass in here again this summer.”
Warhol smirked. “What’s that say about you, though?”
The boy chuckled and turned to me. He held out his fist. “Ashley.”
His parents had named him that on purpose? I knocked my fist against his anyway. At least I wasn’t the only black guy in town. “Trice.”
Ashley took the seat on Warhol’s right, and they started talking while I continued to wait on my meeting with my new guidance counselor.
When the office door opened again, a scrawny kid walked into the room carrying papers. He was tall, lanky, and by the way he carried himself, someone who stayed in the shadows.
“What’s Frogger doing here?” Ashley asked loudly, catching the boy’s attention.
He turned around from where he was talking to the secretary, whipping shaggy hair out of his eyes. “Did you say something?”
“I know
you’re not in summer school,” Warhol spoke up.
The boy shook his head. “No, I’m volunteering as a student aide.”
Warhol rolled his eyes. “Of course.” He sat up. “There’s this party tonight—do you think you’d be able to pull yourself away from Star Wars and shit and come out? It’s at the beach.”
The boy gave a tight-lipped smile. “Since that invitation was only mildly insulting, I’ll consider it.”
“We miss you on the football team, Kyle. You oughta come back next year,” Ashley said.
Kyle shrugged and headed for the door. “We’ll see.”
“Best damn water boy Cross’s ever had.”
Kyle left the office, and Warhol and Ashley began to snicker. Obviously they weren’t really friends with Kyle.
“So, man, what’s ya hustle?” Ashley asked after sizing me up.
Hustle? What did any trust fund baby know about hustling?
“Right now,” I told him, “this.”
Ashley bobbed his head. “If you ever looking for fun, I’m your man. My girl is the hottest DJ in town and I throw the livest parties. You ever wanna get down, hit me up.”
Warhol tapped my arm. “Actually, there really is a party tonight. You should come.”
I didn’t care about some party. I wasn’t in the mood to hear loud music and laughter, and answer the inevitable questions about who I was and where I was from.
I just wanted silence and peace.
“We’ll see,” was all I said.
The boys went back to talking, and I kept waiting.
A door opened across from me and a woman stepped out of a room. “Tyson Trice?”
I stood.
She held out her hand. “Lydia Gonzalez, but you can call me Lydia.”
I shook her hand and entered her office.
Lydia closed the door and took a seat behind her desk. “So, Tyson, the Smiths tell me you’re from Lindenwood and will be joining us now—after you complete summer school, of course.”
I shrugged. “That’s their plan.”
Lydia squinted. “And what’s your plan, Tyson?”
I sat back in the hard plastic chair. “To be called Trice.”
Lydia folded her hands. “Okay, Trice, what are your plans?”
“To turn eighteen and leave.”
“You’re running away?”
“You a therapist?” She was getting deep when I was only supposed to be registering for my classes.
Lydia seemed to suppress a smirk. “That’s what my degree allows. Beyond academics, I’m here to help in any way I can.”
I didn’t want help. “I’m not running. I just want space from...everything.”
“Okay. And after you leave, what’s next?”
“There’s no official plan, but it’s a start.”
Lydia leaned back and stared at me, gears seeming to turn in her head. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”
I blocked out all thoughts of there. “I don’t care.”
“Ah yes, it says in your file that that seems to be your catchphrase.”
“I don’t care.”
“Tyson—Trice, I’ve been near where you are. When I was your age, I went through something traumatic with someone I cared about, and they let me down. At the time, I blocked it out, decided I didn’t care. But I gotta be honest with you—not caring doesn’t make it go away. Not caring doesn’t stop the pain, it only prolongs an inevitable breakdown. And trust me, it’s not pretty.”
“So, what, you’re here to tell me it gets better?” I hated when people said that shit. There was no “better” from here.
“It will get better, I promise.”
“Did it feel that way when you were my age?”
“When I was your age, I was sure nothing could make the pain or the scars go away, but in time, they did.”
“Time and space.”
Lydia met my gaze and held it. “The pain will fade, Trice.”
“I don’t feel anything.”
She nodded, but I could see the doubt in her brown eyes. “Do you sleep much?”
No. “Some nights.”
“Have any dreams about it?”
Just the look on her face. “Some nights.”
“I don’t wanna push you. I want you to know that when the time comes and you want to talk, I’m here,” said Lydia. “This place, Pacific Hills, it’s not so bad. Cross High, it’s not so bad. This summer, you’re one of us—you’re officially a Knight. Well, more of a summer Knight, but while you’re here, we’re going to get you back on your academic track.”
At least she wasn’t pushy. The people before her, the other doctors and shrinks, they all wanted in my head, wanted to know how I felt, how close I was to cracking. At least Lydia respected me enough to throw the ball in my court.
“Thanks,” I said.
Lydia smiled. “Summer school starts June thirteenth, next Monday. For now, let’s relax and talk about your classes.”
According to the courts and the Smiths, I was stuck here in Pacific Hills no matter what. I might as well make the most of it. I faced the challenge of summer school head-on, meeting Lydia’s eyes and nodding. “Okay.”
6 | Nandy
Summer activities in Pacific Hills were endless. Most of us opted for the simple things: the beach, pools, movies, shopping, and brunch.
Bland for some, but hell, it beat school and cramming for some exam.
The beach wasn’t too crowded. It was mostly full of morning joggers and surfers catching some waves, along with a few other girls out to soak up the sun.
My other best friend, Shayne Mancini, was late. Before leaving my house, I’d texted her that Erica and I were going to the beach, and she’d agreed to show up. But as Erica and I lay out enjoying our summer freedom, Shayne had yet to show.
“So what’s he like?” Erica asked.
I leaned over and grabbed my Fiji Water, then took a long, quenching sip as I ruminated on my answer.
The Tyson Trice I’d known had been a scrawny boy with sad eyes, but he’d always had the biggest smile on his face. We’d played both indoors and out. When we were inside, we’d eat junk food and watch TV, sometimes The Proud Family, and sometimes he’d make me watch Static Shock too, because “boy shows are just as good.” The old Tyson Trice was a sweet boy.
I didn’t know this new Tyson. This new Tyson who wanted to be called Trice. This new Tyson who was big and scary-looking. The anger in his eyes was intense from afar, but up close it was terrifying. He didn’t even believe in God, I’d overhead him say, something that made him seem even more cutthroat.
Maybe there wasn’t a God in Lindenwood.
“Different,” I settled on saying.
“Oh yeah? Does he like hip-hop? Maybe we’ll invite him to one of my shows.”
Erica was half black and half Chinese. Black from her mother and Chinese from her father. Her parents came from two different worlds but somehow fell in love. Mrs. Yee was into neo-soul while Mr. Yee liked any and everything. Erica was crazy into hip-hop, some rap, and a lot of the old stuff from the ’80s all the way up to the early 2000s. She was a DJ and an aspiring radio personality. She often got paid to do gigs at parties and clubs, where her sets always had people on their feet dancing. With her easygoing personality and cheerful voice, she was made for the radio.
I was more of an indie and alternative girl, but Erica was my best friend, so I supported her regardless.
“I’m not trying to be buddy-buddy with him.”
Erica glanced at me. “Why not? He’s going to need friends, Nan.”
“And it has to be me?”
My best friend shook her head and said nothing.
I failed to tell Erica that Tyson wasn’t a legit stranger to my family.
A frown soon ma
rred my face. He’d called me a bitch. That morning, Tyson had looked me straight in the eyes and said I was a bitch. He’d had no expression on his face when he said it. He was cold—from the moment I’d met him in my family room, he’d been stone-cold. How could I not judge him?
Shayne appeared and grabbed the chair beside me, then set her things down with a sigh. “Sorry I’m late—my stepmonster totally tried to bleach all my dad’s clothes. Again.”
A cold air of silence washed over us and Shayne made a show of kicking off her flip-flops, her trembling scowl letting us know she wasn’t joking.
Erica and I shared the same frown. “Oh my God, Shayne.”
She waved me off. “Ugh, I know. She acts like he doesn’t wear the same three outfits when he’s off anyway.”
Typical Shayne.
Her stepmother had been unhappy for so long, but Shayne swore everything she did was for attention due to Sheen’s—Shayne’s father’s—busy work schedule.
Shayne lathered herself with sun tanning lotion before settling down and breathing in the sun.
The heat rained down on us as we lay side by side, soaking it all in. It should’ve been nice and peaceful, with the sound of the nearby waves soothing my senses, but I couldn’t escape my anxiety. My brain was going a million miles a minute, and I didn’t know how to feel. A good hour passed and all I could think about was—
Shayne lifted her head, facing Erica and me. “So, what’s new?”
Erica nudged me. “Nandy’s got a new housemate.”
I shoved Erica. “We don’t have to talk about that.”
“Why not?” Shayne asked. “What’s she like?”
I groaned. “She’s a he, and I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Tough shit.” Shayne raised her oversize sunglasses and gawked at me. “Well? Is he hot or what?”
I cringed. “He’s from Lindenwood.”
Shayne frowned. “Ugh, never mind.”
Erica threw her hands up. “Why are we judging him? We barely know this guy.”
“What’s to know?” Shayne tapped her chin. “On second thought, I say if he’s cute, go for it.”
I scoffed. “Seriously, Shay?”
A Love Hate Thing Page 4
