“Still trying to play the knight?” I ask, reaching reflexively for the cup.
“Your English class with Wellson is on the other side of the quad,” he says. “Five minutes isn’t enough time, unless you know the way.”
As soon as I take the coffee, he sets off down the hall. It’s all I can do to keep up and not spill the drink all over myself as I swerve to avoid being hit by shoulders and the noise that comes with them.
“Before you ask how I knew about Wellson,” he says, “I don’t have a thing for preying on new students.” He taps the side of his head. “Just a photographic memory.”
“That has to come in handy in a school like this.”
His smile widens. “It does.”
As he leads me through the building, I try to commit the route to memory.
“You’ll learn it backward and forward in no time.”
I’ll have to. One of the “innovative learning tactics” mentioned in the brochure is the scheduling. Semesters at Hyde are made up of five classes: three before lunch, two after. Every other day the schedule is reversed, so whatever class came first goes last, last first, etc., etc. So Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays look like this: Precalc, Literary Theory, Wellness, (lunch), Physiology, Government. Tuesdays and Thursdays look like this: Government, Physiology, Wellness, (lunch), Literary Theory, Precalc.
The brochure contained a lengthy, case study–supported explanation of why it works; right now it feels like just another hoop to jump through.
Cash leads the way through a set of doors, out onto an inner quad that’s ringed with buildings. Then he veers down a path to the right. Along the way, he drinks his coffee and cheerfully tosses out fun facts about Hyde: It’s been around since 1832; it used to be two schools (one for guys and one for girls), but they consolidated; one of the founders was a sculptor, and the campus is studded with statues, fourteen in all, though the number is always up for debate. Cash rambles on, waving whenever someone shouts his way (which is surprisingly often) without so much as a pause in his speech.
Luckily he doesn’t stop to chat with anyone this time, and we reach my class right as the second bell rings. He smiles triumphantly, turning away—but not before I can say thanks this time. He offers a salute that sweeps into a bow, and then he’s gone. I finish my coffee, trash the cup, and push the door open. Students are still taking their seats, and I snag one two rows back as a middle-aged woman with strikingly good posture—I assume she’s Ms. Wellson—writes in perfect print across the board. When she steps aside and I see the words, I can’t help but smile.
DANTE’S INFERNO.
It is summer, and I’m searching for a coffee shop beneath layers of dust, while Wesley Ayers sits backward on a metal chair. I can see the outline of a key beneath his shirt. The shared secret of our second lives hangs between us, not like a weight, but like a lifeline. I clean, and he rescues a book from a pile of sheets beside the chair.
“What have we here?” he asks, holding up the text.
Dante’s Inferno.
“Required reading,” I tell him.
“It’s a shame they do that,” he says, flipping through the unread pages. There’s a reverence in the way he handles it, his eyes skimming the words as if he knows them all by heart. “Requirement ruins even the best of books.”
I ask him if he’s read it, and he says he has, and I admit I haven’t, and he smiles and tells me that books like this are meant to be heard.
“I’ll prove it to you,” he says, flashing me a crooked smile. “You clean, I’ll read.”
And he does. That first day, and for the rest of the summer. And I remember every word.
When the bell rings again, I’ve aced a pop quiz—the other students didn’t even have the decency to look annoyed when Ms. Wellson announced it—and gone a whole class period without a nightmare, thanks to Cash and his coffee. I expect to find him waiting for me in the hall, but there’s no sign of him. (I’m surprised to feel a small pang of disappointment as I survey the stream of students in black and green, silver and gold, and come up empty.) The silvers and golds, however, all seem to be heading in the same direction, and since I know from the brochure that juniors and seniors all have Wellness—which as far as I can tell is just a pretentious way of saying gym—together before lunch, I decide to follow the current.
It leads out and across the lawn, beyond the ring of buildings to another majestic structure, this one all ancient stone and gothic accents. I finally catch sight of one of the sculptures Cash mentioned, a stone hawk perched on the mantel over the doors.
“The Hyde School hawk,” he says, appearing beside me out of nowhere, and a little out of breath. “It’s our mascot. Said to represent insight, initiative, and ingenuity.”
A cluster of junior girls are on the path several feet ahead of us; as Cash talks, one of them looks back and rolls her eyes. “Cassius Arthur Graham, I keep telling you, you can’t woo girls with school facts. Hyde history is never going to be a turn-on.”
I feel my face go warm, but Cash doesn’t color at all, only smiles broadly. “It may surprise you, Safia, but not all of us open our mouths with the sole intention of getting into someone’s pants.”
Her friends laugh, but the girl’s eyes narrow with the kind of irritation usually reserved for exes and younger siblings. Judging by her features—she has the same dark hair as Cash, hers pulled back into a ponytail, and the same gold eyes—I’m guessing she’s the latter. Cash’s comment seems to have hit a nerve, because Safia links her arm through her friend’s, shoots back a short string of nasty words, and hurries into the Wellness Center. Cash shrugs, unfazed.
“Sister,” he confirms as we pass through the doors. “Anyway, sorry I was late. Mr. Kerry went off on one of his tangents—be glad you’ve got a year before you’re subjected to him—and kept us after. Have I sacrificed my knighthood? Or did my valiant display in the face of fire-breathing dragons just now win me some credit?”
“I think you can keep your shield.”
“What a relief,” he says, nodding toward his sister as her ponytail vanishes into the locker room. “Because I think I’ll need it later.”
By the time I find my locker, preassigned and prestocked with workout shorts and a T-shirt—I cringe at the sight of short sleeves, thankful I’m largely bruise-free (if not scar-free) at the moment—I’ve knocked into three different girls by accident and managed to avoid several dozen others. School is like a minefield: so many people, so little personal space. Locker rooms are even worse, but I make it through with only a dull headache.
I watch the other girls peel off their necklaces and rings—what little jewelry Hyde allows—and stash them in their lockers before getting changed. I’m not about to relinquish my ring, but I fumble with the key around my neck, knowing it will draw more attention. If someone calls me out on the necklace, they’re bound to demand the rest of my jewelry comes off, too. I slide the key over my head and set it on the shelf, feeling too light without it.
I’m just tugging on my workout shirt when I hear someone shout, “Come on, Saf!”
“I’ll be right there,” comes a now-recognizable voice. I look over to see Safia lacing up her sneakers at the end of the bench. She doesn’t look up, but there’s no one else around, so I know she’s talking to me when she speaks.
“You know it’s his job, right?” she asks, cinching her shoes.
“Excuse me?”
She straightens, tightening her ponytail before leveling her gaze on me. “My brother is a school ambassador. Showing you around, making you feel welcome—it’s just another one of his duties. A job. I thought you should know.”
She wants it to sting, and it does. But hell if I’ll give her the benefit of letting it show.
“Well, that’s a relief,” I say brightly. “He’s been so clingy, I was starting to think I’d led him on.” I shut my locker firmly and stride past her. “Thanks,” I add, patting her shoulder as I go. (It’s worth the sound of ripping
metal in my head to feel her tense beneath my touch.) “I feel so much better now.”
The outside of Hyde’s Wellness Center may sport the same old stone-and-moss facade as the rest of campus, but beyond the locker rooms—which act as gatekeepers to the gym—the inside is all whitewashed wood and glass and steel. There are smaller rooms branching off to one side and a pool branching off to the other, but the main training room is a massive square. It’s subdivided into quadrants by black stripes on the floor and ringed by a track. I can’t help but brighten a little at the sight of the glittering equipment. It’s a pretty big step up from my makeshift gym on the Coronado roof.
I hug the perimeter, taking in the scene. A group is playing volleyball, another jogging around the track. Half a dozen students are breaking into fencing bouts; Safia stands with them, fastening her glove and flexing her sword. I’ve never fenced before, but I’m half tempted to try, just for the chance to hit her. I smile and take a few steps toward her when a shout goes up from the far side of the room.
On a raised platform near the edge of the massive center, two students are sparring.
They’re standing in a kind of boxing ring minus the rope—both seniors, judging by the gold stripes that mark their gym clothes where the fabric peeks out from behind the pads. The gold is all I can see, since the rest of them is buried beneath padding; even their faces are masked by the soft helmets. A handful of students—I can just make out Cash among them, a fencing mask tucked under his arm—and a burly middle-aged teacher stand around, watching as the two boys bounce on their toes, punching, kicking, and blocking. The shorter of the two seems to be working a lot harder.
The taller one moves with fluid grace, easily avoiding most of the jabs. And then, between one blink and the next, he acts instead of reacts, thrusting one foot forward and low before planting his shoe at the last moment, turning on it, and delivering a roundhouse kick to the other boy’s head.
The boy ends up on his back, dazed but unhurt. I doubt anyone else noticed his opponent slowing his motion just before his foot connected, easing the blow. The teacher sounds a whistle, the students applaud, and the victor helps the defeated to his feet. He gives the shorter boy a quick pat on the back before the loser hops down from the platform.
I’ve managed to make my way across the fitness hall while watching the bout, and I’ve just reached the edge of the group of spectators when the victor gives a theatrical bow, clearly relishing the attention.
Then he tugs his helmet off, and I find myself looking up at Wesley Ayers.
FOUR
WESLEY AYERS is the stranger in the halls of the Coronado.
He is the Keeper in the garden who shares my secret.
He is the boy who reads me books.
He is the one who teaches me how to touch.
And today, he is the guy on the stone bench, wearing a tux.
It’s the end of summer, and we’re sitting in the Coronado garden. I’m perched on one of the benches in workout pants and a long-sleeve shirt pushed up to the elbows, and Wesley is stretched out on the other in his best black and white. There’s only an hour or two left until his father’s wedding, but he’s still here.
Something is eating at him, I can tell. Something has been since he showed up, and I stupidly assume it’s just the fact that he hates his father’s fiancée, or at least what she means for his family. But he doesn’t offer any of his usual acerbic remarks, doesn’t even acknowledge the wedding or the tux. He just slumps down onto his bench and starts reciting the last of my required reading as if it’s any other day.
And then, somewhere between one line and the next, his voice trails off. I glance over, wondering if he’s asleep, but his eyes are neither closed nor unfocused. They’re leveled on me. I return the look.
“You okay there?” I ask.
A smile flickers across his face. “Just thinking.”
He sets the book aside and pushes up from his bench, smoothing the front of his rumpled tux as he closes the gap between us.
“About what?” I ask, shifting to make room as he settles down beside me. He comes close, close enough to touch, his folded arm knocking against my shoulder, his knee against mine. I take a breath as his rock band sound washes over me, loud but familiar.
“About us.”
At first, I barely recognize him.
Wesley’s hazel eyes are free of the eyeliner I’ve seen him wear all summer; his hair is still black, but instead of standing up, it’s stuck to his forehead with sweat; every bit of silver is missing from his ears. All his little quirks are stripped away, but he’s got those proud shoulders and that crooked smile, and his whole face is lit up from the fight. Even without the bells and whistles, it is still undeniably Wesley Ayers. And now that I see him, I don’t know how I didn’t see him earlier.
Maybe because Wesley Ayers—my Wesley—is supposed to be on some beach, bonding with his family.
My Wesley wouldn’t be here at this stuck-up school, wouldn’t lie to me about going here, and certainly wouldn’t look like he belongs here.
“Who’s next?” he asks, eyes glittering.
“I am,” I shout back.
The spectators—all boys—turn collectively, but my gaze is leveled firmly on Wes. The corner of his mouth tilts up. Of course he’s not surprised to see me. He’s known for weeks where I was enrolled. He never said anything. No “Oh great, we can stick together.” No “Don’t worry, you won’t be alone.” Not even a “Well, what a coincidence.” Why? Why didn’t he tell me?
“Now, young lady, I don’t think—” starts the burly gym teacher as I approach the platform and begin strapping on pads.
“I signed the waivers,” I cut in, tugging on forearm guards, wondering if there even are waivers for this class. It seems like that kind of school.
“It’s not about that,” says the teacher. “This is hand-to-hand combat, and it’s important to match the students in terms of—”
“How do you know we’re not well matched?” I shoot back, cinching down a shin guard. “Unless you’re assuming that because I’m a girl.” I look the teacher in the eyes. “Are you assuming that, sir?” I don’t wait for him to answer. I step up onto the platform, and he doesn’t stop me, which is good enough.
“Give the guy hell!” shouts Cash as I pull the helmet on.
Oh, I think, I will.
“Hey, you,” says Wesley as I meet him in the center of the platform.
“Hey, you,” I mimic bitterly.
“I can explain—” he starts, but he’s cut off by the sound of the whistle.
I kick forward hard and fast, catching Wesley high in the chest before the shrill metallic cry has even stopped. The crowd gives a gasp as he falls, hitting the floor for only a moment before rolling over and pulling himself to his feet. I attack with another kick, which he blocks. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see we’re gaining a crowd. He throws a punch, which I dodge, followed by an uppercut, which I don’t. The wind rushes out of my lungs, but I don’t let it stop me from grabbing his fist and his wrist—pain thrumming up my own—and turning fast, flipping him over my shoulder.
He should hit the mat flat on his back, but somehow he twists midair and lands in a crouch, elegant as a cat. In a blink he’s up again and closing the gap between us. I arch back just in time to avoid a hit and recover fast enough to see an opening—left side, stomach—but I don’t take it. It’s been three weeks since Owen stabbed Wesley. Even though it doesn’t show in his stance, I know it still hurts him. I’ve seen the laughs cut short by a wince, the ginger way he stands and sits.
My hesitation earns me a swift kick to the chest, and I’ve got just enough time to hook my foot behind his knee and wrap my hand around his chest plate before I go down, taking him with me. I hit the mat hard and brace myself for Wesley’s weight to land on top of me; but his palms hit the floor before his body hits me, and he manages to catch himself.
He hovers inches over me, breathing hard. Then his mouth quir
ks into a crooked smile, a familiar smile, and he knocks his helmet playfully against mine.
“Miss me?”
The garden is silent except for the sound of my pulse.
Wesley leans across the stone bench and brings his lips featherlight against my temple. Then against my cheekbone. Against my jaw. A trail of kisses that makes me suck in a short breath, because the only time Wesley has ever kissed me—truly kissed me—he did it to read my memories. That was an angry kiss, forceful and firm. But these kisses are different. These kisses are cautious, hopeful.
“Wes,” I warn.
His forehead comes to rest against my shoulder. “You sound like thunderstorms and heavy rain, did you know that?” He lets out a soft, low laugh. “I never liked bad weather. Not until I met you.”
His voice has its usual easy charm, but now it’s also threaded through with longing.
“Say something, Mac.”
Wesley’s body rests against mine. The combat padding acts as a buffer, and for a moment all I hear are the sounds of his breathing and my heart. How strange. It’s so…quiet. I’ve gotten used to the sound of Wesley’s noise—learned to float in it instead of drowning—but even the relative quiet of the familiar can never match this. His body on mine. Simple as skin.
My pulse quickens, and I have to remind myself that I pushed him away. I pushed him away. Now, looking up through Wes’s face mask into his eyes—his lashes darkened with sweat—I will myself to do it again.
“What are you doing here?” I hiss, trying to hide the hurt in my voice.
“This might not be the best time to—”
“Tell me.”
He opens his mouth. “Mac—”
And then the whistle blows.
“All right, enough of that,” calls the teacher. “Both of you, up.”
Wesley closes his mouth but doesn’t move. I realize my hand is still hooked around his chest plate, holding him there. I let go quickly, and he winks before springing to his feet. He offers me his gloved hand, but I’m already standing. I tug my helmet off, smooth my hair, and scan the crowd of students that gathered while we fought.
The Unbound Page 3
