by Callie Hart
“Thank you, Mr. Montgomery.” Looking a little nervous, Halliday quickly backs out of his office.
Monty shoots me a weary look that speaks volumes. He thinks I’m a moron for even bringing her before him and he’s not afraid to show it. “Keep an eye on her, Moron. You vouched for her. She’s your responsibility now.”
Great. Just what I fucking need.
I’m back out on the bar floor and Halliday, or rather Billie is set up on the stage, when I feel my phone buzz in my back pocket. The text is from a number I don’t recognize.
(253) 441 9678. Sorry, classes are off. I can’t teach you. Harriet’s a great trumpet teacher. Best of luck – S.
10
SILVER
I was prepared for some fallout after the message I sent to Alex last night, but I’m hardly expecting him to be waiting at the foot of the stairs for me first thing this morning. He's wearing a Billy Joel t-shirt and a face like thunder. I manage a warped smirk as I walk past him, into the building. “If you think you’re gonna win me over with a t-shirt, you’re sorely mistaken.”
“What?”
“The Billy Joel…never mind. Look, I’m sorry, but I’m in the same boat as you. I don’t want any drama either, and if you’re gonna be rubbing shoulders with the football team, then as far as I’m concerned, you’re damaged goods.”
“Of course I’m damaged goods. What does the football team have to do with—” He stops short, as if he’s just pieced together why I hate them so much. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
I screech to a halt, and he nearly walks right into my back. I’m fizzing with the beginnings of anger as I face him. “I’m sorry, do I owe you an explanation for anything I do? Am I indebted to you in some way?”
His expression is stony. The muscles in his jaw tic like crazy as he flips a set of keys over and over in his hand. “Play nice, Argento. What makes you think I’ll be rubbing shoulders with any of those meatheads?”
“Because that’s how things work around here, okay. If you’re on the team, you are on the team. I can’t help you.”
“You can’t, or you won’t?”
“I won’t.”
“Okay. Fine. But I already paid for my first two lessons. You have to get me started at least.”
God, the gall of this guy. I’ve already put the money he gave me in an envelope. I take it out of my jacket pocket and thrust it at him. “I was gonna slide it into your locker, but I guess this saves me the trouble. Here. Take it back.”
He doesn’t take it back. “That’s not how this works. You agreed to two lessons. I’m getting them.”
I let my hand fall slack. “Jesus, Alex. Why is everything so damned difficult with you? Just take the money and leave me alone, okay. I just want to get through this year, graduate, and get the fuck out of here. Please. You’re making a scene.”
“Two lessons. Then I’ll be out of your hair, and you won’t have to worry about me complicating your plans. I promise.”
“What does it even matter? Do you think I’m gonna change my mind or something? Because I won’t. I will out-stubborn you every step of the way, believe me.”
“Oh, I believe you.”
“Moretti!” The shout rings out across the parking lot. It’s Jake. Every single muscle in my body tenses at the sound of his boisterous voice. Alex frowns when he sees my reaction to the guy, and a dark, ominous look spreads over him.
“Him?” he says.
“Yeah, him. Now, please, just take the money…”
“I’ll see you after school, Argento. Don’t stand me up. You won’t like what happens if you do.”
“Alex. Alex!” It’s too late. He’s jogging off down the steps, towards Jacob and his crew, and my heart is plummeting in my chest like a lead weight. It feels like it’s about to fucking explode when Alex reaches out and accepts Jake’s bro handshake like they’re suddenly the best of fucking friends. My mouth is hanging open.
Horrific timing, really, since Kacey and the girls choose right now to saunter up the steps. My ex-best-friend sneers as she shoulders her way past me. “Catching flies again, Silver? I’d watch out if I were you. One of these guys might find something to slip in there again if you’re not careful.”
The girls all titter like the mindless mannequins that they are. I glare after them, which is the only reason why I catch Halliday looking back over her shoulder, her face the very picture of conflict. At first, I think she’s staring at me. But then, I realize with a sick weight pressing down on my chest, that she’s actually looking at Alex.
11
ALEX
I make nice with the kid who hurt Silver, and it costs me dearly. I fucking hated him before I knew what he did to her, but now…
Now, I want to fucking kill the bastard.
“Leon’s parties are legendary, man,” he tells me, throwing his arm around me as we head inside. “Half the school’s still talking about the last one, and that went down, like, nine months ago. His cousin’s a DJ in L.A. He always comes up here to play a set. There’s plenty of booze, and the girls…” He shakes his head, laughing. “The girls get fucking crazy, man. You’re guaranteed to get laid, no matter who you are. Last time, I fucked three different girls and they were all hot for it.”
He spins a sordid, repulsive tale of Leon Wickman’s spring fling party that took place last year, as I try to make a beeline for History. Unlucky for me, turns out Jake is in my class, so I have to listen to him brag on and on about how some chick was blowing him under a table while he made out with a different girl, who had no idea what was happening.
“There’ll definitely be some action for you there, Moretti, if you’re into it.” My face feels fucking numb. Jacob sits down next to me on the back row. “Any of them caught your eye so far?” he asks, as Mr. Biltmore, a skinny guy with a wispy, half-assed beard begins scribbling something on the chalkboard at the front of the class.
“Hmm?”
I’d ignore Jake if I could, but the motherfucker is persistent. “Any of the girls here in school?” he presses. “You into any of them?”
“God, no.”
“It’s cool, it’s cool. I know Zen’s diggin’ on you. She’s one of Kacey’s friends. Gives amazing head, and I heard she let Taylor Elliot stick it in her ass. She’d be a freaky first conquest.”
“Told you. I’m not interested.”
“Hey, okay, okay. Didn’t mean to stick my nose where it’s not wanted. I just felt like I had to say something because…well, I hate to speak badly, but I saw you hanging ’round with Silver Parisi a couple of times, and pssshh…” He widens his eyes, making a crazy face. “That one is certifiable, my man. Bitch has mental problems.”
I press the nib of my pen into the notepad in front of me so hard, the plastic buckles and cracks between my fingers. “Oh yeah?”
“She’s a manipulator. Worse, she’s a super bad lay. Take whatever she says with a pinch of salt, dude. If Silver’s mouth is moving, then she’s fucking lying. She’s always been that way. Took a long time for any of us to see it, but now…I’m telling you the truth, man. There isn’t a single person at Raleigh stupid enough to look twice at her.”
“All right. Open your books to page fifty-eight, people. Today we’re learning about, you guessed it…the United Nations Treaty Series! One of the most important international docu—ahh, who am I kidding?” Mr. Biltmore calls from the front of the class. “We’re going over the American Civil War again, ladies and gentlemen! Are you pumped for the Battle of Gettysburg or what?”
His sarcasm goes mostly unnoticed, but I appreciate it. Slowly, I turn my head a full forty-five degrees to the left, until I’m staring coldly at Jacob Weaving’s profile. “Duly noted,” I tell him. “Silver’s a liar. I’ll give her a wide berth.”
Jake grins at me, an All-American football hero in the making, complete with perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth. “Good man, Moretti. Good man. N
My pen cracks again. The entire thing breaks in two. I clench my fist around the broken pieces, enjoying the feel of the sharp edges digging into the flesh of my palm. “Sure. Why not. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
When class ends, Jake thumps the top of my arm, telling me he’ll catch me later, and just like that, I’m dismissed. It’s a relief. All I can think about is slamming my fist into the fucker’s throat; finding myself free of him is like finding myself free of a persistent and particularly nasty bout of Chlamydia. I do not like the dynamic Weaving’s trying to cement between us—one where he assumes the role of alpha, with me playing along as the good subordinate.
Jacob really has to be the stupidest fucking person I have ever met. Or maybe not. Maybe he really is this sure of himself. Either way, he seems to be missing all the warning signs where I’m concerned: the rap sheet; the tattoos; the motorcycle; the murder in my eyes whenever I look at the piece of shit. I’m gonna go right ahead and blame this one on Instagram. They made guys like me popular. They made it fashionable to look like me, to dress like me, to talk and walk like me. But these Insta famous fuck boys have no idea what the hell they’re doing when they pick a gang tattoo from a wall in a hipster den in Seattle and pay to have it driven into their skin. They have no idea what a knife feels like in their hands. They sure as fuck don’t know what it feels like to drive that into someone else’s skin.
In the end, they don’t have a clue how to really walk this walk or talk this talk. The fact that you can buy my ‘style’ in H&M might have robbed me of my threatening reputation…but that doesn’t mean that I am not a threat.
I spend the day on the look-out for Silver. She’s not an easy person to keep track of, let me tell you. I swear I see the same repeating faces in the hallway, over and over again between classes, but not the girl with the haunted look in her eyes. Seems as though she’s a ghost from the moment she walks into Raleigh High to the moment she books it out of here. I’m unsurprised to find her noticeably missing in the cafeteria at lunch. I normally leave school grounds and eat at a diner nearby myself, but not today.
I’m headed for the exit, about to go in search of something more palatable than cafeteria fare, when I catch sight of the food and realize that it’s actually a far cry from the garbage they dished up at Bellingham. Grabbing a loaded tray of food—burger, wedge of lasagna, cup of chocolate pudding—I find an empty table and park myself, ready to hoe in. I’m unimpressed when I sense someone to my right, lowering themselves onto the bench beside me. One, single, solitary banana appears on the table next to my tray, and an overpowering smell, saccharine sweet, hits the back of my nose.
“Wow. You starved at home or something?”
I sigh, annoyance snapping at my back. It’s her again—the Walking Fenty Purse. Zen straddles the bench, facing me, smiling suggestively as she peels her banana and takes a bite. Has this chick never seen a fucking movie? Doesn’t she know that she’s a walking cliché? Aside from the obnoxious perfume she’s doused herself in, she also reeks of desperation. Highly unattractive. She eyes my lunch like it’s both the most disgusting and most enticing thing she’s ever seen in her life. “Seriously, though. Do you live in an orphanage?” She clears her throat and then speaks, affecting a terrible English accent. “Please, Sir. May I have some more?”
Stupid, ignorant, stuck up bitch.
“Oliver. Nice. No, I didn’t grow up in an orphanage.”
Zen beams. “Oh, I know. I was only messing around. I—”
“They call them ‘homes for boys’ now. I stayed in one from the age of six until I was eleven. After that, I bounced around in the foster system for a while. That was fun.”
The girl looks bewildered. Her mouth falls open wide enough to tell me that she can’t figure out if I’m fucking with her or not. I should put her out of her misery. Tell her it was a joke. That would be the kind, if dishonest, thing to do, but fuck…I’ve never been accused of being kind.
She shifts awkwardly on the bench, swiveling around to face the table properly. “That sounds like an interesting childhood.”
“Oh, yeah. Fucking fascinating.” I jam the burger into my mouth, taking a massive bite. Zen watches me, horrified, as I plow through my meal. I don’t bother looking up from my tray, even when three other people—two guys and a girl—come and sit with us. Eventually, I surface from my food and lock eyes with Halliday; she gives me a warning glare, nostrils flared, and the look conveys her thoughts perfectly: Please, dear God, do not breathe a single word about what happened last night. Please, please, fucking please.
I give her a single raise of my eyebrows, mentally telling her to chill the fuck out, then I grab my tray and stand.
“Hey, dude. What kind of motorcycle is that anyway?” the guy on the left asks. His name is David, or Daniel, or Diego or something.
“It’s an Indian. A Scout.”
“Huh. My old man says anyone who rides a motorcycle must have a death wish.”
I grunt as I leave the table. “Yeah. Your old man’s probably right.”
It feels like an eternity passes after lunch. I’m torn; I can’t wait to get the fuck out of this hell hole, with its clean bathrooms, and horribly healthy, wholesome-looking students who smile way too damn much, but I’m also looking forward to staying, too. Because once that bell rings at two-thirty, all of these assholes are gonna file out of here and I’ll get to spend an hour with Silver.
She’s going to follow through on the lesson. She will. I know she will. I’m so confident that she’s going to be there when I enter the music room at two thirty-five that I’m honestly a little confused when I show up only to find the place deserted. I even check the sound booth cubicles to see if she’s waiting for me in there. It takes me a second to really understand that she’s stood me up. I run my tongue over my teeth, leaving the music room, heading in the direction of the admin office, where all the student records are kept.
Okay, Silver.
It’s like that, is it?
Well, two can play that game.
12
SILVER
“Hey, Maxie! For real, dude. Where the hell are your shorts? We’re gonna be late!” I’ve already run all over the house, searching for Max’s soccer uniform, but the boy loses everything he touches, and thus far he’s been more interested in ‘Call of Duty’ than helping me hunt down his shit.
I’m not even supposed to be taking him to practice tonight, but Dad managed to talk me into it—uninterrupted time for him to continue working on his piece for The Architect’s Digest. In exchange, he promised I could have the keys to the cabin this weekend since it’s Labor Day on Monday, plus a full tank of gas so I can drive myself up to the lake. The thought of being up there, alone, with only my guitar and my books for company? Seventy-two blissful hours of solitude? Yeah, it’s gonna be heaven on earth. Of course, Dad has no idea I’ll be going up there alone. I didn’t lie to him, per se. Okay, well it’s potentially a lie by omission, but it’s hardly my fault if he doesn’t do his due diligence. For the past two years, I’ve been allowed to use the cabin at the lake because the girls always used to come with me. A group of five girls, together in the woods, armed with pepper spray, made it possible for my parents to sign off on unsupervised trips to the tiny log cabin my grandfather built on the shore of Lake Cushman back in the sixties.
Since last spring, I’ve been going there by myself, though, and neither Mom or Dad have bothered to ask if any of my friends were going with me. They’ve assumed, which is to say…they’ve been too wrapped up in their own separate shit to adequately parent their only daughter.
For once, their total lack of interest in my life has worked out in my favor.
“MAX! I swear to god, I will burn your PlayStation if you don’t give me some sort of clue here, Bud!”
Downstairs, there’s a loud crash, followed by a thud, and then the sound of footsteps hammering up the stairs. My brother bursts into his room, where I’m ankle deep in the clothes that have been dumped on his bedroom floor; his cheeks are flushed, eyes flashing with irritation. Like most eleven-year-old boys, Max takes threats to his PlayStation very seriously. “I don’t even care about soccer anymore. I basically told Dad I wasn’t going to go, so you might as well stop.”
“Well Dad basically told me you basically had to go, so find your shorts. If you’re not in the car in five minutes, there’ll be consequences.”
Growling like a little fucking savage, Max begins to kick through his clothes in search of his elusive soccer shorts. I grab my bag and head downstairs, trying to decide which book to read while I wait for Max’s practice to be over. I don’t blame the kid for not wanting to go. It’s raining again, layers of mist skating through the tops of the trees that cover the mountainside opposite the house, and the cold feels like it’s seeping into my bones.
I’ll be safe and dry in the car, but Maxie will be soaked to the skin and covered in mud in less than five minutes flat. Which reminds me…
“I’m taking the van, Dad!”
“Can’t you take him in your car?” he calls from his office.
“No dice, hombre. Last time I did that, it took a week to get the dirt out of the seats. Pretty sure it’s all still ground into the carpet, too. I’m not dealing with that again.”
“Come on, Sil. I don’t have time to clean the van!”
“I appreciate that. But you’re an adult with the six-figure salary. You can afford to have someone detail it for you. See you in an hour!” I snatch up his keys, ignoring the sound of his grumbling coming from underneath his office door, and I go wait in the van for Max. I’m getting ready to lean on the horn when he comes running out of the house, red-cheeked but dressed in his full kit, soccer cleats and all. He slams the car door behind him and slumps down into his seat, arms folded across his chest. “I need your cell phone,” he informs me.
-->
