by Angel Lawson
I linger by the marble staircase leading to the second floor, trying to remember the layout, where the science wing is, the hall to the cafeteria, the restroom where I’d once drawn a crude stick figure on the red stall door. It’s fucking stupid. It’s been three years, but it feels like a lifetime ago.
I go straight instead, toward the main hall where large glass cases line the walls. They’re filled with bragging rights I never had the chance to lay a claim to. Shiny gold trophies and mounted awards. Photos of championship-winning teams and distinguished alumni. The cases are big and flashy. Automatically, I try the door, testing the sliding glass with my fingers. It doesn’t budge. Smart. Lock these valuable memories up tight. I duck down to check the lock and scoff.
I could have this shit open in three seconds flat.
I don’t bother. My eyes skim for familiar names, people I knew from my freshman year here, before everything went to shit. Before the hospital. Before the three months of juvie. Before the years of Mountain Point Military Academy. I see the massive trophy from last year when the football team won State. There’s a photo of the team minutes after the win, clustered together in celebration. If things had gone differently—I jab the tip of my forefinger into the glass—I’d be right there. Instead, I’d probably been scrubbing floors or doing drills until my arms felt like spaghetti.
The spike of envy is brief, feeble.
I shift away from football and move down the hall, perusing the various victories, hundreds of names and faces, people who have made their marks on this place. People who didn’t fuck up and throw everything away. People who could still look at this building and think of it as big and scary and invincible, because they hadn’t spent years at a military school that actually was all of those things.
It doesn’t take long before I see Hamilton’s name.
State record holder in freestyle.
Beta Club President.
Class Salutatorian.
I can’t help my snide laugh, already imagining that fucker’s reaction to Class Salutatorian. Just for the fun of it, I look to see who beat him for the title of Valedictorian. Gwendolyn Adams. Ouch. His well-known nemesis and, if the word on the street is to be believed, his current girlfriend. I snort spitefully, because even if he is getting a piece of that, I bet it still stings.
I wasn’t here when shit went down with Skylar Adams at that party, but Emory and I keep in touch. In the summer, Mountain Point allows its students four weeks of supervised free time privilege. Mine were spent at the same football camp he attended. Aside from that, we were allowed our own phones and the occasional computer use—contingent on both behavior and performance—so we’re in the same Discord gaming group.
He told me about Skylar because of our ties to the Devils, but when he explained how they were on a pretty short leash with the school at the time, all I felt was a hot surge of anger. Pretty short leash? There I was having my browsing history monitored, being woken up at five in the morning for drills, being told how much to eat, what to wear, when to go to bed, how to tie my shoes, how to make my bed, and this fucker was whining about a short leash? Try having some geriatric douchebag look over your shoulder while you piss in a cup for your monthly drug test, and then you can talk to me about a short fucking leash.
But apparently things imploded at Preston Prep, and now the Devils are completely defunct. Emory’s pissed as hell about that, and maybe he’s had it a lot better than me over the past few years, but I get it. He had the rank to take over Bates’ position as leader this year.
Truth be told, I’m kind of relieved the Devils are finished. Better to not have the option at all than try to save face when I back out. That kind of thing is a slippery slope for a guy on probation. The more low-key I can keep it, the better off I’ll be. Sliding back into the Devils wouldn’t be a good move.
The rest of the awards case isn’t that interesting; debate team photos, reading bowl winners, mathletes. Nerds, nerds, and more nerds. I unthinkingly pass the cheerleaders’ showcase before hastily backing it on up.
One of the worst parts about the military academy was how much of a dick-fest it was. It was a sad state of affairs, three hundred some-odd teenage guys trying desperately to find ways around the academy’s internet filter, just to get a taste of something even vaguely resembling porn. I’m not going to say I’ve jacked it to YouTube bikini try-on videos, but I won’t say I haven’t, either.
But these.
Fuck me, these are the real deal. I take in a few of the current classmates I’m looking forward to reacquainting myself with. Midriff. Cleavage. Legs. Shit, I’d almost forgotten how awesome a girl’s thighs were. I want to drown myself in as much pussy as possible, but I won’t front. I could legit fuck a girl’s thighs right now and it might be the best sex I’ve ever had. That’s how horrifically deprived I’ve been.
My eyes land on a familiar face. Afton Cross. I press my forehead against the glass as though that will get me a better look. Yes, I’ll take one of these, to go. Huge rack, tiny little waist, long, tanned legs, and those thighs. Those are thighs I can imagine wrapped around my hips.
I shove a hand into my pocket to discreetly adjust a growing situation.
I take a furtive look around the hallway. Preston is nowhere close to resembling the ridiculous police state from whence I sprang, but you never know. Cameras are everywhere these days. Luckily, I don’t see any, so I reach into my back pocket and retrieve the pin from my wallet. Crouching down, it takes almost no time at all to pick the lock. The photo is easy to remove from the frame and folds nicely, fitting right into the inside pocket of my jacket.
Mine now.
Setting everything to rights, I turn and head back toward the main door, aware that it’s almost time to get to the headmaster’s office. I’m halfway there when I stop abruptly, gaze caught on another photo. It’s framed in a dark mahogany, sitting dead center in the case. A picture of a banquet. The engraved lettering at the bottom lauds student-athlete leaders in a rigid serif. In the photo, Emory is holding a plaque, posing happily with his parents, but that’s not what makes my blood run cold.
It’s the other person in the photo. Her hair is long and blonde, shiny. She’s wearing a lazy grin and her eyes—eyes that I once thought of as a vast ocean of crystal blue—are unfocused and dull. Her hands are clasped behind her back, but her shoulders are sort of slumped, like maybe it’s not the first photo that’s been taken that night. I search her image carefully, for long moments, eventually hit with the realization of what I’m looking for.
Visible damage. Any sign of injury. Obvious scars.
I can’t find any.
Maybe I hadn’t completely broken Vandy Hall in the accident that night.
That’s the only thing I’m thankful for.
It’s a frail consolation. Even if she isn’t horribly disfigured, it doesn’t mean anything. Not really. I’d still hurt her. I know that. It’s the shittiest, most unforgivable thing I’ve ever done. I’ve taken a lot of things in my life, but none more valuable than what I stole from her. I hurt myself, the stolen Porsche, our families, my friends...
But most of all, I’d hurt Vandy.
I’ll never forget the way she looked on that gurney, bloody and frightened, as they loaded her into another ambulance. Later, at the hospital, they wouldn’t let me see her. I don’t even remember much from that night—all the sharp details lost in the haze of shock and desperation—but I remember running through the triage, so out of my mind from the adrenaline that my own injuries barely registered. I remember fighting, even though my wrist was fractured. I remember the look on her face when I finally found her, all strapped down, tubes and wires everywhere, the way her eyes were wide and wet and full of fear. I remember feeling like I could take every one of them down if it meant making that wild terror in her eyes go away—if it meant protecting her. Pretty ironic, seeing as how I was the reason she was there to begin with.
That was the last time I saw her.
I look
at her again, trying to wash that bitter, gasoline-tinged memory away with this new image. The girl in the photo is older now, nothing like the awkward and gangly neighbor I used to know. She’s grown up, no longer someone’s kid sister. She’s pretty much a woman now. Gorgeous, if I’m being honest.
It’s a different look than Afton and the other hot cheerleaders. Vandy’s beauty is all natural. She’s wearing almost no make-up and has that same fresh, innocent face. Rosy cheeks. Flawless skin. Her smile is a little lopsided, her full lips furled to the side. She obviously came into her body, thin and curvy in all the right places. There’s a hint of something going on underneath the conservative outfit, something just out of reach. Ah. There it is. The skirt that ends just above the knee, giving only the slightest peek at the creamy thighs beneath.
I jerk back, loudly clearing my throat.
Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me? Obviously, years of sexual deprivation have turned me into a fucking degenerate. That’s the only excuse.
I shift my shoulders, feeling the tight pull of puckered scarring that covers most of my back. Guilt isn’t something that usually comes naturally to me. I take what I want—get what I can. But what happened to Vandy was different. It was the one thing I’d never wanted to take. I pled guilty, because that’s what I am. I didn’t even fight when I was released from juvie only to be instantly sent away to Mountain Point. Point A to Point B. One prison for another. And I never expected to come back here.
But I guess shit changed when my mom left my dad for her personal trainer. I figured I’d just stay at the academy, but Dad called two weeks ago saying I had to come back home. My mom was taking him to the cleaners for his own ‘indiscretions’, and the legal bills were mounting. When he told me I was coming back to Preston Prep, I was beyond reluctant. It would have been easier—more just—for me to remain at the academy. Not that military school was a bed of roses, but coming back to Preston? I don’t deserve it, and neither does anyone else.
I’d outright asked him, “What about the Halls?”
He’d explained, “I talked to Rob and Denise, and they understand our predicament. They’re very forgiving people, Reyn. The biggest thing is that you follow the rules and don’t give anyone a reason to question the second chance you’re being given.”
I step back outside into the early fall air and think, Here I am. Deserving or not, I’m getting my second chance.
I have very little faith that I’m not going to blow it.
“I’ll admit, when your father called me, I wasn’t sure that your returning to Preston Prep was a good idea.” Headmaster Collins sits behind a large desk, brass nameplate facing out. Next to that is a Devil’s head, expertly cut into crystal. I drag my eyes away from it and see him nodding to the man behind him. “But Coach Morris came to your defense and said he’s talked to your coach at Mountain Point. I’m told that you’ve done well there and have been an asset to their athletic program.”
Ah. Of course.
Suddenly, everything clicks. Apparently, the Devils need a wide-receiver at the same time my father needs financial aid.
How auspicious.
Headmaster Collins continues, “That being said, I was still skeptical. In the past year, we’ve taken a hardline stance on inappropriate behavior at this school. We’re zero tolerance on bullying and any kind of student harassment. I’ll be honest, Reynolds, your history of pranks and petty theft do not fall into the current atmosphere of Preston Prep.”
I blow out a hard breath. My dad had made this sound like a done deal. “So, what am I doing here, then?” I tap a rapid rhythm on the arm of the chair. “I can’t take any of it back, and I think an apology would get some pretty bad mileage.” After a beat, I tack on a habitual, “Sir.”
“Stealing that car was bad enough, but when you took that girl with you, it became very clear you were not only a risk to yourself, but other students, as well.”
I do nothing but nod, even though I’m absolutely boiling inside. I don’t have anything to prove to this guy. What’s he looking for? Does he want me to prostrate myself before him? There are, at maximum, ten people who deserve to see that.
This dude isn’t one of them.
Collins leans back, his large frame making the chair creak. “But, the Halls are a very generous, very forgiving family. It is only because of them and your record at Mountain Point that we’re allowing you back on this campus on a probationary status.”
And because of the football season, I want to add.
I don’t.
“I understand, sir.” My words are rehearsed and spoken a smidge too flatly to pass my own muster, “My behavior freshman year was unacceptable. I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on the choices I made that day and the severe consequences of such a short-sighted, irresponsible act.” I dare a look at Coach Morris. “It would be an honor, not just to be readmitted to Preston Prep, but to also earn a spot on the team.”
Some of the tension in the headmaster’s face eases as I give my speech of contrition.
God, I had this idiot pegged.
Prostration, it is.
Coach Morris takes the opportunity to chime in. “I saw you during the regional game. You’ve got a lot of talent, son. Your biggest obstacle will be figuring out how to not squander it.”
While the coach drones on about expectations for the upcoming season and repeating the championship, the ball of tension in my stomach slowly starts to uncoil. I can handle these guys. They’re soft and malleable, nothing like the hardened, severe staff at the academy. These guys sit up here in their ivory tower and think they can control student behavior with shit like ‘difficult talks’ and academic probation.
I bet I could have them eating out of my hand by next semester.
I find my eyes drawn back to the crystal devil, and my knee starts bouncing. It’s about the size of a baseball and would fit perfectly in my—
“With that, we’d like to welcome you back to Preston Prep, Mr. McAllister.” The tall man stands up and I snap to my feet—at attention—a touch too instinctively. I’d think I should really see about shaking these habits, but I can see from the satisfied gleam in the Headmaster’s eye that he likes it. I shake the hand jutting toward me. His grip is firm, and I match it with a strong shake in return. “Mrs. Abernathy will get your schedule together and give you any other information you need to matriculate for your senior year.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, just to see the spark of sick approval in his eyes. Easy. “I appreciate you giving me a second chance, and I’m eager to get involved here, in whatever capacity you need me.”
The nod he gives me makes it clear I’ve been dismissed, but when I reach the door, he calls out my name.
“Reynolds…one last thing.”
I stop just short of doing an authentic about-face. Don’t want to ham it up too much. “Yes, sir?”
“It goes without saying, but Vandy Hall?”
I feel my face shutter, something deep in the pit of my chest withering up at the way he looks at me.
“You do not speak to her, you do not look at her, you do not breathe anywhere in her general vicinity.” A deep line forms between his eyes. “That poor girl has been through enough and she seems to finally be getting better. Just because her family has agreed to let you attend Preston Prep does not mean you can disrupt her world.”
The words land like a punch in the gut. “Yes, sir. I have no problem with that.” Except for the fact she lives next door and is my best friend’s sister. That’s not a goddamned landmine or anything. Even though my next words are spoken with the same fake deferential tone, they’re no less sincere. “The last thing I want is to cause Vandy any more pain.”
“Good.”
The next moment finds me standing in the outer office, dismissed, trying fervently to stop my hands from shaking. I bury them in my pockets and take a series of deep, controlled breaths.
Mrs. Abernathy, the registrar, doesn’t notice my discomfort. She types somethin
g into the computer and says, “I’ve got you all lined up, Reynolds. Let me just go get the copy of your new schedule.”
I’m still rattled when she walks to the adjacent room, leaving me alone. I look around, searching her desk. Not much there except papers, a cup of pens, a souvenir figurine, a keyboard, mousepad, parking pass, and folders.
I look at it for a long time, hands fisting where they’re buried in my pockets. No one is around. I inch forward, and reach out, the tips of my fingers gliding across the smooth surface of the desk. I pluck the figurine from its perch in front of her monitor—a jubilant Mickey Mouse—the rush of adrenaline swallowing the itch of discomfort from my meeting with Collins.
It’s in my pocket only a split second before she returns.
Mine now.
“Here you go,” Mrs. Abernathy says, strolling back in the room. “All set for you to start tomorrow. Do you have any questions?”
She holds out the file folder I’d brought to her with my school records. My schedule is on top. “I should be able to manage, but you’ll be the first one I come to if I have any questions.”
“Any time, honey.”
I flash her an appreciative smile before walking out of the office and heading back into the empty halls of the school. The administration here is going to watch my every move—or at least, they think they will. It’d be a heavy weight on my shoulders, except that I know what having your every move watched is actually like. This won’t be a cakewalk, but if I can curb my impulses until graduation, I can handle it. Probably.
I stuff my hand into my pocket, feeling the smooth ceramic figurine. Okay, maybe curbing my impulses will be a bit of a challenge. And I’ll have to keep my grades up while also working overtime to make sure I produce on the field. And I’ll have to tiptoe around Vandy Hall.
Who am I fucking kidding?
I’ll be lucky to make it to the end of the season before getting kicked out of here for good.
3
Vandy