by Angel Lawson
“As you can see, my proposal is to do a deep dive into some of the fallacies of the private school system, particularly the lack of diversity at Preston Prep.” I take a deep breath. “As you know, a long-standing social club was disbanded last winter after a cover-up of illegal behavior, vandalizing school property, and bullying a member of the school community. The bullied person is black and identifies as genderfluid, making him a sitting target at a school that had previously ignored such behavior. I thought an investigation into why the school finally felt now was the right time to shut down the Devils, and if that action will really make a difference if the school itself has or hasn’t made any changes in welcoming diverse students.”
I finish in a rush and my heart hammers in my chest, like I’ve just run a race. It’s a bit strange, actually feeling things again. Without the pain pills, every emotion feels sharper and unused, clumsily rushing into all my cracks. I know the topic is risky. It’s calling out the school on a long-held weak spot, but when the headmaster took action against the Devils, and Hamilton Bates made it clear he was finished with the group, it showed that maybe, finally, it was time for change.
With his elbow resting on the desk and his forefinger tapping on his chin, I wait for Mr. Lee to react to my story idea.
“It’s an interesting concept, Vandy.”
I breathe, shoulders losing some of that tight tension. “Thank you.”
He pauses for a moment, seeming to choose his words. “You don’t worry about this sort of topic coming from—well, to put it as delicately as possible—someone who’s the exact opposite of a target for discrimination here?”
I raise an eyebrow. “You mean, because I’m white and cis and straight.”
He makes a complicated head bob. “For starters. You also come from a wealthy family, particularly one that has significant influence in the world of journalism. You see where I’m going with this.”
I only just barely stop my jaw from dropping. “Mr. Lee,” I begin, battling down a bitter laugh. “First of all, I’m not able-bodied. Second of all, I’m not a guy. I’m not sure if you’ve been watching lately, but being a female student at this school can be actual hell.” I level him with a look, and I don’t need to say any names, but I could. The Adams girls. The Playthings. Even Sydney. “That said, you’re absolutely right. Despite my adversity, I am incredibly privileged, which puts me in a position to put voice to these issues without fearing for my own security. So, to answer your question, no. I don’t worry.”
He nods, sighing. “You’re not wrong about that, I suppose.” His lips form a thin line. “The problem is, I’m just not sure it’s the right…tone…for the Chronicle this year.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
He exhales and shifts in his seat. “What happened last spring was a wake-up call for the administration. As you know, it was a controversial move. The Devils were a long-standing tradition at the school and there were definitely some alumni who were not happy with the decision. Some patrons have even gone so far as refusing to support the school once the decision was made.”
“You’re kidding.” I blink, processing that information. “Well, that just makes me think this is an even more relevant topic than before.”
“I understand that point of view—and frankly, don’t disagree with it, but…”
“But what?” I demand. “What is the problem?”
“The problem is that the administration wants topics like this to go away, not to be dragged through the school paper. They want the alumni happy. The donors content. Their endowment secure. They want a year without a scandal, or at least without a scandal being dredged back up.”
I swallow, feeling gut punched. Numbers game. “So, you’re saying you don’t want a real investigative story.” I smile tightly. “You want a fluff piece.”
“What I want,” he gently explains, “is for twenty students from unprivileged backgrounds to receive a scholarship here next year, just like they always do. That can’t happen if donors keep pulling their funding. I know this must seem like a great injustice, but tell me. What’s the best way of helping them? Because make no mistake, these are real kids we’re talking about. They’re more than just a story or a feather in the cap of your college application letters.”
I bristle. “I don’t think—”
He holds up a hand. “I didn’t mean to imply you felt that way, I just want to be clear about where our priorities are. It’s a good idea, Vandy. But it’s just not something I can approve right now. In an institution like Preston, change must come slowly and quietly. I realize that must be difficult to hear.” He pushes his glasses up his nose, smiling wistfully. “I was quite the activist in my day, too.”
I carefully ease myself from the chair without even replying, gathering my things to leave.
Before I can, he says, “Miss Hall, you must know from your mother’s work how these things go. Journalism is tricky. We have a duty to cover the facts, to give voice to injustice. But we also have to perform those duties responsibly, in a way that won’t harm people who are already vulnerable. Do you understand?”
I swallow around the lump in my throat, managing a tight nod, and I know I should say something professional, like ‘thanks for listening’, or ‘I’ll try again later’. But I limp as quickly from the office as I can before the hot prick in my eyes turn to fat, angry tears. I’d waited an hour to present my idea, sitting behind three other students who were also competing for the piece. Had he rejected theirs too?
I cross the parking lot toward Emory’s truck, thankful that the campus is empty enough that no one is around to see me. I’d spent the last three weeks of the summer working on the idea and in a few short minutes, my goal for the year—my motivation—is gone.
Just like that.
I unlock the truck and I’m so frustrated and unstable that it takes me three tries to climb inside. I stomp on the running board when I do, as if it were actually capable of feeling my wrath. Thankfully, Emory isn’t here yet. I know him. He’d see me upset and get absolutely furious. He’d probably demand that I go back inside and try again—or worse, he’d go back inside and force Mr. Lee to reconsider. That’s why I’ve been keeping this to myself. It’s well known that everyone at school babies me. From the lunch lady giving me extra dessert, to my teachers allowing tardies or weak excuses for missing classes, everyone folds for me. That may be one reason I’m in such shock that Mr. Lee said no. Basically no one at Preston Prep says no to me.
Damn, it hurts.
The more I think about it, the angrier I get. This is what I get for trying something new, for weaning off the meds. The sharp sting of disappointment isn’t something I’m used to feeling so acutely anymore. I run my hands up and down my legs, growing more and more agitated. The back of my teeth are clenched, grinding, and I’m distantly aware that part of this is the ever-present wane and ebb of withdrawal. I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, and it was supposed to be easy by now. I was supposed to be okay.
I don’t even notice Emory walking across the parking lot. I jump in surprise at the loud clang of him tossing his equipment in the bed of the truck. I hurriedly swat my tears away, straightening my skirt and allowing myself one final, long sniffle.
He opens the door, and my nose is instantly assaulted by the sweaty stench of his practice clothes. My eyes prick again, this time from the odor. “God, you reek,” I say, rolling down the window.
Hair all plastered to his sweaty forehead, he grunts in acknowledgment. “Yeah, you’d smell bad too if you’d just run twenty suicides.” The instant the words come out of his mouth, his face pales, and it takes me a second to even realize why.
Vandy Hall can’t run. She’s lucky she can even walk.
“Fuck, Van.” I can see the guilt in his eyes, even through my periphery. “I didn’t mean—I’m sorr—”
“Stop,” I say, shaking my head. “You know you don’t have to apologize for saying normal stuff. That’s...that’s bullshit, okay
? It’s worse.” I meet his gaze, willing him to see that I’m fine. “It’s worse when you feel sorry for me.”
He looks away, fidgeting with his keys as he puts them in the ignition, and I know he’s looking for the right thing to say.
I get my sunglasses from the glove box and recline back in my seat. “Although, you’re wrong about one thing.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“If I’d just run twenty suicides,” I slip on the sunglasses, flipping my hair over a shoulder, “I’d still smell like sunshine and rainbows.”
His eyes crinkle when he laughs. “Knowing you, you probably would.”
With the tension cut, he backs out of the parking lot. I try really hard not to get mad at Emory, even when he’s doing dumb stuff like dating Campbell and getting caught up in Devil nonsense. He’s just a really good brother. He’s stuck by me this whole time, even after his best friend got sent away and I became the object of the school’s pity. Emory might pity me, too, but it’s a different kind. Emory hurts when I hurt. It’s another reason I’d wanted to get the newspaper position; I’d wanted to prove to him that I’ll be okay next year on my own.
I calm down on the way home, the two of us talking about the first day at school. He has Dr. Ross, a notorious hard-ass. We both foresee him getting many detentions in the future. I have Art with Mr. Kent, which earns his side-eye. Kent is young, handsome, and by the intel gleaned from Sydney’s social media stalking, very single.
“What about Campbell?” I ask, diverting the conversation. “Have you heard from her?”
“According to ChattySnap, she’s having the time of her life at UVA.” He shrugs, like he doesn’t care, but I know better. I don’t understand what he sees in Campbell. She doesn’t treat him right. He should just drop her altogether, and her going to college seemed like the perfect opportunity.
“You should stop following her on there,” I say instead, watching Emory lean out the window to punch in our code. Seconds later, the gate to our neighborhood opens. “It’ll just make you crazy.”
He gives me a smug grin, settling back into his seat. “I could, but then how will she see that I’ve got a date with Aubrey Willis on Friday night?”
I shake my head. “That sounds like nothing but a heaping pot of drama and heartbreak.”
To be honest, I’m not sure how much Emory thinks with his heart. I’m pretty sure most of his emotions are ruled by another part of his body. Spoiler alert: not his brain, either.
Emory turns down our street, passing the other large homes in the neighborhood. The community is pretty idyllic, with tree-lined streets and wide sidewalks. The lots are big, with many houses, including ours, facing the lake.
Up ahead, there seems to be some commotion, however. The security cart with its rotating amber lights is stopped in the middle of the street. It appears that Jerry has someone apprehended, a man pressed up against the side of the vehicle, hands resting on the roof.
“Stress in the city!” Emory whistles. “Got us some serious piggy po-po action up here.”
Emory and I both crane our necks as his truck crawls past. Jerry seems to be frisking whoever it is—a jogger, by the looks of his clothing—and the man has his head bowed as he stands akimbo, seeming to tolerate it all patiently.
Just as we pass, the man raises his head, his green eyes staring right through the truck.
“Holy shit,” Emory says, foot stomping down hard on the brakes. My body lurches forward, and his arm flings out protectively, catching me.
Reynolds.
Brakes.
The screech of tires.
The world turning upside down, car flipping, the crunch of metal and glass, the heat of fire, the smell of gasoline, the rough scrape of asphalt as I slide and tumble, rolling—
Emory whips his head around to ask, “You okay?” and for a long moment, I can’t breathe.
It’s fine. Just a short brake. The truck is fine. I’m fine. Emory is fine. Reynolds is—
He’s right there, pressed up against the security cart, green eyes staring emotionlessly forward as Jerry pats him down.
“Vandy!” Emory shakes my shoulder, eyes searching. “Hey, did I freak you out? I’m sorry, I just saw—I wasn’t thinking.”
“I’m fine.” I don’t even recognize the sound of my own voice.
Emory watches me for a moment, unbuckling his seatbelt. Whatever he’s looking for, he must find it, because he gets out of the truck. He leaves his door wide open, showering the cabin in a rapid-fire series of ding-ding-dings.
“Dude!” he says to Reynolds, face splitting into a wide smile when their eyes finally meet. “What the fuck? I can’t believe you’re back!”
“Yeah, you know what I was thinking?” Reynolds’ mouth curls into a bitter grin, fingers tapping the roof of the cart. “I was thinking it’s been a real long time since Fucking Jerry here has had my 'nads in his hand, so here I am.” His stare is still flat, even when the corners of his eyes crinkle, squinting against the afternoon sunlight. “Home sweet home.”
Emory clucks his tongue. “Come on, Jerry, this is just Reynolds.”
Jerry walks around the cart, pointing his big Maglite at Emory. “Get in my way, it’ll be you next.” To Reynolds, he says, “We ain't through, boy. I got ten hours a day, right here, just waiting for ya. Want you to remember that.”
“Sounds like a pretty shit life, but okay.” Reynolds gives him a lazy look over the roof of the cart. “Am I free to go, officer?”
“Don’t be giving me none of your damn lip, either, boy.” Jerry drops into the seat, cart shaking as he pushes his dark Aviators up his nose. “Got the Sheriff on speed dial, and he’s just dying to repay me a favor or three.” Jerry drives off before Reynolds even steps away from the cart, hands stuttering against the roof as it zooms away.
“God, that guy’s a prick,” Emory mutters. They both watch Jerry’s cart veer around the corner before Emory darts forward, slamming into Reynolds in a halfhearted tackle. “Dude! Holy shit! When did you get home?”
“Last night,” he says, wrapping his arms around Emory in a tight hug. Over my brother’s shoulder, he finally looks at me. From the way his eyes go shuttered, face paling, it’s the first time he’s even noticed me here. I can’t even imagine how I look—wide-eyed and struck so frozen that it’s hard to even pull in a breath.
Our gazes lock for a long, suspended moment. Even after Emory steps back, asking Reynolds something about school, we don’t look away.
It’d be silly to call what passes between us, in that moment, understanding. Really, I don’t understand anything. I don’t understand the way my chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself, and I don’t understand the way he stands rigid like that, like the barest twitch may shatter something. No, it’s not understanding. But it’s something.
Something only we share, that only we can know.
Reynolds looks away first, telling Emory, “I registered for school today. I’ll be there tomorrow.” His voice is flat and stilted.
“Fuck, man, this is going to be so—” Emory stops abruptly. Suddenly, it’s like my brother remembers where we are, who he’s talking to, and the fact I’m a few feet away. His eyes dart to mine and his face falls. “Hey, we’ll catch up later, okay?”
“I’ll be around.” Reynolds looks away, gaze dropping. “Gotta keep Fucking Jerry busy somehow.”
Emory gets back in the truck, slamming the heavy door. I’m still frozen in the passenger seat, reeling from what just happened. We don’t speak, the cabin of the truck thick with a heavy, tense silence. He swings the car into the driveway and pulls it into the garage.
Before he reopens the door, I ask, “Did you know?”
Emory sighs, gaze dropping to the keys in his hand. “Vandy, look—”
It’s enough. If he knew, odds are my parents knew, and if he’d been at the school, they knew, too.
Reynolds McAllister, the boy who broke me, is finally back.
And no one had the guts to tell me about it.
I storm as fast as my defective leg will take me into the house, carelessly tossing my backpack on the kitchen table. Conveniently, both of my parents are standing near the island. Dad is still in his blue scrubs from the hospital. My mother looks up and obliviously asks, “Hey honey, how was the first day of—"
“When were you going to tell me?” I hate the way it comes out. Not angry, despite the way I feel. It comes out small and wounded.
My mother blinks and glances at my father, her expression confused. “Tell you—"
“She saw Reyn,” Emory says from the garage door.
“Ah,” my mother starts, but touches her neck, like she’s trying to force more words to come. They don’t.
“We were going to tell you tonight at dinner,” Dad says carefully.
“So you all knew.” I hug my middle, chest constricting with a tidal wave of something that’s too big to be contained. I look at my brother. “Exactly how long have you been keeping this from me?”
“For a few weeks.” Dad grimaces and the glint of guilt in his eye is almost enough to forgive this. Almost. “Warren came over and explained the circumstances surrounding the need for Reynolds’ return. You know we’ve kept a friendly relationship with the McAllister’s for years now. And it’s just...” Dad sighs. “Well, it’s seemed like you’ve been doing so much better.”
I try desperately to swallow around the lump of betrayal lodged in my throat. “None of that explains why no one told me about it.”
Mom circles around the island. “We wanted you to have a great first day of school, and we wanted to make sure Reyn was actually going to come home and enroll before saddling you with it all. There were a few things still up in the air about his re-enrollment.”
“You were wrong.” The tears finally fall, leaving hot tracks down my face. “You should have given me the chance to prepare myself for—”
My mom walks up and rests her hand on my shoulder. I jerk away. “Tell me what you’re feeling? Are you only upset with us or are you worried about being back at school with Reyn? Do you need to talk to Dr. Cordell?”