by Angel Lawson
“Try out?” Ben asks, eyes flashing in excitement. “Like, we each get to fuck her?”
“Jesus Christ,” Emory mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “No, fuckweed. They’re not whores. They’ll be our…” He rubs pensively at his chin, eventually landing on, “Our contemporaries. Every good fraternity has a sorority counterpart; girls to party with, both beautiful and smart. Think about Campbell. She ran those girls with an iron fist. The rest of the school revered them. Guys wanted to bang them. Girls wanted to be them. The Devils are nothing without a solid group of hot chicks by our side.” He taps his pen on the pad of paper, mouth turning into a frown. “Unfortunately, most of them graduated last year, and frankly, Campbell may have done too good a job of isolating the rest of the girls at the school. We’ll need to start fresh.”
“I vote Afton Cross,” Carlton says, using his pizza crust to point at Emory.
“Seconded,” Ben instantly says. “Damn, she’s hot.”
Emory doesn’t argue. “Yeah, that’s pretty obvious. Because she’s not just hot. She has influence and a good bloodline. See where I’m going with this?” After a few nods, Emory offers, “Aubrey Wills, too.”
Everyone agrees, while Ben mumbles, “God, those tits,” and makes a squeezing motion in front of his chest. Emory throws the pen at him and it bounces off his forehead. “Ow.”
“Stop being a pervert,” Emory admonishes, looking frustrated. “Aubrey is hot, but she’s also smart and her family is loaded. Are you not getting the point of this?”
Ben stretches out his legs and rubs his forehead. “Fine, what about Sydney Tisdale?”
“Fuck no,” Emory replies quickly.
“Why not? She’s hot. Fun…”
“She’s toxic,” Emory explains, “and cannot keep her goddamn mouth shut. The whole school will know about this two minutes after she’s invited, and there will be a video to prove it.”
“That’s fair,” Ben admits. “Girl gives good head, though.”
I snort a quiet laugh and Emory’s attention turns to me. “What about you? Who are you going to nominate?”
I know he’s expecting me to say that I don’t know, that I haven’t been here long enough to read the room or scout the options. He’s not wrong. Nerves twist in my belly, knowing what I’m about to propose is going to be tough to sell. I take a calming breath and say, “Actually, I do have a suggestion.”
“Wait, really?” His face shows his surprise. “Who?”
“Vandy.”
The name is met by an uncomfortable silence, Carlton going still, mid-chew. All eyes dart to Emory, who stares at me for a long moment before bursting out with a loud, “Ha! Yeah, good one.”
I cut my eyes to him. “I’m serious.”
The tense amusement bleeds from Emory’s face instantly. It’s replaced by something dark and threatening. “You’re going to want to get unserious.”
I hold his stare, unheeding of the warning in his eye. “Why?”
He just grinds out, “Not going to happen.”
“Why not?”
Ben and Carlton watch us closely. The back of my neck prickles like crazy, either in warning or annoyance. I’m not sure.
The irony might be lost on Emory, but not me.
The biggest reason I stole that car—and got Vandy hurt to begin with—was to impress the Devils and score myself and Emory a spot in the group. Now we’re bringing the Devils back to life for pretty much the sole purpose of protecting her.
Emory looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Because she’s my fucking sister, Reyn, and I said no. Vandy can’t be involved in something like this.”
I look at the others, lifting my shoulders in a loose shrug. “I’m still waiting for a reason why.”
Emory’s face is growing red now. “Because she’s…” But he’s at a loss for words.
I find them for him. “She’s smart, pretty, and your family. She’s a legacy, like Heston’s brother, Sebastian. Plus, you trust her, right? If this is about building something, then adding someone like Vandy just seems like the right direction to go in.”
Again, there’s a long beat of silence. No one moves, other than Ben shifting uncomfortably in his chair and Carlton inspecting his phone.
Emory leans forward, elbows on his knees, and glances at them. “Guys, Reyn and I need a minute.”
The guys don’t have to be asked twice. They’re out the door, feet echoing off the stone staircase, before vanishing completely.
I try my hardest to appear calm and collected when Emory shifts his attention back on me. “Dude, the fuck is this about?”
I wave my hand dismissively. “Nothing. You asked for a suggestion and I gave one. I don’t even know that many girls here anymore.”
“You’re not even supposed to acknowledge my sister, Reyn. I know all about the rules Headmaster Collins set when he agreed to let you back on campus. Vandy is off limits—not just to you, but any guy at this school.”
I raise an eyebrow. “So now you care about me staying out of trouble? Because I think being involved in this shit goes way beyond me maybe talking to Vandy every now and then, don’t you?”
“That’s not the point.”
“No, the point is that when it comes to her, you don’t think straight.”
“I’m thinking just fine!” Emory exclaims, face flustered. “She’s not that kind of girl. She’s sweet and kind, and she’s been through hell the last few years. This isn’t something I’m getting her involved in.”
“Well, that’s too bad.” I wipe my greasy hands on my jean-clad thighs. “Because if she’s out, then so am I.”
Emory is openly gaping at me. “What the hell is to you, anyway?”
“What is it to me?” I feel my eyes flashing in resentment. “It’s my best friend willing to risk my second chance here because he refuses to let his sister out of his sight for ten minutes. It’s superfucked, Em.”
Emory rears back, face falling. “It’s not like that.”
“Yes, it is.” I lean forward, as though getting closer could will him to understand. “And you know what the worst part is? I’d do it, just because you asked, even though it’s a shitty plan with no guarantee to work. You think the next group of Devils are going to protect her, based on what, exactly? You think a Wilcox—” I press two fingers to my temple, incredulous, “—a Wilcox, of all motherfuckers, is going to stand between her and the assholes of this school? Fuck’s sake, Em, we are the assholes of this school.” I shake my head, falling back into my chair. “There’s only one way she becomes untouchable, and that’s to make her one of us, too. And if you were thinking straight, you’d see that.”
I can see the moment he realizes I’m right. The tight pucker of his brows slowly eases into something slack and disappointed. He takes a deep breath and looks away. “The last time I got her involved in one of my schemes…” He rubs his hands nervously over his knees, head shaking. “I can’t go through that again.”
“So don’t. But I’m out, too.” I shrug, feeling weirdly empty. “I’m willing to do this if it’s for Vandy, because I owe her that much. But anything else isn’t worth it.”
“This is all moot.” Emory leans back in his own chair, arms crossing. “She’d never go for it, anyway.”
I roll my eyes. “Dude, trust me. She’ll go for it.”
He challenges, “How can you be so sure?” and I feel my lips pull up into a hard smirk.
“I happen to know a thing or two about being locked up and never allowed to have any fun.” I push an annoyed exhale through my teeth. “Em, the girl’s bored out of her damn mind. You said it yourself, she feels stifled. If someone asked her to McDonald’s, she’d probably break out into a Disney song.”
Emory scoffs. “This is different. This is some serious rule-breaking shit. You know Vandy, she’s a saint.”
Because that’s all you ever allow her to be.
“Just ask her,” I say instead. “If she says no, then we can have a backup.”
“You realize that some of this shit is going to pair us off—Devils and Playthings. Are you really telling me the thought of Ben or Carl or a Wilcox doing stuff with Vandy doesn’t make you want to barf?”
Oh, it does more than make me want to barf. What it does it make me want to hit something, preferably a face, and preferably with my boot.
My hands are still reflexively fisted when I toss out, “So if that happens, I’ll be her partner.”
Emory seems to be mulling this over. “So you’ll put on a show, if necessary, to make it legit as possible.”
“Exactly.”
“I can’t believe I’m—” Emory rakes a hand through his hair before rising to his feet. “If I approve this, she’s off limits to everyone in the club. That has to be a rule.”
Part of me kind of balks at this on Vandy’s behalf. Sure, she might be a bit naïve and goody-goody, but she’s capable of making her own choices. Instead of saying this, I simply agree, “Fine by me.”
As he begins pacing around the space, he adds, “And she has to agree to be okay with this. She may not even want to be near you, and I’m going to need your eyes on her. I don’t trust the vultures around here, bro. I know my sister is pretty, and I know a few of them would love to sink their claws into her. That shit is not going to happen, you get me? She’s immature, and has very little social experience. We’ll have to keep tabs on her.”
I feel my mouth slant, but still give a slow nod. “Yeah, that’s…understandable.” What it is, is pretty annoying. I don’t want to be a babysitter, standing between Vandy and four other guys. The only thing I want between are this Afton chick’s thighs. But I know I have to do it, to keep her mouth shut. At least for a little while. “You know me, dude. I’ll look after Vandy like one of my own.”
His pacing slows to pensive shuffling. “Since all of this is on the down-low and no one knows about it, you two being in the same group shouldn’t be a problem, right? Like, the administrators won’t find out. No one will find out.”
I agree, “That’s the idea.”
Emory finally falls back into his chair, most of that crazy energy having drained out of him. “So, we can make this work.” He sounds skeptical, but accepting.
“Yeah,” I agree, refusing to meet his eye. When all this blows up—and it will, once Vandy gets the Chronicle to publish her paper—Emory is going to kill me. If she keeps her word, we’ll both be long gone before that happens.
She corners me the same as last time, a quick exchange in the breezeway.
“What’s going on? It’s been three days.” Her eyes are all shifty and annoyed, arms crossed over her chest. She’s wearing her hair differently today, all tied up in a knot at the top of her head. A wayward lock keeps fluttering over her forehead, and she swats it away. Her eyes look tired, strained. “I’ll go to Dewey.”
Like usual, I can’t tell if she’s trying to be genuinely threatening. Honestly, I doubt her going to the dean with such limited information would do much harm, not when someone at the school wants the Devils active again.
But it’s a risk I can’t take.
“Calm your—” I swallow the word ‘tits’ before it slips out of my mouth. “Everything is good, but you’re going to have to wait a little longer for details.”
“How much longer?”
“If I knew, I’d tell you.” Maybe. “But I don’t. This thing… I’m in the dark about a lot of it, too.”
The breezeway door opens and two kids, probably freshmen, walk out. Vandy and I stop talking while they pass. When they’ve gone through the other door she says, “But you worked it out? With Emory?”
“Yes. It’s all good.” She opens her mouth again, but I hold up a hand. “Just be patient, okay?”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re one to talk. You’ve always been the most impatient person I know.”
I stare blank-faced at her for a suspended moment, caught on a precipice between blowing it off and suddenly unloading the reality of my last three years on her. Impatience isn’t sitting in two rooms all day, waiting for your hearing. Impatience isn’t six hours spent on the track, doing drills every Thursday. Impatience isn’t getting popped for contraband and cleaning five bathroom floors with a toothbrush. Impatience isn’t knowing that the life you left behind is hundreds of miles away and not going so crazy with it that you do something dangerous and stupid.
I can’t even remember a life where I could afford to be impatient.
But that’s not her baggage to carry.
I smile tightly instead. “I’ve been working on it.”
The look she gives me tells me she doesn’t quite believe it. “Okay, if you can’t tell me when I’ll know, can you tell me how?”
“You’ll know,” I tell her, as another group comes through the door—this one a mixed group of juniors and seniors. I start walking away. “I promise.”
I don’t know how I know that, but I do. Something about the new Devils has that cloak and dagger thing going on, and I have no doubt that whoever is pulling the strings will make sure they leave an impression. Emory informed us he has a system set up. He leaves communication in a small box down in the bunker and whoever is orchestrating all of this picks them up. After we made our nomination list, Emory left that in the box. Now, we’re waiting on the next step, like everyone else.
It happens on a Friday.
During football season, Fridays are a break in the monotony of school uniforms. Players still wear a button-down and pressed pants, but we wear black ties emblazoned with the PP logo and tiny devils stitched into the silk. The cheerleaders trade short plaid skirts for even shorter cheer skirts, and ramp up their hair and makeup under the guise of ‘school spirit’.
Vandy may be onto something with her antiquated patriarchy stuff.
Not that I’m complaining. Two more inches of exposed thigh and black and red striped tube socks works for me. A lot.
Friday morning, dressed in my Devil tie and completely distracted by a sea of tiny, pleated skirts, I open my locker and see a black envelope taped to the inside of the door. Discreetly, I remove the envelope. There’s no writing on the front, but the back has a red wax seal, a pitchfork pressed neatly into it.
The halls are busy, but I glance down the row and see Emory pulling his own envelope off the metal door. His eyes dart past me and I follow his gaze to the opposite side of the hall. Vandy’s at her locker alone, and at first, seems like she doesn’t even notice anything inside of it. My heart thuds, wondering if for some reason she didn’t pass the nomination process. Did Emory take her name off? Did the people orchestrating this veto her?
I turn and make eye contact with him, but Emory just shrugs, obviously wondering the same thing. I grab my books and slam my locker door, looking back at Vandy one more time. That’s when her eyes lift to the inside of her door, a quizzical expression lifting her features.
Slowly, she removes the envelope, and then begins darting her gaze around. Our eyes meet and I drag my backpack over my shoulder, give her a slight nod, and then do my best to vanish into the crowd.
My heart quickens as I walk toward my first class. Whatever this game is, it has truly begun. A game of secrets, danger, and a crossing of the boundaries I swore to stay away from.
I just hope like hell this doesn’t backfire on us all.
9
Vandy
Getting out of the house isn’t easy.
It’s a Thursday night, so my parents and I are all in the den, watching the tail-end of an interview my mom had recorded with a local janitor-turned-hero. My eyes keep flicking to my phone, watching the time. I still have forty minutes before I have to be at the location, but my palms are already sweating.
I stand up.
Both of their gazes follow me.
“I’m heading to bed,” I explain, slipping my phone into my pocket.
My mom frowns in that special, concerned way that more and more makes me want to scream. “It’s still early.”
<
br /> I clench my teeth before willing myself to remain cool. Casual. Just any other night. “Honestly, I’m tired and bloated and a little crampy.”
Well, Dad’s out. He instantly focuses back on the screen. “Good night, then.”
Mom’s not so easily repelled by seedy underbelly of female biology. “Already? But you aren’t due for another week.”
I just stand there for a moment, too stunned to do much more than stare agog at her. “You’re tracking my cycles?” Tagged, migratory birds are observed less than this.
“Well, I’d use the term ‘tracking’ very loosely here, Vandy-Bean. It’s all over the place.” She grabs her phone from the table, thumbs moving deftly over the screen. “I’m making you an appointment with Doctor Telsky this week.”
It takes me a long moment to remember who that is. I have so many doctors, specialists, therapists, and old home care nurses that they’ve sort of congealed into a single unidentifiable blob of needles, pastel scrubs, and gentle bedside manner. It used to work in my favor, though. It’s a lot easier to talk yourself into a prescription with that many chefs in the stew.
I groan when it hits me. “The gyno? Seriously? It’s just a period, Mom!”
“I know you don’t want to go on the pill,” she insists, probably already texting the office, “but it’ll help regulate it.”
My poor dad looks like he’s trying to melt into the couch cushions.
I’d argue with her, but time is quickly getting away from me. “You know what? Fine. Make the appointment.”
She looks so pleased at my acceptance that I almost feel bad for what I do next.
It’s not hard to make all the perfunctory sounds of me ascending the stairs, using the bathroom, and getting ready for bed. It’s a touch more difficult to quietly make my way back down, but weeks of sneaking around during sleepless nights have made me a deft foot at navigating all creaks, every stilted footfall, each knob, any hinge.
Knowing that doesn’t make my heartbeat any less thunderous.