by Angel Lawson
“Flour, corn meal, salt…” Vandy lists out, sifting through the supplies I’d added to the grocery list. “Baking soda?” She shakes the box at me. “We need baking powder, not baking soda.”
I’m sitting on the counter, and if my dad weren’t in the next room, I’d be pulling her between my legs right now, licking at that mark she’s hiding beneath her hair. As it is, I watch her lean against the island, her skirt grazing her thighs. “They’re not the same thing?”
She starts pulling open cabinets. “What are the chances you have baking powder?”
“Slim,” I confess, watching the way her skirt sways when she stands on her tiptoes.
She eventually shuts the cabinets, admitting defeat. “I’ll go get some. Break those eggs.”
I do as she asked, but I wasn’t lying before. Cooking isn’t one of my superpowers. There are shells all in this bowl. I try to pick them out, grimacing at the feel of it.
When she returns, holding up the can of baking powder victoriously, my hands are slimy. I glare at her. “Why did you give me the hard job? I thought I’d just be stirring or something. Stirring, I can do.”
She doesn’t relent. “Try it again. That’s why I told you to get a dozen eggs. Trust me, it’s a vital skill.” I throw the eggs out and try again.
That’s when Emory suddenly walks in.
He doesn’t knock or anything, apparently just walks right through the front door, waltzing into the kitchen like he owns the damn place.
We both freeze in place, looking back at him as he narrows his eyes at us.
“Dad said you were over here,” he says to Vandy. And then, “The fuck is this?”
Vandy and I share a look. We’d put so much energy into getting parental approval that we’d forgotten her third parent. Things with Emory have been quiet since the Stairway to Hell rite. He made it right by letting V choose her own partner, but he hasn’t been particularly chummy with me since then, regardless.
“Guess we’re busted,” I say, setting the bowl aside. “Your sister is teaching me to cook.”
Vandy corrects, “This is baking, not cooking.”
I give Em a long-suffering look. “Your sister is teaching me to bake.”
“Why?” he asks, eyes taking in the scene. Somehow, despite not even having everything mixed yet, there are dishes everywhere.
“Because I don’t know how?” I answer slowly. “And because her cornbread is slamming.”
Vandy jumps in, voice sharp and defensive, “Mom and Dad said I could.”
I point toward the den. “Warren’s here, too.”
Perfectly legit, thank you very much. Asshole.
Emory’s eyes shift toward the den, neck craning. “Oh.”
Vandy pushes a lock of hair behind her ear, revealing the mark. I think she must sense the tension between us, because she adds, “You could probably use a lesson, too.”
Emory scoffs. “I can cook.”
“You can cook?” Vandy throws her head back and laughs, loud and bubbly. “Stop, my sides.”
But Emory’s relaxed now, strutting up to the island, bracing on his forearms. “Fuck off, I make plenty of stuff.”
“Hot dogs and hamburgers?” She gives him a look. “Yeah, you’re basically a culinary mastermind.”
I show the egg bowl to Vandy, asking, “Does this pass?”
She peers into the bowl. “Yep. Now for the part you’ve been waiting for. Stir that into this.”
Twenty minutes, nine eggs, and five dirty bowls later, we’re all sitting around the island, waiting for it to bake. Vandy’s scrolling through her phone, sending me these little glances that have my leg bouncing impatiently. Emory’s running the recipe card over a spot of wayward flour, sweeping it into a line like it’s cocaine.
It’s not like we hadn’t already planned for this situation to be void of kissing or touching, but having Emory sitting here like a supervisor is kind of grating on my nerves.
“You hear about that Pierce fucker?” he suddenly asks, tapping the card. He looks up at me, quick and casual, but I see it for what it is.
He’s trying to move past our little spat.
Vandy sighs. “Let it go.”
I nod, jaw clenching. “Prick.” The way everyone talked, you’d think he’d body slammed her in the hallway. She swore up and down it wasn’t that bad, but I could see the redness in her eyes, knew it’d been bad enough.
“Bass scared the shit out of him, though.” Emory smirks, kicking back on his stool. “Saw him in fifth period. He looked like he was crapping his pants.”
I rest my chin on my fists. “I broke into his locker.”
Vandy’s head whips back. “Reyn!”
I roll my eyes. “Relax, I just transferred everything into his gym locker. He’ll spend most of the day tomorrow freaking out, but he’ll find it. If anything, I did him a favor. That shit was a pig sty.”
Emory laughs. “This is awesome. It’s like V’s got five more big brothers now.”
Inwardly, I cringe. Does that mean I’m going to have to deal with four other angry jocks if this gets out? As if Emory isn’t bad enough.
“Great,” Vandy mutters, echoing my thoughts. “Just what I need.”
“Aw, come on.” Emory reaches out to pat her wrist. “Look at it like this; more people to haul you around, right?” His expression turns pensive. “Not that I’d trust Carlton to drive you around. Or Ben. Or Tyson. Probably not Sebastian, either.”
“Or,” I suggest as the hottest take yet, “she could just get her own car and drive herself.”
Emory shakes his head. “V doesn’t know how to drive. She can’t learn.”
I push back in my seat, suddenly feeling ill. “Because of…?” I drop my gaze to her leg. Jesus. Had I really taken that away from her, too?
She must see the dread on my face because she gives a sharp shake of her head. “No, I probably can.” She looks away, cheeks blooming a warm pink. “I’m just not allowed to.”
I cut my eyes to Emory, voice full of disbelief. “She’s not allowed to learn to drive?”
I’ve learned a lot about Vandy over these last few weeks, and one of the subtler wisdoms I’ve gained is that she’s terrified of not being able to move. Of being unable to get away fast, if she needs to. Of being trapped. Of needing other people to save her. They have no idea what they’re taking away from her with that.
Emory shrugs, hapless, and I’d push it—I really would—but look what that little Stairway to Hell disagreement had caused.
Just then, the timer dings for the cornbread. Vandy looks grateful when she hops off her stool and goes to the oven to get it out. She’s embarrassed. I can tell in the redness of her cheeks and the way she won’t meet my eyes. I think back to my dad’s words—give you time to become an eighteen-year-old—and wish that Vandy could have that, too.
While Vandy’s prodding the cornbread, Emory leans in to say, “Look, my truck’s too big, anyway.” I watch as he thumps his knuckles onto the counter, three soft raps. “We’ll have to use the Jeep.”
My eyes snap up to his, dubious. He can’t really be saying…
Emory smirks back at me. “Yo, V. Wrap some of that up, then we’re AIS.”
I let Emory take the passenger seat.
Vandy’s looking at the dashboard like it’s something out of a NASA control center as she jerkily pulls the seat belt around her torso.
I’m in the backseat, pitched forward between them. I spin my cap around backward, watching her face. “Move the seat up if you need to,” I instruct, watching as she follows. “And adjust the mirrors.”
She fiddles with the rearview mirror, eyes meeting mine in the reflection. There’s fear there, but also something else.
It’s energized and excited.
Emory says, “Press down on the brake.”
“Okay,” Vandy says, glancing down. After a beat of silence, she asks, “Which one is the brake?”
Emory and I both look at her, wide-eyed.
Emory opens his door. “Okay, get out.”
I grab his arm. “No, just—it’s the one on the left, V. The bigger one.”
She shoots her brother a glare, but he sinks back into his seat, closing his door. He shoots me a nervous look over his shoulder. “Maybe we should have given her a strictly stationary primer first.”
Deadpan, I say, “Gas makes it go, brake makes it stop.”
“What now?” she asks, foot planted firmly on the brake pedal.
“Now, you put it in drive.”
I watch as Emory points out the gear selector, instructing her to press in the button. She plants both hands back on the steering wheel, waiting.
“Okay, ready to move it?” he asks. “Just ease your foot off the brake. Don’t press the gas, just coast for a bit.”
I’d taken us back to the Kmart parking lot, which is awkward as fuck—V and I had shared a glance when I pulled in that had made me half hard—but it’s deserted and perfect for the task.
She lets her foot off the brake and the car slowly begins rolling forward. “Oh,” she breathes, and I can see her fingers easing up on the steering wheel. “This isn’t so bad.”
I suggest, “Try braking again, get a feel for the—” but before I can finish, she has her foot on the brake, jerking us to a sudden stop. “—sensitivity.”
Her hands clench back around the steering wheel, throat bobbing with a swallow. I can tell that made her anxious, panicky, and it isn’t helped when the car suddenly fires off a rapid bout of dings. Her eyes widen in alarm, hands flying off the wheel. “What’s wrong? What’d I do?”
I snake a hand around the driver’s seat to touch her hip where Emory can’t see. “It’s fine, relax. It’s just doing that because Em isn’t wearing his seatbelt.”
She whips her head around. “You’re not wearing a seatbelt?!”
Emory gestures out the windshield. “We’re in an empty parking lot.”
“Emory!” Then she peers back at me, shrieking, “Reynolds!”
We both sigh, pulling on our seatbelts.
She coasts for a bit longer, getting more and more used to the tension of the brakes. Every time she pushes the pedal too hard, jerking the car to a stop, her shoulders get higher and tighter, chest hitching to a still.
I say, “Breathe, baby,” and tack on a hasty, “V.”
Shit.
I jerk my eyes toward Emory, but he doesn’t notice anything. “Ready to try the gas?” He looks nervous too, but he’s doing a better job of hiding it than Vandy is.
My hand, still wedged between her seat at the driver’s side door, grazes her hip. “You’ve got this. Remember the fence? And the roof?”
“The fence?” Em looks at me. “The roof?”
I pause, wondering if it’ll piss him off to know how she got out of the house for the fourth rite.
Vandy just breezes out, “Yeah, I jumped off the roof and Reyn caught me.”
Emory gapes, gaze pinging between us. “When was this?”
“How do you think I snuck out to go to the Alumni house?” She presses the gas and the car lurches forward.
Emory’s hands fly out to clutch at the dash. “Slowly!”
She smirks at him out the side of her mouth. “I’m guessing I use the wheel to turn, right?”
It takes her about ten minutes to get a feel for the gas and brake, working them together to make the stop and accelerations smoother. I watch the spark of excitement return to her eyes when she starts turning down the old, faded parking aisles. She’s gorgeous like this, the fading evening sun casting a warm glow over her cheeks.
Even Emory seems to relax, watching her with a soft smile. “Hey, you’re doing good.” It’s patronizing, but Vandy takes it as it’s meant to be, shooting him a grin.
“Want to learn how to reverse?” I ask.
By the time she puts the car in park, it’s almost dark out. We all get out, trading seats, but Emory stops me around the front of the car, pressing a palm to my shoulder.
“So, maybe you were right before,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “I think this Devil stuff kind of got away from me.”
I watch him skeptically. “Yeah?”
He nods. “I have to remember why we’re doing this. This isn’t about being cool or popular. It’s about giving Vandy something to hold onto next year.” He looks over to where she’s kicked back in the passenger seat, sliding my sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. “She should have stuff like this. And I know it’s better to do it while I’m still here, where I can watch over her, be a part of it.” He finally meets my gaze, finishing, “I might need someone to keep reminding me of that.”
Vandy calls out, “Guys!” She’s poking her head out of the window, hand raised in the air. “Not to interrupt this touching bro-ment you’ve got going on, but I have to be home in ten minutes.”
I bury a playful punch into Emory’s shoulder. “Will do,” I promise, jogging back to the driver’s seat.
I give Vandy a wicked smile when I get behind the wheel, wishing she wasn’t wearing those sunglasses so I could see the way her eyes glaze over when I do. For the first time, I begin feeling a little hope. It’ll take time, but maybe Emory won’t be so hard to convince, after all.
29
Vandy
“Afton and Aubrey, you’re in charge of supplies. No one will think twice about the two of you carrying around a lot of red and black on Homecoming Week.” Emory turns. “Elana, you’re on logo design. Caroline, we need your tech savvy. Sebastian…”
My brother continues giving out orders, and it’s weird seeing him like this. Commanding, organized, assured. He’s captain of the football team, so most of these guys are probably used to it, but me? I’m used to sitting at the dinner table next to the guy who uses his bread as a napkin and then eats it. But here, he effortlessly orchestrates where and when we’re pulling off this epic prank for the fundraiser.
I look down at the black card that had appeared in our lockers four hours ago.
A Devil should know how to make an entrance. You will gather at the ninth hour to announce your presence. Consider this your homecoming.
“All men speak in bitter disapproval of the Devil, but they do it reverently, not flippantly.”
Elvatio Infernum
I’ve barely heard a word of what Emory’s saying, however. I’m sitting in the middle of the couch, Sebastian on one side, Reyn on the other. His knee, thigh, or arm occasionally touches mine, and it’s perfectly benign. Innocent. But every single nerve in my body feels each touch like it’s the Fourth of July.
Between school, Devil meetings, and my evening driving lessons—five so far, and I even got to practice on the neighborhood roads last time—it seems like Reyn and I spend more time in the company of Emory than alone with each other. Every now and then, he comes through my window, sometimes to sleep over, but it’s frustratingly void of anything but light kissing and sleep. Ever since Emory tried to barge in that one time, we’re too skittish to push it.
My gaze keeps wandering to Reyn’s forearm. He’s got his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and sometimes he’ll shift or reach forward and I can watch the corded muscles there flex and tighten.
I tear my eyes away and try to focus, not just for my role in the prank, but also because it’s the ultimate rite. This will be, as the card says, our homecoming. Our public announcement that the Devils are not dead, but alive and active.
Emory suddenly turns to me. “V, you’ll be in charge of alibis.”
“Uh,” I stutter, brain rushing to catch up. Damn Reyn and his distracting forearms. “Wait. How exactly am I supposed to alibi twelve people?”
“With your position on the newspaper. You’re going to provide documentation that we’re all at the dance while the prank goes down.” He mimes pressing a shutter on a camera. “Snap, snap.”
Well, that sounds easier said than done.
Emory’s already onto the next thing. “Reyn, you’ll be the one who gets us
in and out unnoticed, okay?”
Reyn nods. “No problem.”
“I have a question,” Ben says, holding up his hand like we’re in class. Emory waves him on. “What’s the point of all this? I mean, we’re not even making fun of anyone.”
Emory looks like he’s about to slap him upside the head. He reins it in, pushes his shoulders back, jaw tight. “How are you still not getting this? Being a Devil isn’t just about picking on underclassmen anymore. The point is to prove that the faculty can’t stifle tradition or legacy.” He turns his sharp gaze on the rest of us. “This is about showing them that the Devils are here. We’re in their school. We’re on their sports teams. We’re at their country club. We’re inside their institutions. The point isn’t to be a thorn in their side. Thorns can be pulled out.” His smile is dark and sharp. “But not us. The point is to be the blood that’s pumping through the veins of this place. It’s about power, and showing them who has it.”
I’m a little stunned by the outburst, and I can tell some of the others are, too. My brother is completely, disgustingly into this. His eyes search the rest of us, wanting confirmation that we understand how important this is to him—to us. When they meet mine, I give him a small smile of approval, although I taste bitterness on my tongue. Really, all he’s doing is proving exactly why I’m doing all this; to bring down the smug assholes that think they’re better than the rest of us—even if I am one of them at the moment.
“This prank is complicated,” Emory adds, “but all the other rites have led us here. We have the skills to pull this off, we’ve already proven that. It’s time to let the Powers that Be know we’re back in the game.” He rubs his hands together. “This one will go down in infamy.”
“And if we get caught?” Georgia asks.
“Then we’re screwed,” Emory says, eyes jumping from mine to Reyn’s. “We’ll get expelled, made an example of, and become an embarrassment to our families.”
“Which is why none of that can happen,” Reyn says, leaning forward, his arm brushing against mine. “There’s no other option. We pull this off, and we do it clean. I’m not going down for this and I’m not letting anyone else go down either.”