by Angel Lawson
I glance down at my phone. The clock is literally ticking. I need to get into that gym. “Do you need me to call someone, or…”
She sniffs. “Maybe a little help getting to the gym? Once I’m there, I can take my shoes off.”
I’m not exactly sure why she can’t walk across campus barefoot, but the last things I understand are the fine intricacies of drunk girl logic. I run my hand through my hair and glance around like someone else will magically appear to help. They don’t.
“Sure.” With a heavy sigh, I walk over. “What do you need me to do?”
“Um… how about you wrap your arm around my waist. I can hobble over that way.” She looks behind me and then bats her eyes. “Unless you want to carry me.”
I look shiftily into the distance. “The waist is fine.”
I do as she asks, sliding my arm around her waist to stabilize her. She leans into me, pressing her cheek, and well, her rack, into my side. Over the stench of alcohol, a waft of oily perfume passes over me, stinging my eyes. Damn.
We start across the campus, me bearing most of her weight. “This makes twice you’ve helped me out,” she says. “It’s like you’re my guardian angel.”
I stare forward and try not to snort. More of a Devil, really. “Don’t sweat it.”
We’re in the middle of the parking lot when she stops and turns to face me, body still pressed close to mine. “I know everyone thinks you’re a bad guy for what you did to Vandy, but I know better now. You’re nice, Reynolds McAllister. I see who you really are under the surface.”
Her fingers are wrapped in my jacket and I try to unhook them. She doesn’t budge.
I grimace at the people in the distance. “Uh, thanks, I guess.”
She tightens her grip on my lapels, rambling, “You should have come with me, you know. I can show a guy a good time, just ask some of your shiny new buddies. All of you are just best friends now, aren’t you? Afton and Bass and Emory. And oh,” she gives a low, scathing laugh, “Vandy, of course. Because she’s the bees' knees now. Everyone just loves Vandy all of a sudden. Vandy, Vandy, Vandy. Isn’t she so pretty and prim and wobbly!”
I narrow my eyes at the contempt dripping from her voice. “Sydney, you’re drunk.”
“Yeah, I may be drunk, but I’m not a fucking addict like your precious Baby V.” She laughs, dark and mean. “You think all her new friends will like her once they find that out? When they hear she’s been gobbling up painkillers like candy for the last three years?”
I look down at the pathetic girl clinging to me. I knew she wasn’t a good friend to Vandy, but telling me that? It was intended to hurt her and me. “You want to know why everyone loves Vandy? Because despite having a better reason than most people, she’s not a bitter bitch.”
Her mouth falls slack in affront, but I don’t regret saying it. Her eyes jump over my shoulder, and then her jaw sets. In a show of quick dexterity that makes me think she’s a lot less drunk than previously suspected, her hand slips behind my neck and she wrenches me down, kissing me hard. Her tongue thrusts into my mouth so forcefully that I almost bite the fucking thing off.
I jerk back hard enough that she stumbles forward on her uneven shoes. “What the fuck!” I swipe the back of my hand over my mouth.
There are tears in her eyes again, but this time her face is twisted up into an ugly, angry snarl. “Fuck you, McAllister. You want a bitter bitch? Maybe I’ll show you one.”
I knew this girl was a hot mess, but Jesus Christ. I didn’t think being nice to her would result in something like that. My phone buzzes, alerting me to the fact we’ve only got about five minutes before the video goes live. Without another word, I walk away. Leaving Sydney and her drama behind, I head toward the gym to find my girl.
35
Vandy
Music pulses from inside the gym, along with flashing lights and shimmery decorations. Afton and Elana did a great job decorating for the dance.
My nerves are on edge, and not just because of the prank that’s looming over all of us. I’m in a shiny silver-blue strapless dress, and I’ve never worn anything like this before. It has a slightly debutante feel, with a wide skirt that bunches at the waist. My boobs feel horrifically squished into the tight bodice, but peeking out the top is an amount of cleavage that one hesitates to call modest. Fortunately, we were able to find matching ballet flats, so I don’t have to worry about any precarious high-heel maneuvering. Aubrey spent an hour on my hair, curling it into tight little ringlets that hang from a sleek updo. The only jewelry I’m wearing is the firefly, which hangs from a delicate silver chain I pilfered from my jewelry box.
My part of the job is easy. Tyson and I meet and greet every attendee, handing out custom-made Preston Prep stickers. It won’t be suspicious, since we’re supposedly taking over the duty from a sick pair of boosters.
“What’s this?” Corey Markham asks. His date, Sabrina Randolf, stands next to him in a tight, sequined dress. He rocks back on his heels and I wave a hand in front of my face, batting away the reek of rum and weed.
“Wear it all night and you’ll be entered into a raffle.”
“For what?”
“Uh.” I glance at Tyson, the pre-arranged lie stuck in my throat.
He covers easily. “Box seat tickets to the Falcons game next weekend.”
The guy shrugs but takes one.
When they enter the gym, I say, “You’re good at that,” nervously running my hand through the remaining stickers. It’s about an hour into the dance, and according to the timeline, about fifteen minutes before shit hits the fan.
“Good at what?”
“Making stuff up.”
“Lying, you mean?” He gives me a tight grin. “I guess. I don’t get off on it or anything. It just gets easier after a while to make up a story and stick to it.”
“Yeah, I get that.” I lean my elbows on the table. “I did a lot of lying when I was using.”
He appraises me. “But you’re better now, right?”
I nod confidently. “I am. I was just… in a bad place, and I wanted an escape. But things are better now. I don’t need to escape anything.” It’d be a lie to say I don’t miss it, in some deep-down, strange way. It’s not like I look back on it with fondness, and I have other ways of feeling good. Better highs. The kind that don’t hurt me. But the pull never fully disappeared. Sometimes I wonder if it ever will. “The whole thing just got so out of control.”
He mirrors me, forearms propped on the table. “I feel the same way. I really do love Presley, you know. And I think she loves me.” His face falls. “Or at least the person I’m pretending to be. You’re lucky, actually. This thing you have with Reyn? It’s—”
I blurt, “You know about that?”
He slants his eyes. “Kind of hard to miss with the warpath your brother’s on, isn’t it? I’m just saying, I know it’s supposed to be a secret. But the two of you are keeping everyone else out. Not each other. You really know him, and he really knows you.” He slumps, eyes sad. “I wish I had that with Presley instead of what we’re doing now. It kind of makes me want to come clean with her.”
I carefully suggest, “Maybe you should,” but inside, I’m rippling with the comfort of his words. I’ve spent so long hiding myself away that, until Reyn, there was no one who knew the real me.
At that moment, the lobby door flings open and in walks the object of my thoughts. It’s so cheesy and cliché, but it really is like slow-motion, the way he swaggers through the doors. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of him, and I have to do a double take, because Reyn…
Reyn is in a tux.
I knew he’d dress up like the rest of us. That’s not a surprise. I was just somehow harboring this vision of him at the age of twelve, dressed in a wrinkled, navy suit at my parents’ anniversary party at the club. That was the last time I saw Reyn dressed up at all. But this?
This is not that grumpy twelve-year-old boy who wouldn’t stop yanking off his tie.<
br />
Reyn is clean-shaven, hand stuffed casually into one pocket while the other rakes his hair back. He looks like James Dean met James Bond and decided to knick his style. My stomach flips in the best of ways. I’m taken by the sudden and completely obvious thought:
Oh my god, that’s mine.
He is. That guy there. Yes, the sex-on-legs, well-fitted pants, sharp-featured Adonis who just strutted in here. That’s my boyfriend.
It’s surreal.
When his green eyes find me, they skitter past and then lurch back. I have a fleeting notion that if he busts out the dimples right now, I might actually die, but before the thought can fully form, he does it.
The dimples.
“Well?” Tyson whispers, bumping his knee against mine. “Go on.”
“Huh?” My brain isn’t really operating at maximum capacity when Reyn looks at me like that.
Tyson leans in to quietly explain, “He can’t see your nice dress when you’re trapped behind this table. Go give him a sticker.”
“Right.” I push my chair out and stand. “Good idea.”
Reyn watches me with heavy eyes as I round the table, gaze descending to take in my dress. His eyes climb back up, only to fasten on the charm hanging around my neck. I watch as his throat bobs.
“You look…” His mouth works around several aborted replies before settling on, “Fucking amazing.”
My laugh is all breathy and embarrassing. “You, too.” I emphasize, “Really, really.” Shaking myself out of the stupor, I grab a sticker out of the basket and pull off the back, placing it neatly on his lapel. Getting close, I catch the scent of a fragrance on his jacket.
“That’s a strong choice,” I say.
“What?” He seems distracted but it’s understandable. We’re minutes from either pulling off something epic or going down in flames. Either way, we’ll make history.
“Your cologne,” I elaborate. “Interesting choice.”
He lifts his jacket to his nose and takes a sniff, grimacing. “Caroline’s,” he grouses. “She must have rubbed on me when we were getting in the building.”
I laugh. “Yeah that makes more sense. A little flowery for your style.”
“You guys ready?” Tyson asks, pointing to the time.
“Let’s do this,” I say, feeling brave.
We’re about to head into the gym when Sydney and Fiona slip in the side door. My former friend’s cheeks are red, make-up wiped away, and the bottom of her red dress looks wet and dirty. I’m caught off guard at the sight of her.
For a moment, I’m actually worried about her.
I’m just about to ask her if she’s okay when her gaze darts between me and Reyn. She looks at me and makes this sharp, disgusted sound that settles like ice around my spine.
She mouths, “Delusional,” and I’m thrown by the contempt there.
“Want me to get them a sticker?” Tyson asks, coming up behind me.
Reyn turns to eye them, ultimately shaking his head. “Fuck it.”
Together, the three of us head into the gym. I’m still tossing hurt, confused glances over my shoulder when the DJ cuts the music. Headmaster Collins steps up to the podium and I try to tune out the weird scene with Sydney. I knew she was mad at me, but that was a bit much, even for her.
Up on the stage, I see Aubrey and Emory, glittery crowns perched on their heads. According to Afton, before the traditional announcement of Homecoming King and Queen and their dance is a special presentation.
Or so Collins thinks.
“If you’ll direct your attention to the stage,” the Headmaster says, standing a little too close to the microphone, “the yearbook committee has created a video in celebration of tonight.”
The lights are already dim, but they cut the swirling dance strobes. The video begins, some cheesy Top-40 music swelling in the background. The first scene is of the bell tower, picturesque against Preston’s backdrop of ancient oaks. Next is a cheering crowd at the state football championship—a sea of red filling the bleachers.
Abruptly, the music cuts, the lights drop, and the screen turns black. Girls squeal like they always do when the lights go off, the sounds of fledgling confusion feeding itself.
Letters begin slowly fading in, blurry at first, but then becoming crisp, bright.
Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
A sinister laugh begins echoing out of the speakers. Up on the wall-sized screen, an image flickers, then another, and another, flashing bold and erratically, no pattern to the casual eye. But I know what it is, and Reyn, whose fingers lace with mine and squeeze, does too. It’s a history of the past few weeks, the rites of passage, the new Devils, up there for everyone to see.
It starts with fuzzy images of black hoods and the creepy passage that leads from the lake. Next are the pranks at the rival schools—the swapped-out Viking horns, the removed shield, the other iconography that symbolizes each and every school. The next images come fast and furious—bleeding tattoos, photos of the founders, each located in the upstairs bedrooms of the Preston House—a house all the alumni are currently watching this in. There are the stamps, a shot of the bell tower, the infamous notches. Heat flickers in my belly, remembering being up there with Reyn. My heart pounds at the memory of the other rites. The fear, the adrenaline, the power. Over and over, the photos are shown in a turbulent, blurred montage, until the laughter returns along with the Devil’s logo. The following words are overlaid:
The best trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.
The lights go down completely, sinking the entire gym into a darkness that would be opaque, if not for the stickers. The room is absolutely glittered with them, stuck to each and every chest—pitchforks surrounded by a glow-in-the-dark circle. This had been my idea—inspired by Reyn’s firefly, which is glowing even more fiercely than my sticker—but my breath still catches at the sight of the gym. The glows move and shift, erratic yet graceful, just like a blanket of fireflies.
We’ve marked them all.
“Oh my god, this is amazing,” I whisper, leaning into Reyn. He looks down at me and smiles, and I can see the same spark in his eyes.
Things have been so tumultuous the last few days, so full of tense frustration and doom, that being here now is almost like a dream. I clutch onto it as tightly as I’m clutching Reyn’s hand, and when he bends toward me, I meet him halfway.
The kiss is soft and sweet and boldly public, even if people can’t actually see us. I’m thinking that no matter what comes after this, at least we have this moment. Special. Rare. Shared.
In the distance, I hear the Headmaster’s panic. The microphone crashes to the floor while he shouts for the video to be stopped. It’s futile, because in a blink, the original content has been restored and the whitewashed pride of Preston is currently on screen, going through the motions like the well-kept, dignified student body that is the face of our revered community.
But the students know what’s going on. They’re howling with laughter, shouting in alarm, gasping with awe.
Across the crowded gym, our eyes slowly find one another—the Devils and Playthings. In the split moment chaos reigns, I realize I’ll never turn on these people. My people. It’d be so easy to hold my article over Emory’s head, to force his hand, but it’d also be wrong. I didn’t join the Devils to get a boyfriend. I joined to bring it down.
But I don’t want to.
I want to watch Georgia smile. I want to see Tyson finally show Presley the real him. I want to see Afton and Elana take Caroline under their wing, much like they did for me. I want to see Aubrey get my brother away from Campbell. I want to see Sebastian stop fighting so much.
I want to see the Devils become something better.
Collins actually ends the entire dance, just like that. He instructs the staff to turn the lights up and bathes us all in the blinding gym fluorescents, ordering us to go home. Most of the students look annoyed at this, but they’re also so cau
ght up in the melodrama of the reveal that their protests don’t last long.
As we leave the gym, Georgia, Caroline, and Ben walk up.
“I wish you could have seen their faces, you guys,” Georgia’s words come out in a rush. They’d all been assigned to the Preston House. “The alumni were hilarious. They didn’t even know what to do. Most of them were stunned. A few of the older ones just seemed annoyed, but there were a few who actually looked impressed. A couple were even laughing!”
“Don’t forget the ones who were so drunk they didn’t even notice,” Ben adds.
Caroline snorts. “Or out back smoking cigars. God, they’re so disgusting. But all in all, it went off without a hitch.”
“Collins looked like his head was going to explode,” Afton says, eyes shining in wicked glee. “Elana and I were up near the stage and he was swearing and making threats. Someone,” she gives my brother, who’s all the way across the quad, an exaggerated look, “cut his microphone during the video.”
“I wondered why he was so quiet,” Tyson says, grinning ear to ear.
I jump in, “Em was on the drama crew in tenth grade for extra credit. He ran the sound board.”
“The stickers were perfect,” Aubrey says, looking at me in particular. “It looked like every single person had one on.”
“I just hope no one calls me looking for their raffle prize,” I say, falling into giggles. The whole thing feels like walking on air. I glance at Reyn across our little huddle and he smiles back.
While everyone talks, my phone won’t stop buzzing with videos and notifications about the prank. I have a feeling the next few days are going to be wild, and as if the gods want to show me proof, we start across the quad and abruptly stop.
The branches of the massive old oaks are strung with toilet paper, large looping sheets that hang down like tendrils. Dewey storms around, yelling into a walkie-talkie. As a group, we burst into laughter.
“I guess the boys did a god job distracting Dewey and Buster,” Afton dryly notes.