by Jordan Grant
In the dark when I lie awake at night with a reoccurring bout of insomnia, I remember my OD like it was yesterday. Well, I don’t actually remember most of it, but I remember the aftermath. I still see the way Harlow looked at me, when she would finally look at me again, like she was both relieved and going to be sick. I glimpse my mother very un-my-mother like, red-faced and downright unkempt, thinking her only son tried to off himself.
I remember thinking I wanted to forget. I didn’t want to die.
So I don’t go find Darren Palacion or raid a freshman’s not-so-secret stash because maybe all those NA meetings are finally getting through my thick skull. Instead, I stand there, letting the countertop bite into my back as I swallow the sludge in my coffee cup and feel it scald my tongue.
When I’m done, I grab my laptop bag, snatching it off the counter, and let myself out. I take the steps down to the first level two at a time, and then there’s just the buzz of student bullshit and the smell of fakery in the air. Girls pass by with so much makeup on they look like they have Instagram filters permanently tattooed on their faces. Guys follow after them with that expertly disheveled, don’t-give-a-fuck look, which they’ve definitely spent at least an hour in front of the mirror perfecting this morning. All of them are begging for a demerit with skirts rolled up to the point of indecency and ties lost during summer break.
I ignore everyone.
My friends don’t even bother me this morning, which is smart of them. Archie is probably out playing grab ass with whatever fresh meat he can find. Chase is definitely spending his morning like he does every other morning nowadays, filled with phone calls from studio executives and occasionally his mother, worried her baby is going to be tainted by the LA music scene. She insisted he go to college before turning all Justin Bieber, not that he’s anything like Justin Bieber. Chase is 100% tortured bad boy with a couple of nasty habits that remind me too much of myself. Still, he’d be here in a minute if he thought he could help. God knows whatever Everett is doing, probably playing Ring Around the Rosie with Molly, pretending like the rest of us don’t see whatever the fuck is going on between them that they both refuse to acknowledge. Just like the other two members of our quartet, he knows I need space though, time to be alone.
I head toward the administration building by myself, weaving through the throng of students. I’ve got the hood of my Academy hoodie pulled up over my head like I’m the Grim Reaper trying to pass among mortals. It’s fucking August and too hot for this shit, but I need the anonymity. If I get spotted, the cheerleading squad will be so far up my ass asking about summer break that I’ll need an ER visit to remove them.
My fellow teammates on the football team would do the same, and I don’t want the noise. I need silence because maybe in the quiet I’ll figure it out.
Doubtful.
I open the door to the administration building, a wave of cool, conditioned air washing over me, and head toward my first class of the day, Statistical Probabilities and Data Science Fundamentals, which promises to be as mind-numbing as it sounds. A scrawny kid with bulbous glasses and a hooked nose, too busy staring at the floor to watch where he is going, collides with me. He looks up. I look down. I don’t even raise an eyebrow, and he goes to stuttering.
“S...sorry, m...man,” he says before he starts away, careful not to hit me again on his way past.
Curious gazes meet me when I look down the hall again.
Well, fuck.
This isn’t looking good for my plan to go all J.D. Salinger and vanish from the public eye. Maia Anthony—Avers? Whateverthefuck with an A—leans one shoulder against her locker and tilts her head at me, giving me one of her beauty pageant smiles. It’s false gold, as fake as her shoulder-blade-length extensions, but it’s hard to miss the invitation. I say nothing, not even acknowledging her with the lift of my chin. Archie, the walking definition of hit-it-and-quit-it, would be appalled by my lack of a response, but if I wanted a blowjob beneath the bleachers, there’s a million other girls I could call with less drama than that one.
“Hey, QB, what’s up, bro?” Morris, my second-string linebacker, says loudly. He slaps a meaty hand across my shoulder with his words, and I flinch. I can’t help it. Dude just announced my existence down the entire hall. A party banner and confetti falling from above my head would have been less noticeable, probably.
Morris is likely going on about his sexual exploits from summer break or worse—maybe?—asking about mine. I don’t even know what he’s saying though. I am staring, past the expanse of ocher-gray walls, squeaky clean marble floors, and naval blue lockers, to the very end of the hall at the hint of white-blonde hair that taunts me from behind passing students.
It’s her. The girl who steals my dreams and swarms my nightmares.
Harlow fucking Weathersby.
She looks gorgeous as usual, blue eyes the color of the ocean off the coast of Maine and that hair reminiscent of angels and all things pure and good, but there’s a wariness there, a tightness to her shoulders and a sluggishness to her movements. For a moment, the briefest of seconds, I think she smiles at me. That pansy organ beneath my ribs flip-flops in response. It needs to borrow a backbone. But I don’t have one to share, remember, because she cut straight through mine.
I am angry and turned on, which makes me even angrier. I don’t want to want her. I want to hate her, despise her even, to think of her as the troll who hides beneath the bridge, but apparently my cock hasn’t gotten the memo yet. It’s decided mid-hallway is a good place to try to test the elasticity of my trousers.
Traitorous asshole.
I start toward my prey.
“See you later, man,” I manage at Morris, and manage is an overstatement because beneath the thunder of my fury, I hear the growl of my words, and they come with a “Do Not Feed the Animals!” warning.
The students around us fade into the gray until there’s just me and her, Ian and Harlow, in our own little tunnel of betrayal and heartbreak. She smiles again at some asshole who appears to be handing her a class syllabus.
Fellow senior Waylon Bradbury joins our tunnel.
An arriviste, a newly rich blonde pretty boy with a year-round tan.
Son of a father who made it big in Texas on the back of black gold.
Rodeo-loving cowboy who I’ve never had a problem with until now.
Mother-fucker doesn’t get to play Brady Bunch with Harlow while I suffer.
I’m on top of the two of them in seconds. I don’t even spare the cowboy a glance. My eyes are for her and for her alone.
I’m not prepared for the light whiff of apple and cinnamon that lingers in the air around her. She smells like she always does, homemade apple pie.
“Well, see you in class,” cowboy says.
“Don’t you have a cow or something to take care of?” I tell Waylon.
He winces like I’ve literally wounded him.
“Dude,” he mutters, walking away, “not cool, man.”
Like I give a fuck.
Harlow looks up at me, unimpressed. She’s frowning, and I have the sudden urge to back her into the locker and kiss her just so I don’t have to see that look. Maybe if she hadn’t bled me dry, my heart would bleed a little for that stare of disappointment she’s landed on me.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Ian. I need to find out what Mrs. Crossley’s classes are like.”
I blink at her.
“Waylon offered to help,” she continues, like I should care.
“So?”
Her frown deepens, and I’m sort of worried her face is going to stay that way. I walk away because if I don’t now, then I am certainly going to kiss her, and there’s no coming back from that.
Not again.
Not for me.
I duck inside my stats class just as the warning bell rings, sending clamoring students into classes from the hallway. I take an empty seat at the back of the room across from Juniper Jameson. She’s got straight black hair that feels li
ke silk between my fingers when she’s on her knees. She nods at me and smiles, thrusting out her chest like she’s trying to break her back.
I sigh. It’s going to be one long fucking day.
And it is, excruciatingly so.
Twice I’m told, “I am like sooooo sorry you and Harlow broke up,” while a manicured hand lingers a little too long on my shoulder.
I pretend to not hear three invitations for study sessions late at night in locked dorm rooms.
And on at least four separate occasions, I flee class as soon as the bell rings to avoid having conversations with the opposite gender.
Sure, I could accept the offers. I could fuck them and forget about them, but I have a burgeoning criminal record and self-pity to keep me company for now.
After class, I walk back to my dorm room, thankfully unaccompanied. I am back in my room when most of my fellow classmates are making plans to put off homework. I shrug off my laptop bag and throw my hoodie on the countertop before my phone rings.
I pluck it out of my pocket and stare down at the screen, frowning.
FaceTime call with father Beckett.
I sigh, sit down on my sofa, and answer on the third ring.
My father’s frowning face clears as the connection improves. He’s in his study, looking pissed as usual with an open bottle of bourbon on the desk beside him. Thank God my mother is in Barbados with my aunt so she doesn’t become a target for his drunken wrath.
Not that he’s a violent drunk. No, he doesn’t need the booze as an excuse. He’s just plain fucking violent.
“Get into any felonious activities today, son?” he asks.
I want to roll my eyes since he sure as shit knows I didn’t stab Finn—it’s not my MO, and we both know it. I’m like him. If I’m going to hurt someone, I want the slick of their blood on my knuckles and the sting of the cuts on my hands and the bruises on my fingers.
I want to feel it the next day and remember the carnage.
I don’t roll my eyes though, because it would undoubtedly just piss him off, and I need off this phone call as soon as possible. The camera pans to show the fancy criminal lawyer my father’s hired, and he too is in my father’s study. God knows how much he paid just to have the guy come to him and not the other way around.
“No, father,” I say. “I didn’t get into any trouble today.”
“This is Mr. Dawson,” my father says by way of greeting, waving a hand at the city-slick lawyer behind him in the ten-thousand-dollar suit. “He’s your attorney for the matter with Mr. Berkshire.”
Well, I guess Eaves didn’t work out. Mr. Dawson steps closer to the screen and stares down at me. He’s got a chin the size of Staten Island and a discerning, ice-cold gaze.
“These small-town folk are being a pain in the ass to work with, son,” he says, “but we’ll get ‘em. Keep your nose clean, maybe throw in some decent volunteer activities, and you’ll be at Columbia next fall.”
I nod, and when my father frowns, I know my response is not satisfactory, so I throw in a “Yes, sir.”
“Your mother asked how you are doing,” my father says, picking up two fingers of bourbon and taking one long, slow sip. “I’ll tell her you’re fine.”
I nod again because of course he wouldn’t actually ask. He doesn’t really care.
“Yes, sir,” I say again.
“Take care of yourself, son,” my father says. What he means is don’t cost me any more time or money.
As the line disconnects, I let my head flop back against the leather of the couch and stare up at the empty, white ceiling.
8
Harlow
It’s been two long weeks, fourteen days of indifference and a stone-faced expression, broken only by the occasional grimace from the boy who loved me, the boy I love. I’ve second-guessed myself every moment of every day. I’ve wondered if I did the right thing, if maybe I should have told him Finn’s plan from the get-go. Even Molly doesn’t know why I did what I did, though she’s too polite to ask. Raven’s prodded for answers a couple of times now, but I keep deflecting, telling her I don’t want to talk about it.
I know they all are confused, not just the girls but the boys too. I see it in the slight frown on Archie’s otherwise carefree face in Conversational Spanish and when I pass Everett and Chase in the halls. They don’t want to choose, but I’ve made the choice for them. I tell myself it’s okay though. I’ll gladly play the role of the villain if it means Ian gets out of a lengthy trial and likely lengthy prison sentence.
Even Blaze doesn’t get it, though he’s too busy to grill me for answers, interviewing with colleges and scouts for baseball season, hoping he’ll get an MLB deal out of it.
I head in the direction of the student parking garage, shielding my eyes from the afternoon sun. I’ve got on a pair of blue jean overalls that stop a couple of inches above my knees, a sleeveless top that lets the sun add a few freckles to my shoulders, and my favorite pair of well-worn Chucks.
I don’t have a plan, not really, unless my plan is solely to get off campus. I’ve already had enough of this weekend, the stares from afar, the whispers behind me, and the fingers pointed when they think I’m not looking and, sometimes, when they just don’t care if I am looking at all. I’m the girl who broke the king’s heart, the queen who left the boy no one ever said no to, and they can’t figure it out.
There’s a rumor I got involved with a college guy from upstate and another that says Ian broke up with me when he knew I couldn’t cut it at the top. They are all lies, nowhere near the truth, but the furtive glances my way, especially when Ian and I are in the same vicinity, are enough to make any girl a little stir crazy.
Maybe I’ll drive to the shopping mall a few hours to the north.
Maybe I’ll go to the movie theater and get the biggest bucket of popcorn I can find and drown my sorrows in fake buttery goodness.
Or maybe I’ll just drive.
I head across the manicured lawn. There are student buzzing about, busy little worker bees on their way back to their dorms or planning their weekend rendezvous or whatever. I pass a group of freshman girls, and I know they spot me when their conversation abruptly stops. They are like the crickets at night trying to figure out whether to be afraid or continue their song. They start up again, and I don’t know what they are saying, but I’ve heard enough tidbits by now to be able to guess.
Look, it’s the girl who broke the star quarterback’s heart.
It’s the ice queen who never really truly thawed.
The wicked witch jeopardizing his senior season.
The fallen queen.
Football at Voclain Academy is as revered as it is in southern Texas. It is like the blood of our community, rushing through the veins of the Academy, encouraging donations, making us more than just a collegiate preparatory academy where money reels you in and keeps you there. It’s language, unspoken between the students, their parents, the teachers, the faculty, and the alumni. It is a god to be prayed to and worshiped.
The parents go nuts for it.
The grandparents open up their wallets for it.
The donors go wild.
It makes us stand out among the best preparatory academies in North America. The games are televised and streamed across the Internet. I even heard the recaps show up in the New York City papers, though I haven’t seen it.
Division II champions, the unmatched rivals, and I am the girl who threatens to bring down the entire empire. If only they knew. I never wanted to be a threat to their lifeblood. I’m just a girl trying to do what she thinks is right in a sea of wrong choices.
I ignore the girls and keep on walking, which is pretty much my go-to response nowadays. I just have to wait for the court case to be over, and then I will find a way to make it right. I will glue a million pieces back together for him. Then we will be the couple who got back together and gave it a second shot, and no one will be the wiser. I’ll be forgiven by the school and the students for my sins,
and I’ll be back in his arms.
I veer from the sidewalk and take a shortcut across the lawn to get to the garage. It’s my first year on campus with a car, after weeks of begging my parents this summer. I had to promise not to drive in the snow, not to drive during a storm, not to drive at night, and not to drive when the wind slightly picks up. Pretty much, I promised to only drive on sunny, cloudless days.
I wave my key card at the pad next to the door, and it unlocks with a click. I open the door to a rush of pressurized air and walk into climate-controlled vehicular storage. It probably cost the school a small fortune to build, but then again didn’t everything on this campus?
I take the stairs up three flights and dig my keys out of my bag, listening for the familiar beep of the horn as I hit the button. It’s nothing fancy, probably one of the most sensible cars in the garage. My grandparents may have won the lottery, but unlike my classmates I don’t try to remember where I parked my Lamborghini or Ferrari or Rolls Royce. Instead, I’m looking for a blue Lexus SUV, a gift for my senior year, but I can’t remember where I…
I round the corner and walk up the concrete path when I spot it.
Oh, wait, what?
My heart stutters in its rhythm. My breath catches, lodged in the back of my throat. I stop walking and stare before rushing forward, my arms outstretched like I can save it somehow and stop what’s already happened.
WHORE.
The word is scratched into the side of the car in big, ugly letters. Past the paint and deep into the metal, so there’s no mistaking it and definitely no rubbing it out like a scuff.
The salt of my tears burns my eyes, but I don’t cry. My fingers skim over the ugliness, feeling the jagged grooves. It’s giant and impossible to miss, spaced over two whole doors. My parents are going to be furious if they find out. My grandparents even more so.