“Oh, yeah, I’ve had it since I was born,” she had said sheepishly, picking at her hash browns. “My parents named me after it.”
“Rose, then?”
She smiled, and even behind her mask it made something strange flutter in my stomach. “It’s a secret, unless you tell me yours.”
“I’m no one,” I lied.
It seemed innocuous back then. I didn’t want to ruin the moment by telling her the truth, but then when morning came, I thought I heard my name so I looked over my shoulder. And the next second, she was gone.
And now here she is, again, reappeared like some reoccurring dream.
Or perhaps a nightmare.
She hesitantly puts the pitcher down on the island counter. “Um—sorry. I thought you were Elias.”
“I am not,” I reply.
She rubs her hands on her jeans—they must be sweaty; I know mine are—and then holds out her hand as if she wants me to shake it. Her lilac nails are painted with sparkly glitter. “I think we got off on the wrong foot, maybe? I’m Rosie. Rosie Thorne.”
A rose-shaped mark.
Rosie.
I look down at her hand.
“Maybe we could—I don’t know—be friends?”
Friends.
The only friends I’ve had, aside from Imogen, have all gossiped behind my back and sold my deepest secrets to the tabloids. And if she finds out—when she finds out—that I was that bloke in the General Sond costume at ExcelsiCon? All of the secrets I told her, all of my fears, and hopes, and dreams…
I don’t want to risk them getting out.
So it will be best if I don’t become her friend at all, because the closer she gets the more likely she will see behind my mask. That night on the balcony was a mistake. Meeting her was a mistake.
I won’t make another one.
The tabloids would eat this kind of story up.
So I incline my head instead, pushing the feelings I have toward her down into some deep part of me that will find its way to the top again later, when I’m alone, and tell her in a bored tone, “Sure.”
Lies, lies, lies.
Then I grab a can of LaCroix from the refrigerator, leaving her with her hand outstretched.
* * *
—
AFTER SHE LEAVES, Elias knocks on my door to check on me. I’m lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to one of those murder podcasts that seem to always be trending. This one is about a man who killed women and stored their bodies in a refrigerator.
“Well,” he begins, “you could have helped her a little today—”
“Fire her.”
He stares at me. “…What?”
“You heard me.”
“Vance, she just started—”
“I don’t care. I don’t like her.” My voice cracks at that.
He gives an exasperated sigh. “Why?”
Because I’m afraid. And I’m a coward. Because I hated how I liked how she smiled, and how she laughed, and because of that I let myself imagine her, thinking I would never find her again.
And now she’s here. And I’m not the prince she thinks I am.
“Because I don’t like her,” I reiterate. “Is that so hard to understand?”
“You don’t even know her.”
“I don’t care!” I bite back, knowing my words are too sharp.
After a moment, Elias sighs and says, “All right.” My tense shoulders begin to unwind. Good, now she’ll go and live her life and disappear again. But then he says, resoundingly, “No.”
I sit up. “Pardon?”
“No,” he repeats, as simple as telling a child. I am not a child. “No, you don’t get to decide this.”
“She’s a menace!” I snap, which is a lie. She’s not a menace. Not at all. But I’m not sure how else to get my point across. I am not used to being told no.
I don’t like it.
He raises a pointed eyebrow. “What are you so scared of, Vance?”
I scoff.
“She’s nice and she’s been doing all of the work that you both should be doing together, and she hasn’t once complained,” he goes on, and my scowl turns pale. “I’ve known you since you were a kid. I know you. What scares you about her?”
The fact that I opened up more to her than I ever had to anyone in my life. That when she realizes that those secrets belong to Vance Reigns, she’ll tell them to the world for enough money to buy that book she ruined a hundred times over.
But I don’t say anything.
“Well, whatever it is, get over it. You’re not getting out of this so easily—and tomorrow I expect you to help her in that library. That isn’t a request, it’s an order.” Then he grabs the doorknob and slams the door on his way out.
PART TWO
REBEL
The automatic doors slide open, and Amara hears his footsteps before she sees him. General Sond—again. She can sense the strange warped energies that spiral around him like volcanic ash. They’re wrong—he’s wrong. And yet…
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asks, resisting the urge to reach for her pistol.
He slowly makes his way around to her seating area. It’s a part of the space station that looks out onto her home planet of Plylantha, a beautiful pearl of a world, purple and blue and green. It looked different on the other side of the Black Nebula. No, that’s a lie. On the other side of the Nebula, all that remained of her home planet were floating rocks and debris, of a place that once was but was no longer.
“What do I do?” he asks, startling her as he sits down.
“In what capacity, General?”
He lets out a breath. “You think me wicked.”
“That’s suspect.”
“You do,” he says, and gently reaches a hand out and turns her head so she must look at him. She could fight against it, but she doesn’t. His touch sets her skin on edge, and her nails dig into her palms—but she doesn’t pull away. As if she’s daring herself to know how far she can go. “I know the look of someone questing for revenge.”
“It’s not a quest,” she replies, leaning closer, testing the inches between them. She doesn’t blink as she stares into his eyes, trying to find a soul there. “It’s a promise.”
I MANAGE TO FIND A PAIR of not-so-dirty jeans on my bedroom floor and shimmy into them as Dad’s alarm screeches across the apartment for the fourteenth time.
I poke my head out of my bedroom and shout, “Dad, are you dead?”
From the other side of the apartment, I hear a zombie groan.
Good, not dead.
Since it’s a bit chilly this morning—thank God September finally got the memo—I throw on an old sweatshirt and jeans, pull my hair back, and fix myself some coffee. After a few minutes, Dad shuffles out of his room, in a crumpled button-down and orange tie. His silver hair is sticking straight up on the left side. He licks his hand and tries to flatten it down, but it doesn’t work.
He yawns as he fixes himself a cup. “So how’s Quinn and Annie’s Homecoming plan coming along?”
“I think they’re making buttons to hand out that say QUEER HERE TO ROCK and HOMECOMING IS SO GAY,” I say, pouring the rest of my coffee into the sink and grabbing my bookbag. “I can only assume I know which one you came up with.”
He snorts. “I’ll gladly take half credit for both.”
“Like a true hero,” I reply, kissing him on the cheek, and hurry out the door.
* * *
—
TUESDAY MORNINGS ARE FOR (MORE) COFFEE and pancakes, so as soon as I pick Quinn and Annie up, we head to the Starlight Diner for some breakfast. Seniors don’t have first period Tuesday and Thursday mornings—presumably so we can study for our SATs and apply to colleges—but I highly doubt any of us actually use that time as planned.
Why, when you can enjoy a stack of delicious pancakes instead?
We order our usual—three specials with an extra side of bacon—before Annie and Quinn spread out the details of their Homecoming plan across the table. They’ve already made the buttons, but now they’re both working on the posters, which are just as flashy and glittery as I suspected. Today, Quinn has on a fabulous dress—yellow with middle fingers printed all over it. They saw Natalia Ford in a similar print at ExcelsiCon last year and just had to track down the clothing company. They look up to Natalia Ford something fierce.
“She’s really everything. I can’t wait to see Starfield: Resonance. It is going to be amazing. Like, not like Last Jedi amazing, but like Star Trek: First Contact amazing,” they’re saying as they bedazzle the word VOTE onto the poster.
I’m not sure what the difference is (I was never really into Star Wars or Star Trek), but I nod anyway.
“I just hope Natalia treats Sond like The Last Jedi treated Kylo. I’m hashtag no redemption arc,” Annie adds, shaking a tube of blue glitter glue.
“But you like the Zuko redemption arc,” Quinn points out.
Annie waves her hand dismissively. “But Sond is terrible. He was in the TV show and he will be in everything we know about the movie.” Our pancakes come, and we clear a spot for them on the table. Annie steals a bite of my blueberry pancake before she continues. “I just don’t understand how so many people love Sond. How can you root for a villain?”
“Well, he’s pretty hot,” I comment, thinking about my run-in with Vance in the kitchen. For a moment when we first saw each other, he looked like he…was surprised by me. Caught off-guard in a way that caused a little crinkle between his eyebrows. A crinkle that, for an absolutely weird second, I wanted to smooth out.
“Not all that sparkles is gold,” Annie replies cryptically as she finishes dabbing the glitter glue onto the rainbow and holds it up for me to see. “What do you think? Glittery enough?”
“It’ll definitely catch people’s eye.”
“That’s what we’re hoping for.”
We inhale the rest of our breakfast, since we only have fifty minutes before our second-period class. Quinn checks their watch and slides out of the booth. “We’re gonna be late if we don’t run. You done?”
In reply, Annie shows them the poster in all of its incredible rainbow-glitter monstrosity. “Isn’t it glorious?”
“It’s a beast,” Quinn replies, and they fist-bump in affirmation.
I slide out of the booth, taking one last bacon slice as I go, and fish out ten dollars from my wallet. It’s my turn to tip, anyway. Annie and Quinn slide out after me, and we wave goodbye to Mrs. Potts at the cash register.
The older woman waves goodbye with a “Study hard!” as we leave the diner and hurry down the block to school.
* * *
—
THE BELL RINGS AS WE ARRIVE AT SCHOOL. I’m a bit late to geometry, but Mr. Rantz isn’t in yet either, so it doesn’t matter. I hurry across the room to my desk beside the poster of a kitten reaching toward a moon with the inspiring saying, Reach for the stars! I sometimes toy with the idea of scratching out REACH FOR and replacing it with LOOK TO, because honestly it would make the poster one hundred percent better.
But there’s someone in my seat when I get there.
Garrett Taylor is leaned back and sprawled out on my chair, legs up on my desk. When he sees me, he quickly rights himself and smiles around a red lollipop in his mouth. “Rosie! Good to see you this morning,” he says, and points to the cup of Starbucks at the edge of the desk. “I brought you some coffee. Two sugars and a cream, right?”
“Um—I actually take it black.”
“Like your heart, that’s so poetic.” Then he leans forward, before I can even begin to dissect his negging, and says, “I was just thinking, you know, since Homecoming is coming up in a few weeks, we have to start figuring out what we’re going to wear.”
I hesitate. Where is the teacher? Usually Mr. Rantz isn’t this late to class. And everyone else is staring at me, because of course they haven’t forgotten Garrett’s proclamation over the morning announcements last week. “I, um, don’t think—”
“I was thinking that since you love Starfield so much, we could both go in blue. I know just the perfect shade.”
“I’d rather not—”
He interrupts me again, as if he didn’t even realize I was talking. “What kind of flowers you like? You seem like the sunflower type, or maybe a daisy? I mean, a rose would be too easy, right?”
“I actually like roses—”
“We’ll figure it out. We’ve got some time. I can’t wait. Even though you won’t be Homecoming Queen, you’ll be my queen.”
Laughter twitters throughout the classroom. A few classmates glance over to me, a mocking grin on their faces. Embarrassment begins to burn my cheeks.
Mr. Rantz comes blustering into the room, finally. Garrett returns to his seat on the other side of the classroom, fist-bumping one of his friends along the way. “Everyone, open your textbooks to chapter three,” the teacher says, and I’m only too happily oblige, propping my textbook up so I can hide my embarrassment.
One thing’s for sure—Quinn has to win Homecoming. I’ll do whatever I can in my power to make that happen.
I refuse to give Garrett the satisfaction.
* * *
—
AT LEAST AFTER SCHOOL I CAN HIDE in a library and not talk to anyone.
As I’ve done every afternoon since I began working at the castle-house, my fingers skim along the bindings of the books until I find the first one—the one I ruined. It’s water-damaged beyond repair, every page warped, the binding falling apart. I really did a number on it. Only five hundred were published in 1987, three years before the first episode aired. I put it back, then turn to my task for the day—a set of books located perilously on the top bookshelf.
And there isn’t a ladder.
So I push one of the wingback chairs over to the bookshelf and climb onto it. I can almost reach them. My fingers brush against the bottom of their spines, where their imprint logo sits. Just a little farther.
Just a bit—
The door creaks open and for a moment there is Sond standing in the doorway, his platinum-blond hair pulled up into a bun. But then I blink and he’s Vance, looking about as happy to be here as I am to see him, because here I am stretched halfway up a bookshelf, standing precariously on a rather old and probably very expensive chair. I try to reel myself back, scramble down—
My foot slips and I go down—hard. I flip off the chair and land flat on my back.
I groan.
And suddenly Vance is at my side, crouching next to me. “Are you okay?”
I hiss in pain as he gently takes me under the arm and helps me sit up. “I…don’t think anything’s broken?” Though something definitely doesn’t feel right.
“Does anything hurt?” he goes on. “Did you hit your head? How many fingers am I—”
I realize exactly why things feel off, and I stare at him and the three fingers he’s holding up in front of my face. That’s what’s wrong. “You’re being nice to me.”
He quickly lets go of me. Reels himself back. And like shutters on a window, the worry on his face closes off into pinched annoyance. He clears his throat. “You—you simply aren’t that graceful. And if you got hurt, I would have to rearrange this boring library.”
“Ah, there it is.” I start to stand.
“Here,” he mumbles, and outstretches a hand. I hesitate, eyeing it. “I’m not going to bite.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“Ha.”
I reach up to take his hand anyway.
He pulls me to my feet, and I straighten out my jumper. Then I turn to the bookshelf I had been trying to reach, and put my hands on my hi
ps, and sigh. Well, my first plan definitely didn’t work. Now how am I supposed to get it? I suppose I could climb on the shelves…
“You know,” he begins, drawing me out of my plotting. I glance back at him, only to find that he’s looking at me with this frustrated intensity, like I’m a stain that won’t come out of his perfect silk shirt. “I don’t understand you. Why are you sticking around?”
I turn to him, baffled. “Why? If it wasn’t obvious,” I say, motioning to the books around me, “I’m not the kind of person to go back on my word. But that does bring to mind a question I wanted to ask you,” I add, turning to face him fully, and even though he’s a good head taller than I am, I pull my shoulders back to puff myself up. “Why are you here?”
His lips thin. “None of your business.”
“Don’t you have some nightclub to haunt back home? Some private jet to fly off on? Some—some Instagram-worthy vacation to get to?”
“Hey, I live a little,” he taunts. “What do you do?”
My fists clench. “I haven’t ruined my life, unlike you.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches. “Yeah, well, at least I have one.”
“Had, past tense. You’re here same as me, Reigns.”
Something unsaid sparks in his eyes. “Not for long.”
“Yeah, sure.” Then I turn to the bookshelf again and point up to the shelf I can’t reach. “Now instead of just standing around gracing me with your tallness, could you please reach those books before you…”
But he’s already stalking his way out of the library again like an angry shadow.
I let out a growl toward the smooth, crown-molded ceiling. “Fine. I’ll do it myself. Like everything else!”
Even if it’s almost impossible. Even if, sometimes, I don’t like it. I never go back on my word. My mom taught me that. She said you’re only as good as your promises, and I intend to pay my debt. And I might never have gotten out of this sleepy little town, but that doesn’t mean I never will. Vance is stuck here, same as me, and if he wants to try to get rid of me that badly, I’d like to see him try.
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