“That you have talent?” I ventured.
She shook her head. “It’s just—it wouldn’t fit in with my image.”
At the lameness of that response, the thoughts that had been percolating in my mind since Kendall first moved in finally broke loose. “Fine. Shove it in your closet. Toss it in the homecoming bonfire for all I care. Hide it just like you’ve been hiding your academic proclivities for the last few years. I know you’re smart. I saw your transcript. Sort of by accident, but still. What I can’t figure out is why you’d hide it. If I were you, I’d be asking myself what kind of jerks I’m trying to impress by playing dumb and hiding a serious artistic talent. Give your friends some credit. They can’t all be as bad as they seem.”
Her eyes widened in shock. “This—this is why you don’t have any friends,” Kendall snapped, motioning to the space between us.
“Good. It’s also the reason I don’t care,” I told her. “And if you don’t like my opinion, don’t ask for it. You’re the one who said you appreciate my honesty. It’s not my fault if you don’t like the truth. And I’ll tell you something else: I like the real you—the one who isn’t always worrying about impressing her friends. That girl egged my room, an action that nearly crushed me. I cried for hours. But this girl? She actually felt bad about it.”
She stood there, just blinking at me, while I watched her, wondering if I’d just brought an end to the tentative truce between us.
“You’re such a jerk, Harper,” she said at last, but there was no heat behind it. “I don’t know why I try talking to you. You know, there’s a happy medium between buttering people up and eviscerating them. A simple Kendall, be true to who you are and people will accept you would have sufficed.”
“Yeah? Well, I don’t know if that’s true,” I replied. “Look at me—I’m not exactly a social role model.”
I turned, prepared to march away in search of Cole, but Kendall caught my arm. “Harper, wait. You act so aloof, like you’re better than us. That’s why most people leave you alone. I didn’t know how much it all hurt you. I’m sorry. I really am.”
“Thanks for that,” I said. “Now if we’re finished with this episode of Dr. Phil, I need to go find Cole.”
I grabbed my bag and shuffled down the stairs. As I approached the sprawling brick facade of the library, Cole emerged from the double glass doors, backpack thrown over his shoulder.
“Cole!” I shouted, loud enough to wake the dead.
He just kept walking, which wasn’t a good sign. I jogged to catch up, then slowed a half step behind him. “This is ridiculous, Cole. You know I’m here. Please stop walking.”
“I’m late for practice,” he said. “I don’t want to screw that up, too.” He didn’t sound mad, at least not at me, but he also wasn’t himself. Not by a long shot.
“Please, Cole,” I said. “Just stop and talk for a minute. I called Dad. I told him I was taking an extra SAT pre-course and he gave me this.” I shoved an envelope of cash at him.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Eight hundred dollars,” I said. “I know it’s not enough, but I’ll get there, I promise.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said. “But thank you. You make it sound like this is your problem to solve. It’s not. You should take this money and put it toward a real class.” He tried to hand the envelope back to me, but I shook my head.
“Then how will you get the money?” I asked. “What will you do?”
“It’s under control,” he said.
“This is about what happened in the headmaster’s office, isn’t it? Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
“No.” He stopped and turned to face me. “I can’t.”
“Why?” I asked. “Why can’t you tell me?”
“Because,” he said, shrugging.
“God, Cole,” I snapped. “You’re being so evasive. What happened to the money? This isn’t a joke—you could be expelled.”
“You think I don’t know that?” He skewered me with his gaze. “You think I don’t know how badly I’ve screwed everything up? That it’s not eating me up inside? The last thing I need is to have you look at me like that.”
“Like what?” I asked, taken aback by the way his voice broke over those last words.
“Like I’m a complete disappointment. Like I’ll never live up to your standards. Look, Harps, I’ll find my own way out of this.”
“It’s Sterling, isn’t it? He talked you into doing something crazy.”
“Why do you keep trying to drag him into this?” Cole demanded. “It’s got nothing to do with him.”
“Maybe because he’s turned expulsion into an art form. He transfers in, becomes your roommate, and five minutes later you’re committing crimes? Do you seriously wonder why I keep bringing him into this?”
Cole shook his head. “This right here is why I can’t talk to you. You just don’t listen. Sterling is probably the most loyal guy I’ve ever known—stop making him out to be some sort of criminal. Look, I need to go. I get your need to keep me on the up-and-up so you can stamp Rule Follower on my photo and file me away with your index cards. I get that this is wrecking your world. But I’m late for practice, and your needs aren’t the only ones that matter.”
The way he said it, so matter-of-fact, so calm and collected, made the words sting that much more. If he’d hurled them at me in anger, I could have retorted or defended myself. Instead, I swallowed them whole. And just stood there watching as he slung his bag back over his shoulder and walked away.
Reason 10:
If he knows SO MUCH about
the French Revolution,
why is he even in high school?
He should just go join the
rest of the scholars in the
catacombs of La Sorbonne.
I’d made a conscious decision not to let Sterling Lane affect my emotional control. But in light of the alligator event, I glanced up at him when he wandered into history. As he strutted to his seat, those brown eyes met mine and narrowed.
I wasn’t afraid of Sterling Lane, not in the least. But after what he’d said to me yesterday, his direct and determined stare made me drop my favorite pen.
Rule 295 tells me to be strong in the face of blatant intimidation, so I did my best to glare right back, defying his smug little grin. Ignoring the way he lingered at Kendall’s desk, the two of them so intent on each other that they might have been unearthing the secret of nuclear fission.
Suddenly I wondered if it was ill-advised to encourage Kendall to pursue Sterling. He was far more dangerous than I’d previously imagined, and if they became an item Sterling would be imminently invading my personal space.
Then there was the fact that Kendall wasn’t entirely horrible, once you got to know her.
I’d been nervous to return to our room after our harsh words outside the administrative building. When I finally went home, Kendall had seemed nervous, too. I’d had the distinct impression she’d been waiting for me. After a few awkward exchanges, we’d spent the rest of the night reorganizing the room. Her contributions had been quite astute, and my Rules had applauded the area rug and the storage bins we’d added to the bookshelves. I’d never imagined that the worlds of fashion and logical efficiency could merge so harmoniously.
That had to be why it rankled me so much to see the two of them locked together in conversation.
After much shuffling and unnecessary rearrangement of his long limbs, Sterling finally settled in the far corner of the back row. I did my best to avoid looking back there. It was harder than anticipated, especially given that he and I were the only two people sitting silently while Mrs. Stevens distributed our graded quizzes. But Sterling didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he looked supremely confident as he met my gaze again and stretched his arms behind his head, letting his hands come to rest on the back of his head, elbows out. A classic vacation pose. All the while never breaking eye contact with me.
The chall
enge, the threat, was plastered all over those chiseled features. For the first time ever, Rule 295 quivered a little in the face of adversity.
I was afraid, even though I’d already made up my mind that no matter what form the alligator’s teeth took, I wouldn’t flinch—no matter how many times they bit me.
Mrs. Stevens called us to attention and started the lesson. I glanced back at Sterling, waiting for the fireworks to begin, but he was gazing out the window, watching the grounds crew cut back an overgrown shrub. I’d been counting on Mrs. Stevens to make him squirm a little, so it was infuriating to have Sterling sit there so passively, like class wasn’t even going on at all.
After ten minutes of dividing my attention between Mrs. Stevens and Sterling’s atypical silence, I let Mrs. Stevens win out. But as soon as I surrendered to that day’s lecture, noting how skillfully I’d anticipated the important points in my outline, Mrs. Stevens froze.
“Mr. Lane, I’m going to have to ask you to put that away.”
A thrill of anticipation shimmied down my spine. My blood pressure claimed twenty more millimeters of mercury as I whipped around, faster than all the rest of the class. But there was no reason to rush. Sterling was settling back in his seat, digging in his heels and preparing for a show.
On his desk was a small tablet, resting next to his aviators. One earbud perched in his ear; the other dangled at his elbow. His eyes were glued to the screen. As we all watched, he laughed out loud. Then he looked up, slowly and deliberately, as if suddenly noticing that the rest of the room was motionless, staring at him.
He smiled at Mrs. Stevens, wide and bright. “Missed this episode last week.” He was savoring the moment; I could see it in the set of his jaw, in the way his eyes flashed around the room, greeting each and every member of his audience and basking in their rapt attention.
“And you’ll be missing every future episode as well,” Mrs. Stevens said, walking down the aisle and confiscating the small electronic device.
“You can’t be serious,” he said. “I was hardly being disruptive. No one saw what I was doing until you pointed it out.”
“I saw what you were doing,” she said. “And I found it disruptive.”
“If you’d teach something everyone didn’t already know, maybe I’d pay attention. I was keeping one ear open, just in case.” He lifted the dangling earbud.
“Everyone already knows this? Okay, Sterling, I’ll bite. If you know so much about the French Revolution, you’re welcome to come to the front of the room and enlighten us.”
I hadn’t been this excited since the year I’d won a special achievement award in French. My heart hammered so fast I felt dizzy as I tried to imagine how he’d wiggle out of this one. I held the edges of the desk to keep myself upright when he rose and ambled up to the front of the room. He folded his sunglasses and set them down on my desk as he passed, staking a claim.
Or throwing down the gauntlet.
My hands balled up into fists, itching to crush those stupid shades like a sledgehammer. But I was in the front row. There was no way I’d give my classmates the satisfaction of watching me crack.
“Won’t you be needing these?” I asked, holding up the horrible sunglasses. “Your allergy to halogen lightbulbs, I mean. I’d hate for you to go into anaphylactic shock when I’m not armed with an EpiPen to stab into your heart.”
“I think you mean my thigh? I hope you’re not planning on medical school.” His tone was condescension incarnate. “A miraculous recovery,” he added. “From those debilitating conditions. But I appreciate your genuine concern as usual, Harper.” He resumed his saunter toward the front of the class, arranged himself on the edge of Mrs. Stevens’s desk, and looked out over the class, pretending he actually had something to teach us other than drinking games.
And then he did the unexpected. He started talking, telling us things. Things from the textbook I’d so carefully reviewed last night in anticipation, and things I’d never heard before. About Robespierre and the original libertine, the Marquis de Sade, whom Sterling talked about with a disturbing degree of respect. Then again, I hadn’t known de Sade’s role in the revolution, or how he’d settled down later in life with an impoverished widow and her child.
It was an incredible blur of facts, details, dates. For a moment, I actually dropped my guard. I pulled out my outline and started revising on the spot, something I rarely did. At that point in my career at Sablebrook, the teachers were perfectly predictable—I always knew the types of things they were likely to highlight for the exam. But this was different. This was just about learning.
Ten minutes in, Mrs. Stevens held up a hand, silencing Sterling. The look on her face was one I’d never seen before. Pride.
“Impressive,” she said. “Care to tell me where you learned that?”
Sterling shrugged. “Figured it’s common knowledge.” Then he looked right at me, eyes flickering to the notes scribbled all over my outline. Proof positive I hadn’t known half of the esoteric tidbits he’d just scattered at our feet. It was meant to insult me—all of it. This fantastic display was an alligator tooth.
“Did you know that?” the boy behind me whispered, nudging my shoulder with his knuckle.
“Yes, did you?” Sterling prodded. I swallowed bile, along with a helping of pure, unadulterated jealously, and pretended not to hear.
“Common knowledge? Hardly.” Mrs. Stevens chuckled, actually charmed by his false modesty. “And I counted seven different primary references you must have consulted. It seems we have a true historian in our midst.” It might have been my imagination, but I was pretty sure she avoided my eyes when she said it. As if the comparison was that unfavorable—even after years of knowing me, of teaching me herself, I was a disappointment.
“If you could learn some self-control, you might actually surprise everyone with what you can do. Maybe you could be the first one to finally give Harper a run for her money.”
Her words sent shock waves of panic rippling down my spine.
“Well now,” Sterling said, flashing me a crocodile smile. “That does sound fun.”
Our eyes met, and I half expected to hear a roll of apocalyptic thunder. The air crackled with colliding electrons. The oxygen was pressed from my lungs.
“There’s always time for a fresh start, Sterling,” Mrs. Stevens said, reaching out and patting his arm affectionately as he walked past. “Maybe it’s time to show us—and yourself—what you can do. And in that vein, I’d like you all to write an essay, due next week, on the French Revolution. And I must say, Sterling, after what you just showed us, I’ll be looking forward to reading yours.”
My throat constricted; my thoughts moved sluggishly, bludgeoned into submission by my hammering pulse.
But then Rule 9 came to my rescue just when I needed it most: I do not give up.
I twisted in my seat and craned my neck to get a view of Sterling Lane. It wasn’t until he looked up and started laughing that I realized how long I’d been glaring at him. He scrunched his face up tight, like a crabby little old man. Impersonating me.
It was against Rule 284, but screw it. I grabbed his carelessly discarded aviator sunglasses off my desk and hurled them at him. My aim was dead true, thanks to Cole’s constant wheedling for batting practice. But Sterling was an athlete, too. He snatched the sunglasses out of the air with one hand, laughter doubling. His straight white teeth flashed so bright they practically blinded me.
There weren’t sufficient words in the English language to describe the width and breadth of my feelings for Sterling Lane—hate, loathe, revile, despise. And if I had a thesaurus on hand, I wouldn’t use it to refine the list. I’d hurl it right at his head.
Reason 11:
The Rules. The Rules!
He hijacked my Rules.
When I returned to my room that evening, Kendall was sprawled on her bed, wrapped in a fuzzy white blanket, eyes closed. Her shoes weren’t on her feet this time, but they were still resting on her pil
low. I shuddered at the thought of pressing my face against such contamination. Then I looked at the floor—the empty Tupperware container was the exact size and shape of the one I’d used to store the batch of chocolate-covered madeleines I’d whipped up to celebrate my A on the physics test. Kendall had refused to even taste them before since they weren’t on her diet, yet she had devoured the entire batch from the look of it.
“What is that smell?” I asked. “Have you been burning incense or something? You know, that’s been linked to serious, long-term respiratory conditions.”
She opened her eyes and looked at me, her gaze vacant and strange.
“Are you okay?” I turned to hang my jacket in my closet. There, on the narrow strip of plaster between our two closets, was her painting. I smiled, an actual warm feeling spreading across my chest that she’d taken my advice.
A low voice drifted out from the darkened corner of the room.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
I turned and came face-to-face with the devil himself. He was perched on my bed, filthy boat shoes brushing against the edges of my freshly laundered duvet.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Haven’t you done enough for one day?”
“On the contrary. The night is when I really shine.” He smiled. “But you pose an interesting philosophical question. Is there really such a thing as enough? Personally, I’ve never thought so.”
“Get off my bed,” I said. When he didn’t move, I crossed the room in five quick steps. Three tugs on his arm, leveraging all my weight, and he still hadn’t budged.
“What are you doing?” Kendall asked, sitting up. “I’m sorry, Harper. I tried to make him leave. But I’m just so sleepy.” She yawned and stretched, curling back up in her bed, eyes at half mast, like she’d been sedated.
“What did you do to my roommate? And get your filthy street clothes off my bed.”
“My apologies, Miss Harper,” Sterling drawled, perfectly parroting the Southern lilt I’d worked so hard to stamp out of my vowels—the one that returned full-steam every time my temper hit a boil. “I forgot that Rule 405 has such specific requirements for the maintenance of linens. Quite illuminating, those rules of yours.”
Why I Loathe Sterling Lane Page 9