Crew Princess

by Tijan

I nodded. “There was a rule that there was no dating in our crew. And we followed that rule, until we fell in love.”

  “Did the others in your crew get upset?”

  It was something we hadn’t shared, but that interview was about being honest, being raw. So I’d shrugged and said, “Yeah. They were mad, but we worked through it. The whole crew did. There were lots of talks about the problems that could happen. There were talks about disbanding, or what would happen if we tried not to date. In the end, we all decided that the best result was to continue being a crew, for us to continue dating, and hope for the best. If the best didn’t happen, one of us would leave.”

  “Did that ever happen?”

  I shook my head. “No. We’re still together.”

  “If there’s one thing you wanted the world to know about the crew system in Roussou, what would that be?”

  “Stop putting us in a box that only you understand. If you can’t understand, try to learn. We’re not bad. We’re not good. We’re not evil. There’s no plan or agenda. The crews started to protect one girl. One. It was good in the beginning, and there is still good in the crew system.” I turned, finding the camera straight on and ignoring the producer next to it. “The Roussou administration manipulated this entire documentary to do their bidding. Every student except myself, Cross Shaw, Jordan Pitts, Zellman Greenly, Race Ryerson, and Tasmin Shaw were coerced into signing a contract with local police that required them to be interviewed for this project.”

  A whispering buzz filled the room.

  I remembered it then. Remembered Becca’s shocked face. The camera guy who froze. Another director had come into the room. But I didn’t hear the commotion I’d heard then. They had edited that out.

  “There’s a video online showing where police lined up students at a party,” I continued on the screen. “They let students from Fallen Crest go free and arrested all the students that went to Roussou. Each student was given a deal. Sign up to join this documentary, be cooperative, and no charges would be brought against them. We were at the same party. People will say we weren’t arrested, but it’s because we weren’t caught. We got away. There was another party of people arrested, and they got a deal cut. That’s because those people were from the Ryerson Crew. Their leader at the time was working with a member of the Fallen Crest Police Station in a plan to undermine my crew and bring drugs into the high schools.”

  I took a break, but my eyes never wavered.

  I never slouched.

  I never adjusted.

  I never flinched.

  My head was held high because this was important.

  I would show no weakness in this moment.

  “The administration got what they wanted. All but one crew disbanded. My crew. We’re the last, and we will have graduated and left Roussou by the time this documentary airs. I don’t know what will happen with the crew system once we’re gone. More groups might start up. The system might be done, and Roussou will return to being a normal high school. Either way, anyone who gives a damn has the right to know what really happened. Ken Broghers, Detective Broghers from the Fallen Crest Police Department, and our last principal, all worked together to force students be a part of this documentary.”

  A ghost of a smile crossed my face. “Not to say that some of those students wouldn’t have wanted to be a part anyway, but the way it happened wasn’t right. In fact, some would say it was discriminatory and coercive. But what’s my opinion? I’m only a high schooler.”

  The rest of the documentary shared interviews with other students. All backed up what I’d said.

  The new interviews gave more details about the party.

  Tabatha shared her story about her cousin who was raped.

  Sunday cried on camera, talking about how she wished she’d gotten pregnant a year earlier because she knew my crew would’ve helped. But now we were all leaving and going out into the real world, and she didn’t think she’d get the same help or shelter out there.

  She was right.

  Video of Harrison’s valedictorian speech was included.

  And more student accounts.

  They all had the same theme.

  We weren’t taken for granted. We weren’t hated.

  We were feared.

  We were loved.

  We were respected.

  The documentary ended with a note that an investigation had been opened and charges were pending against Kenneth Broghers, Detective Broghers, and Robert Neeon.

  The entire documentary wasn’t just about us, which I was relieved to find out. They’d broken it up into a docuseries, and we were only the last half of episode three. The first half had been about Channing and Heather, how they were the bridge between the two towns. The first episode was about Mason and Samantha Kade.

  Episode two was about Brett Broudou.

  It wasn’t a big documentary, but it had gotten some media buzz, mostly because of Mason Kade. It was picked up by ESPN and jointly ran on another cable network, so it wasn’t going to change our lives. Knowing some attention would be brought to our school, knowing that our side had been shared, all that was good enough for me.

  We’d moved on Friday.

  The documentary aired two days later. They’d given us the entire series early so while the rest of the episodes would air in the next coming weeks, we got to watch all three in one night.

  Jordan and Zellman threw a huge party. The girls were all here, along with Race and Taz. They’d both traveled from Grant West, which was a four-hour drive.

  Taz had embarked on a full-blown effort to get to know her half-brother Blaise over the summer. That translated into him being invited, and though we weren’t happy, we weren’t surprised when he showed up with Zeke Allen in tow. Along with a few others.

  Things were tense between Blaise and Cross. Neither seemed inclined to make the first move into whatever—either being enemies or becoming brothers, or just friends. Even with Taz, it’d been touch-and-go. Blaise seemed like he tolerated her at times, and other times, he fully avoided her.

  Sunday and Tabatha spent much of the evening taking video and selfies with Blaise and Zeke, then posting them only to Lila and Monica’s Instagram accounts. I didn’t know the story there, but there was one.

  “What are you doing back here?” Arms encircled me from behind. Cross pulled me against his chest, and I rested my head against his shoulder. Our hands caught, our fingers entwined.

  I’d been standing in the far doorway that connected the garage and the kitchen. There was a clean line of sight into the living room, and for the most part, I’d had my own moment here. Watching that documentary had been surreal.

  It was odd to watch my life on television.

  My words were out there. I’d said them. This was a very different chapter for me. I’d gone on the record. I did a very un-crew thing, and I went after the administration on their terms. I used what they wanted to use against us, and I didn’t know how I felt about it.

  “Just getting a minute by myself,” I finally responded.

  This felt different. Not Cross and me, but being here. A new house. We were living with Zellman and Jordan.

  “Almost my whole life, I’ve been hearing how bad the crews are. Almost all my life, I’ve had people wanting to get rid of us, and now they almost succeeded. I don’t know how I feel about it. We weren’t all bad.”

  Cross dipped his head down, brushing a kiss to my neck. “I know. We know it. And now…” He nodded toward the television, “You put that out there.”

  “A lot of people won’t care.”

  “No, but…” He hugged his arms over my chest, rocking me back and forth in his shelter. “Maybe some will. You just don’t know.”

  True.

  I looked up. “Did you know the producers for that documentary are related to Nate Monson? They’re his parents.”

  “I didn’t.” He paused a beat. “Who’s Nate Monson?”

  I grinned, folding my hands over his arms. “Wel
l, according to Malinda—”

  Cross laughed, squeezing me. “You’ve been spending too much time with that woman. She’s a bad influence.”

  “Really?” I tipped my head up, grinning. “She drinks coffee with me and tells me stories about my mom.”

  “Like I don’t know it was her idea to play ding-dong ditch.”

  “Technically, neither of us did that.”

  “No, you’re right. You talked Taz into ringing the doorbell and running back to where you and Malinda were waiting in the getaway car.”

  “See?” I patted his arm, beaming up at him. “We didn’t actually do it. We just assisted Taz in doing it. And besides, Malinda said she did that with my mom. I wanted to see how it felt.”

  “How’d it feel?”

  Like harmless and silly fun, but I felt close to my mom that night. And I’d go again if Malinda suggested it. “It’s a good memory to have now.”

  He frowned. “Wait. Who’s Nate Monson again?”

  I shook my head. “It’s just a funny connection. It’s not that important.”

  We remained like that, standing in the back, him holding me as we watched the rest of our group. In that moment, I was content. And that was an emotion I was trying to learn how to be okay with—not to push it away, to let myself be happy. It was a work in progress, but with this new beginning, I was hopeful about this next year. I had my crew, so I was okay.

  “Bren?”

  Cross’ arm tightened around me. We both stiffened at my brother’s voice.

  I frowned, disentangling from Cross. “What are you doing here?”

  We’d invited them for the viewing party, but both he and Heather had chosen to remain at home, saying they were too old for college parties.

  Everyone had quieted, seeing Channing walk into the house.

  He didn’t look happy. He looked concerned.

  Dread began flickering in my gut. I’d literally just tried to work my way toward being okay with feeling some contentment, and then this happened—whatever this was that Channing brought to my new doorstep.

  I stepped forward. “What’s wrong?”

  Channing’s eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. “Nothing. Something good actually.”

  He was lying. I could see it.

  Zeke came down from the stairs, a beer in hand. He stopped, saw Channing, and belched. “Is Kade here with you?”

  Channing ignored him, his eyes steady on me. “Bren.”

  That wasn’t his “something good” voice. That was his “come with me so we don’t make a scene” voice. I started forward.

  Cross came with me, but as we weaved through the group, nearing the door, Channing asked, “Can I have her alone for a minute? Just a minute.”

  Now I really knew this was going to be bad.

  I met Cross’ gaze as he moved his head up and down in the slightest nod. “Sure.”

  But he didn’t sound so sure.

  Channing’s eyes fell to me. “Let’s go outside.”

  I followed him.

  He closed the door behind us, and right away, we heard a commotion inside.

  Someone yelled, “Lights!”

  The house went dark in the next second. Then we saw the curtains moving aside. They were all watching out the windows.

  Channing swore under his breath. “Fucking college students.”

  I grinned. “Technically, none of us have started classes yet.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Right. Fucking high schoolers? That sound better?”

  I didn’t answer.

  He took a breath, gesturing to the sidewalk. “Let’s walk.”

  I was tempted to refuse, to make him spill whatever was wrong right then and there, but instead I fell in step with him, my hands going into my pockets.

  We walked down the line of vehicles until we got to his.

  “What’s going on, Chan?”

  He stopped just short of his truck and turned to face me. His head down, his eyes clouded, he said, “I am always here for you. You know that, right?” He put a hand on my arm, making sure I was looking him in the eyes. “I’m your older brother, and I fucked up when I was younger, but nothing—and I mean nothing—will keep me away from you. I will fight anyone if I think they’re hurting you. You know that, right?”

  Touched, I felt my throat swelling. I nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

  He stared at me, something weighing on him, and then he pulled me in for a tight hug. Holding me, he murmured against the side of my head, “I swear to God, if he hurts you, I will…” He stopped, swallowing as he forced himself to step back.

  But his hands were still on my shoulders, as if he couldn’t bring himself to fully let me go.

  I was really starting to worry now. “What are you talking about? About Cross?”

  “No. About—”

  The passenger door of his truck opened. Someone I hadn’t realized had been sitting there, had been watching us, had been waiting, stepped out.

  “Bren?”

  Everything swung around me in a circle. The vehicles. The house behind us. Even the fucking stars in the sky. Lightning bugs. The whole bit, because the ground got swept out from under me.

  “Dad?”

  Stay tuned for Crew 3, coming 2020!

  For more young adult books, head to www.tijansbooks.com.

  A special thanks to all my usual team for this one!!

  All my beta readers, proofreaders, my editor, my formatter! Thank you to all of the crew readers. I wanted to get this one out to you guys much earlier, but hit a few snags with other project deadlines and the characters weren’t speaking to me. I’m an author who tries not to force characters so thank you again for understanding! Also, just a big huge hug from myself to all the Crew readers who were so amazing and supportive when I started posting little snippets of Crew Princess. I wasn’t sure the reception I’d get, but you guys let me know you were more than ready for Crew 2! That is like air to authors.

  And now you’ve read Crew Princess, I hope you’re ready for Crew 3.

  Make sure to keep an eye out in my reader group or on my website, because I have a few surprises coming next year from a few people in this book.

  For more reading, check out Ryan’s Bed!

  The first time I snuck into Ryan Jensen’s bed was an accident.

  I’d been lying in bed next to this girl I’d been introduced to twelve hours earlier at a company picnic. My family had just moved to Portside, Oregon, from Schilling, Arizona, because of my dad’s promotion, so the whole picnic had been new faces, new names, and that feeling of being the newbie on the scene. Portside wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t small either—maybe around twenty thousand people lived in this suburb outside of Merridell.

  Robbie would know. My brother could spit out statistics because he was the family genius. Willow was the family artist. She excelled at almost everything creative, or it seemed that way. Piano. Dance. Painting. Once, she made a six-foot papier-mâché dragon that won a state competition.

  Trust me. That was a big deal. She was on the local news.

  Maybe that was when it started. Maybe she felt as if she had to compete with Robbie.

  I’d found empty bottles of laxatives in our shared bathroom, smelled the dried puke in the toilet, and a couple of times, I’d woken up to find her exercising in the middle of the night. We were the only two sisters, so it made sense we shared a bathroom. We’d shared the bedroom too until our pre-teen years, and then we got freeeee-dom! (I’m saying that in the best Braveheart yell I can muster.)

  I didn’t know why she felt she had to compete with Robbie.

  No one could compete with that kid. He was a walking, talking, and eating computer. Robbie wasn’t ever going to be normal, but Willow and me—we were. Or I was.

  I wasn’t the best at anything.

  Willow had been popular in Arizona. I hadn’t.

  Well, I hadn’t not been popular. I wasn’t in the top tier of the social hierarchy, but I was liked. Everyone kne
w me. Everyone was nice to me, though, thinking back, that might’ve been because of Willow. If someone came at me, they came at her. And she was not one to be messed with.

  Same thing with grades. I did okay. My B+ average made me beam with pride. Not Willow. It was A+ or the end of the world. There’d been talk at our old school about raising our GPA from a 4.0 to a 4.2 scale. Willow was all for it.

  Not me. That meant I’d have to try harder. No way.

  Maybe that was my role in the family. I was the slacker.

  Yes. I liked that. I’d been the slacker in the family—or maybe I was the lazy one. There was a difference between being a slacker and being lazy. One slacks, and the other excels at slacking. That seemed to fit better.

  Yes, that was me, and I had been once again fulfilling my role when I missed Peach’s door and tiptoed into the wrong room. I went in search of a glass of water and got lost trying to find her room again. It was easy to do. The place was a mansion.

  I didn’t realize it at the time. Both bedrooms were cool, with fans forming a breeze, and large, comfortable beds. These people were rich.

  Wait, not rich.

  They were wealthy. According to my sister, there was a difference.

  I’d met Ryan and Peach at the company picnic—or, rather, I met Peach. I assumed she was nicknamed for her fuzzy red hair. Freckles all over her face. Blue eyes. Blending. That was what she did, just like me. I blended into the crowd, whereas Willow never did. It was the same with Peach and Ryan. She blended, and her brother didn’t.

  I wasn’t actually introduced to Ryan, but he didn’t need it. I noticed him anyway. He was that kind of guy. People noticed him, even adults.

  Golden brown hair long enough that it flipped over his face and still looked adorably rumpled, hazel eyes, a square jaw, and a dimple in his right cheek—Ryan had a face girls sighed over. Even with him sitting at a picnic table, it had been apparent he was tall with a lean build and wide shoulders. Since his shirt had flattened against his arm, it was also obvious that there was good muscle definition underneath.

  The guy worked out.

  And judging by the look on his face, he’d been bored out of his mind.