by Lucy Auburn
“Of course.” There’s snickering from in front of me, and I swear I hear one of the students murmur the word redneck. The heat in my face turns to anger as well as embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”
“I want you to compute the value of this derivative using the slope formula.” She points to what looks like Greek bullshit to me, with no clear answer. “What is the slope at X?”
I’ve never felt stupider in my life. At Wayborne I was scheduled to enroll in pre-calculus, and I never planned on taking another math class beyond it, because I figured at best I’d get an associate’s degree at the local community college then start a part-time job as a receptionist. Beyond that, my plans basically involved followed Silas wherever he wound up, because I was sure no matter what he did he’d get the whole world’s acclaim.
I was never meant to be the bright, shining star. He was the one who was supposed to come here.
“The value of X...” I turn red at her arched eyebrow. “I mean, the slope at X is... I don’t know?”
More snickers. This time I distinctly hear the words backwater inbred dumbass. Two girls in the second row have their highlighted heads together, the golden blonde of their expensive salon-dyed hair almost identical. Between them they probably spent over a thousand dollars on their hair. Meanwhile, all I’ve got are what God gave me and the cheapest haircut Wayborne can provide.
The sooner I fix how I look, the better. Especially if using spoiled Georgia Johnson's credit card gets her in trouble with her parents. She's here too, twirling her red hair around one finger, laughing quietly into her palm.
I can’t help looking over at Blake’s face. A subtle, cruel smirk is playing on his mouth. The smirk vanishes when the teacher looks back at him. “Mr. Lee, perhaps you can tell Brenna what the answer is.”
“The slope of the curve at the point is 4. That’s found, of course,” his voice takes on what sounds like a patient, gentle tone, but is no doubt condescension, “by finding the first derivative, then inserting that value into the equation. It’s really quite simple.” He smiles a little. “I can always explain it to you in detail during my office hours.”
He’s looking down on me.
It makes my face burn, my hands curl towards my palms.
I hate myself for caring what he thinks.
Ms. Saint asks, “Brenna, are you well-versed in pre-calculus and advanced geometry material?”
I tear myself away from Blake’s hateful brown eyes, shame spreading warmth in my belly. It would be useless to lie now. “Not as well as I thought, I guess.”
“Well, at least you can admit the truth.” Ms. Saint doesn’t look impressed by my truthful ignorance, though. “I suggest you study—and study hard—this weekend, Ms. Cooke. Incomers to Coleridge are expected to be ahead of the pack.”
“Yes ma’am.” I wince at the country twang that leaves the tip of my tongue, a bit of the backwoods dragged with me all the way to Connecticut.
It’s a relief when the teacher moves on to other subjects and new victims. I click out on the tab on my browser open to the Legacies blog, certain now it’s not worth it to try to do both in class. If I’m not careful, Calculus I alone could be my downfall, getting my ill-gotten scholarship revoked before I even complete the semester—or take down a single one of my targets.
About halfway through the class, I feel a distinct pair of eyes on me again.
And look up to see that Blake is staring at me directly, unblinking eyes behind his glasses, head cocked just slightly to one side. He doesn’t look away when I meet his gaze, doesn’t even flinch or look embarrassed to be caught watching. If anything, he just keeps staring at me more, seemingly unfazed.
It’s unnerving.
Even more unnerving is the fact that I can still feel him watching me when class lets out, never saying a word, face revealing nothing of what he’s thinking.
It’s strange to think that Blake’s father is America’s favorite action star to put on magazine covers, and his mother Korea’s most looked-up to former actress turned entertainment mogul. Somehow Blake himself has inherited none of their open-faced charm. He’s like a closed—and very unnerving—book.
He may have gotten their good looks, but on him they resemble a marble statue: cold and without any color.
It’s a relief to move on to my next class, far away from Blake Lee’s inscrutable stare.
Thankfully, my English class is free of any of the Elites or the girls I encountered in the communal shower last night, but the same can’t be said of lunch. Every student will be there.
Including the ones I’ve run my mouth in front of.
Trepidation fills me as I cross the Coleridge Center towards the dining area, laptop bag swung over one shoulder, hyper-aware of the streams of students all around me. So many of them already seem like the best of friends; you wouldn’t know it’s the first day. They break off naturally into little groups and walk confidently through the dining hall’s double doors like they were born here.
Leaving me all on my own, separated from the pack.
I knew that most of the students at Coleridge were legacies of some sort, or kids from private schools that feed straight to the academy, but I didn’t realize just exactly how alone I would be. A sudden longing fills me: to be at Jade’s house again, getting ready for school with her after our traditional end-of-summer sleepover.
I’ll never have friends like that at Coleridge. No one I’ve known for years or grown up around. Steps slowing, I look around for another straggler like me, a scholarship student maybe, or the weird kid from one of the private schools.
There’s always a weird kid. Every school has a social pariah. Maybe Hector is around somewhere, or Tricia.
I’d even settle for Chrissy right now.
But I don’t see any lonesome strays. No familiar faces either. That’s a strange feeling to me. In a small town like Wayborne, there are always friendly faces around—or at least, familiar ones. I don’t know anyone here at all. If I can pick out a face and name of a student, it’s because I’ve seen their Instagram feeds and magazine photoshoots. Some of them have millions of followers to go with their millions in trust fund money that will come to them the instant they’re of age—and you can tell.
I don’t fit in. And I can feel it. I know they can see it, too. I do my best to keep my chin up, but as my steps take me closer to the big double doors at the end of the hall, my pace falters.
Because I know I’m going to be alone on the other side of those doors.
Taking a deep breath, I rub the scars at the base of my thumb. I think of Silas, who was supposed to be here—not me.
And I decide I’ll never be alone in Coleridge’s halls. Not really.
A ghost comes with me. Not the little girl who died in the fire, but another ghost entirely.
With his memory strong at my side, I walk through the double doors of the dining hall.
Straight into Tanner Connally.
Chapter 15
"Brenna." It's so strange to hear my name on his tongue, that drawl of a Kentucky accent dragging out the syllables. "Or should I call you Fire Girl? I heard you're marked now."
"Yeah, your friend promised to make me a social outcast or something." My pulse has skyrocketed just from being near him. I can't stop thinking about what Veronica said: that a guy like him would never go for a girl like me. He's certainly looking at me closely right now, but that could just be because I ran right into him. "Are you going to join Cole in his little games?"
"Why shouldn't I?" Tanner cocks his head, a roguish grin on his face. "If there's anything you've shown me, Fire Girl, it's that you like games. Especially when they hurt."
Reaching out faster than I can dodge, he grabs my right hand and pushes his thumb into the burn there, which I slapped a thick bandage on last night after my shower. I wince as pain pulses through me like the warmth of a fire—and burn bright red in shame as a different kind of warmth spreads between my thighs.
He's so
close. He smells like wood smoke and grass trimmings. When I lick my lips, swallowing a whimper of pain, his light hazel eyes follow the motion of my tongue. Then he inhales sharply—and lets go of my hand.
"Is that all you got?" I ask him, dare him, push him. "And here I thought you played a different kind of game with girls."
Tanner is watching me, his gaze so warm where Blake's was ice cold, head cocked just slightly to the side as if he's studying me. "Watch out, Fire Girl. If you're not careful, I'll do exactly what you think you want."
"What's that?"
"Savage you." He pushes my hair back over my shoulder, surprisingly calloused fingers brushing against the side of my neck. My pulse jumps up to greet his touch. "Trust me when I say that you don't want that. You might talk the talk, Fire Girl, and you even know how to get a bit freaky with pain and punishment, but when it comes to me..." He lowers his voice. "Well, let's just say this senator's son knows how to sin."
"And I don't?"
Stepping back, Tanner grins at me mockingly. "You're a pure as driven snow, Fire Girl."
I want to snap at him, to tell him off, even though it's true—shamefully, painfully true. There's nothing I want more in this world to touch and be touched, to press myself against someone and feel them lose control because I'm irresistible to them. But I have to face the truth: I'm about as resistible as a dinner of steamed broccoli with a side of cauliflower. Anyone could take me, but no one will.
Which gives me all the more reason to get made over and change their minds so I can bring them to their knees. All of them—Tanner, Georgia, Veronica, Heather, and any of the others too. Even Blake's cruel, cold exterior would break if I looked like these other girls, with their beautiful hair and long, tanned legs.
"You'll see," I promise Tanner. "One day I'll prove you wrong."
"Prove me wrong right now." Casually, he flicks his fingers in the direction of the men's restroom to our left. "There's no one in there. Show me what you've got with that spitfire mouth of yours."
I sputter, "It's the men's room—"
"See?" Those eyebrows of his lift mockingly high, mouth curved in amusement. "Pure. As. Driven. Snow."
I don't know why, but I hate this more than Veronica's cruel words, Heather's forceful push, even Cole's overwrought threats. There's something about Tanner that vexes me just as much as I want him—and even more than that, hate myself for wanting him, because of what he did to the brother I used to have.
Some dark part of me, the same part that grabbed his wrist and forced it to the flame, wants to grab him right now and show him just exactly what I can do.
As if I know what that is.
"Brenna!" Before I can, a certain bubbly blonde head of hair sets a path in my direction, and I'm saved from myself. "Tricia texted me, she saved us a table—oh. Hello, George."
"Hello, psychotic bitch," Tanner says in a faux-happy voice. "You're friends with this one now? Fire Girl, I'm disappointed in you." He shakes his head and makes a tut-tut noise. "Here I thought you were different. Separate from the pack."
"Thought she wouldn't have friends, huh?" Chrissy tugs me over towards her, like a dog jerking on one end of a rope. "Well, think again. What was this asshole doing to you, anyway, Brenna? Because let me tell you, he's a real piece of work."
Tanner shoots Chrissy the middle finger, then glances over at me. "I'm out of here. I see my red bombshell in the distance, and she's sure to stab you to death if she spots you in my vicinity. Just don't forget," he leans in close to me even as Chrissy stiffens and tries to pull me away, "I'll be back to start our little game again. It's up to you which way we play: naughty or nice. I know which I'm in favor of."
Then he steps smoothly away from me, towards a distant figure that I spot as Georgia. She hasn't seen me yet, I don't think—if she had, her eyes would be shooting laser beams in my direction.
Tanner's words have given me something to think about, even though I know that he's just playing a game. He doesn't want me; he just wants to humiliate me. If he did get me in the men's restroom, it wouldn't be for a makeout session or something more. He'd just steal my panties and show them to everyone or get me to expose myself on video and blackmail me, like Amanda Todd's bullies did to her.
He doesn't really want me. Not the way I am now.
But he will when I'm done wracking up charges on his girl's black card.
"Are you okay? He didn't do anything to you, did he?"
I shake my head, even though my legs are half jello and my palm is flaring with pain. "No, nothing like that. He's all talk. I mean what is he gonna do, assault me in front of half the student body?"
"Yeah. Besides, I'm sure Cole has already forgotten his petty little grudge from yesterday," Chrissy says, though she doesn't sound convinced. "I mean, all you did was help snag my purse out of a tree."
"Right."
"I mean, how long can he hate you for that?"
"He's hated you for four years," I remind her as we head towards the small round table Tricia saved for us. "So we know he has a long memory. Though I have no idea how far he'll take it—it's not like he can do anything in front of the administration. Right?"
Tricia asks, "Are we talking about the fact that Brenna crossed Cole Masterson?" I frown at her. "Yeah, I heard. Your name was on the list last night. Chrissy's got bumped off to put you on there."
I blink at her. "The list?"
Hector, coming up behind us with another guy, answers the question for me. "Cole Dumbass Masterson posts a list to his Snapchat every evening announcing who has 'wronged' him and is gonna pay by being outcast. At his last school, he created an entire elaborate fake prom event from scratch, got a hot girl to invite this guy he hated, and made him show up only to discover the dance wasn't real."
Dropping his bag down on the chair, Hector shakes his head, a disapproving expression on his face. "Sure, the guy he did it to was awful, but going to that length just for a little revenge? The kid is petty and maniacal. You should stay away from him, Brenna."
"Thanks for warning me, but you're too late. I've made it onto his little list of revenge." I ask Tricia, "Who else was on it?"
"Well uh..." Tricia looks over at Hector uncomfortably. "You're Hector Sanchez, aren't you?"
"Oh, I'm always on it. Cole likes to mess with me, even though the shithead knows not to go too far or he'll get his face pushed through drywall." Flicking his fingers over to his companion, he tells us, "This is Reggie, my roommate. Reggie, this is Brenna and Chrissy, who seem to have met. You are...?"
"Tricia. My dad actually worked for Holt Industries for a while, before the merge went south. Didn't your dad like, epically save Joseph Masterson's life or something?"
"Yep, that's the guy. And it's the reason why I'm stuck going here, and my dad works here too. He's convinced it was some kind of gift from God that he wound up driving past that car crash late one night and saving Masterson senior from death. Me, I think it was a curse—we would've been better off if it had never happened."
I'm about to say something when suddenly Tricia's eyes widen, her gaze fixed on a spot behind me. Turning, I spot Cole's green-and-hazel eyes and golden blonde hair for just a moment before he takes a giant bottle of soda and upends it right into Hector's tray of food.
Soda fills the mashed potatoes, chicken breasts, and green beans, then drips off the edge of the tray and goes spilling everywhere. Chrissy yelps and moves to the side, while Tricia just stares wide-mouthed at Cole. Hector's roommate Reggie looks like he'd rather be anywhere else, and I don't blame him.
Staring at the ruined tray, Hector clenches his fist on his fork. "I should end you for that."
"You could," Cole acknowledges, "but if you lay a finger on me, you know what'll happen to your father."
"I never did anything to you, man." Hector's words come out low and dark from between clenched teeth. "There's something fucking wrong with you."
"Oh, I know." Cole's voice is a low, even tone, menacing and yet so
mehow charming at the same time. "I am deeply fucked up. But what are you going to do about it, Hector? We both know I can do whatever I want around here."
Staring down at the table, I put my hands flat in front of me, pushing my palms down into the wood to try to hide my shaking. I'm trembling, not from fear, but from something far more dangerous: an all-consuming rage, one that wants to fight, destroy, hurt, and doesn't care what'll happen to me if I turn my hands into fists and start something I can't finish.
Silas's warning comes to me: "You have a fire inside you, Brenna, and you’d burn the whole house down if he ever prodded at it.” He was talking about our father, not Cole, but the sentiment is the same. I don't know how to stop myself, because I've never given up control.
I've never let the rage consume me.
"Is this our little nosey mouse?" Pacing around, Cole smirks down at me. "Someone told me you like to play games."
"No, that's not it." I look up at him, voice firm, hands flattened on the table so I don't use them to kill him. "What I like is for bullies to leave people alone."
"Tsk-tsk. Such a terrible word. I like to call what I do corrective punishment." Putting his hands on the table next to me, he leans in close, until I can see the gold in his eyes. "Would you like to know what your punishment will be?"
My breathing is suddenly shallow and rapid, my nostrils filled with the smell of him. I hate the way the light makes his hazel eyes green and gold, hate how he makes me feel when he looks at me, as if he can see right through me. Hector forms a fist and looks up at him, but I meet his eyes and deliberately shake my head; this is my fight. I picked it, and I have to be the one who finishes it, no matter how that has to happen.
"Whatever you choose, Cole, try to pick something a little more mature than your usual antics." I look behind him and smile. "Because my roommate is watching."
"So? Why would I care?"
"You should. Holly already confided in me yesterday: she hates the little games you play." I smile up at him sweetly as he slowly realizes what I mean. "And if you're not careful, you'll lose her just by being yourself."