by Lucy Auburn
Chapter 16
"Cole, I swear to God." Holly's voice is firm, even, pitched low for just our table to hear. "Fucking with Hector's food, really?"
"I slipped," Cole says, charming but not at all convincing. "Also, it was fucking soda, Holly. You act like I smeared shit in the guy's mouth."
"Enough." She glances at me, then at Hector, bright spots of heat high on her cheeks. "I'm so sorry my boyfriend is a child. Especially to you, Hector."
"It's fine." He puts a neutral smile on his face, hiding his clenched fists beneath the table. "You know the food is free for me since my dad works here. And the girls haven't gotten anything to eat yet."
For some reason Hector looks over at Cole, then reaches out and snags me, drawing me close enough to him that he can throw his arm around my shoulder. "Now I've got an excuse to go through the line again, and this time I'll escort Brenna over here. It's her first lunch at Coleridge, so she doesn't know which of the four potato dishes are the best."
"Four potato dishes? Really? I thought rich people didn't do carbs."
"They do." Hector winks at me. "They just don't tell anyone about it in public."
For some reason Cole is glaring at Hector, eyes narrowed, heat flushing his neck. He meets my eyes and flinches, looking away. It's strange; you wouldn't think the joke about carbs would get to him. But clearly something has crawled under his skin.
"Well." Holly looks between us and sighs. "I guess if it's no harm no foul. I mean, I thought maybe he was about to start a fight, but..."
Hector says, "Nah, no fighting. Just a little ribbing between two guys. So I have to clean sticky soda off my slacks before it dries. It's not like my dad worked extra hours to get these for me." His grin is fake, but the 'joking' way he socks Cole in the stomach is very real; I see Cole wince and hide it despite how loose and gentle Hector's motions look. "See? We're like brothers. Practically grew up together and everything."
"Okay. Well..." Seeming relieved not to have to break up a fight—or worse, I think, break up with her psychotic boyfriend—Holly glances in my direction. "Brenna, I came over here to let you know that your orientation for the Rosalinds has been scheduled for this evening at seven. Mrs. Reynolds will want to be there for you to fill out your paperwork. I'll show you to her office."
"Will I need anything?" I ask, even as around me the tension turns more and more awkward, and it's clear everyone wants for this strange encounter to just end.
"Just your social security number and permanent address so we can run a background check. It's silly—no sixteen-year-old has a criminal background. But Mrs. Reynolds says we're required to do it. All good?"
Heart beating extra fast, I smile falsely at her. "All good," I lie.
The truth is, it's not good at all.
Because the social security number I'm enrolled under here is a fake, to go along with my fake school transcripts and my fake scholarship, courtesy of the mysterious stranger Legacies II.
My real social security number is tied to a name I don't want to be known by at Coleridge at all: Brenna Wilder, sister to an accused rapist who was bullied off campus and never came back.
It's one thing to get a fake degree, knowing I'll never be able to use it because I'll never manage to afford college—or get good enough grades to land a scholarship.
I have no idea if my fake social security number will go through a background check without exposing me for what I really am: a liar and a fraud.
I can barely concentrate in World History after lunch, so it's a good thing Visual Arts is my last class of the day. The Gladius Outdoor Space is refreshing to walk through, and the large white tent set up for us to do art in looks charming rather than makeshift.
As soon as I realized my social security number might cause an issue, I emailed the previous administrator of the blog in order to see if it would clear. He's the one who got me here, and who finessed my details with admissions when I made it clear I wanted to enroll as Brenna Cooke, not Brenna Wilder. There was no other way to keep my secret—even though he did warn me it might mean wasting my high school years here only to get caught and lose my degree. His warnings didn't really matter at the time, as fresh in my grief for Silas's death as I was, and as much as I wanted revenge.
Now I'm wondering if maybe I made a mistake. I entered the school as Brenna Cooke to avoid being the twin sister of the boy notoriously bullied out of school for his alleged involvement in a sexual assault. But I got the attention of the Elites just the same, and I wound up on the Cole's 'list' anyway. At least if I'd entered under my own identity, I wouldn't have to worry about being exposed now.
All of these thoughts are stirring inside me as I take a seat on one of the stools in art class, in front of an empty easel. There are only a few students in the tent; most of the rest of the class is probably taking their time getting here, since the schedule has plenty of cushion.
Staking out my spot, I set up near a small white table with a still life on it: a vase, a few sunflowers, and baubles strewn around. There are pads of paper and unopened charcoal and pencil sets on one of the bookcases calling my name, but I don't want to open anything up before the teacher gets here.
Art is the one subject I'm good at. In a competitive school like Coleridge, that's probably a bad thing. But at least this hour and a half class gives me something to look forward to at the end of the day, after having my brain mashed around in my head by calculus, English lit, and then world history. This tent, if nowhere else, is my refuge. My escape.
So of course, just after the teacher walks in, Cole Masterson struts into the tent, makes his way through the easels, and sits on the only empty stool—one right beside me.
The smile on his face as he leans over is cruel and mocking. "Guess who isn't here?" He answers his own question without waiting for me. "Your roommate. And I put you on my list. Which means no one will step in if I decide to get you back for the other day."
Despite myself, my heart skips a beat, anxiety and anger alike twisting in my stomach. It seems unfair that when I glance over at Cole and meet his eyes, all I can see is the glints of gold in their hazel, the way the sunlight filtering in through the open tent flap hits the side of his perfect jaw. I want to spit in his face—or maybe, even worse, lick him just to see what he tastes like.
Maybe Tanner was right. I really am fucked in the head.
"Do your worst," I taunt Cole, because apparently I can't stop myself. "The teacher is right there, and my Rosalind orientation is tonight. I'm not an easy target like you're used to."
"That's what you think." As the teacher comes to the front of the class, clearly about to start things up, he adds, "There are ways to get to you. Don't think you can tattle on me to my girlfriend, either."
I snort. "Why wouldn't I?"
"Because if you do, Tanner will tell the administration all about what you did to him." He cocks his head. "And I think that what they find will be of interest to them, since all it took was pulling your file for me to figure out what's wrong with you... Brenna Wilder."
Chapter 17
I'm going to be sick.
"You can't tell anyone," I say, which is absurd, because he was the one I wanted to know the least. But the thought of Holly knowing, or even Chrissy, sends my panic intro overdrive. I can't be the accused rapist's sister. "I came here to... to start over. And I had nothing to do with what happened."
"Oh, I'll keep your dirty little secret." The teacher is talking, giving us instructions on which supplies to pull off the bookshelf and take out of the supply closet for today's class, but I can't hear her voice over the rush of blood in my ears. "All you have to do is keep whatever happens between us just that: between us. And no one will know who you really are. Except me."
I lick my lips. I have no reason to trust him, but I ask anyway. "Promise?"
"Cross my heart and hope to die. Now, eyes front and focus, Cooke. You wouldn't want to fail your easiest class—you'd give trailer trash everywhere a bad nam
e."
Focus. It's easier said than done. With Cole sitting right next to me, carrying my secret at the tip of his vicious tongue, settling down is hard. So I just go through the motions: paper, charcoal, pencil, brushes, and ink, gathering them all as the teacher explains our first assignment.
We're to pick a still life close to our easels to draw—there are half a dozen setup throughout the tent—and do several loose gesture drawings of them with vine charcoal. Once we have the form nailed, we're to move on to a light pencil drawing, which we can fill with washes of ink or watercolor, depending on preferences.
"This assignment is meant to show me where you are in your skills," she says. I missed her giving her name at the beginning of class; the dry erase board upfront says RAINBOW on it in all caps, but that can't possibly be it. "If you're struggling, simply raise your hand and let me know that you need some guidance. Don't worry about making things perfect—just show me what you can do."
Cole hasn't leaned over and said anything snide to me since revealing that he knows my secret, so I let myself relax. It's like I said: there's not much he can do to me right here, right now, with the teacher milling around through the class, observing all of us closely. He'd have to be an idiot to go after me now.
So I let myself concentrate on the blank page in front of me, filling it with large, loose gestures. The teacher—her name is Rainbow, it turns out—shows me how to fill the volume of the vase with horizontal structural lines that capture its bulbous form. Once I've done this a few times, adjusting my easel and stool to find a good angle, I begin to lose myself in the art in front of me.
As I do, my mind drifts to thoughts of Silas.
Last year, for an assignment at Wayborne High's remedial art class, I drew my brother. We were told to do a family portrait, but the thought of trying to get my father sit still for long enough made my heart leap into my throat and do a little dance, so I stuck to just drawing my brother. The portrait was imperfect—he complained I made his nose too big—but the teacher gave me a perfect score and hung it in the hallways, raving about my skills.
Art is about the only thing I'm really good at. Silas used to joke that one day he'd be a rich programmer or a concert violinist, and he'd pay my rent at some shitty studio in Brooklyn long enough for me to make it in the art world. It was a dream, but that was how all our dreams went: no matter how far we went from each other, or how hard life became, we knew there'd be a tether between us, connecting us from miles away.
I think of him as I settle in to do the pencil drawing, letting my pencil dip to the side to draw thick lines, pressing it hard with the point for the thin, dark contours. One of the sunflowers is limp, its stem half broken in the middle, listed over to one side. I let the varying strokes of my pencil highlight it most of all, setting it apart in my drawing as a focal point.
Time passes. I'm barely aware of some of the students getting up for drinks of water or asking to go to the bathroom. I've gone to a place in my mind where I'm consumed by making art, and all I see is what I'm drawing, all I feel is the movement of my hand and arm to bring it to life. Conscious thought has left me.
I pick the inks to give the drawing color. I like their bold shades, the way they sink into the paper and spread out, making a splash as big as life itself. A dark purple with a little black makes a warm grey wash for the surface of the vase; a vibrant green brings out the thin stems of the flowers; and shades of yellow with a bit of bright orange turn the petals of the sunflowers into something alive.
It's almost done. I can feel that in my bones. All it'll take is a little drying time and one more layer of ink: a thin line of black to outline the broken sunflower. With that, and a few white highlights of gouache on top, the piece will be finished—just in time for me to hand it in at the end of class.
Leaning back, I stare at the piece of art in satisfaction.
And feel only a very brief moment of warning before a foul-smelling liquid falls on my head. It splashes down my face and clothes, forcing me to close my eyes. Sputtering, I jump to my feet, kicking the stool back and trying to wipe my face clean.
"Ah, shit!" Cole's voice sounds sincere, but there's a tinge of amusement laced through his tone. "I tripped on that bag on the ground—Ms. Rainbow, where are the paper towels?"
"It's just Rainbow, dear, and I'll go fetch some for you."
Drip, drip, drip. I push enough of whatever Cole threw on me out of my eyes to open them up and stare around me.
The first thing I see is my ruined still life, covered in muddy watercolor and ink from what I now realize was the brush washing station. The pencil lines have smudged completely from being soaked through, the paper bowed and thin where it was splashed.
I stare up at Cole, reeling. Stumbling back, I knock my heel against the downed stool and lose my footing. As I slip towards the ground, arms windmilling, Cole reaches out.
He grabs my wrists.
Tugs me up before my ass hits the ground.
And holds my arms so tight that I have to swallow a gasp of pain, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.
Looking down at me, his face twists into mock concern. "You okay there, Brenna? You almost ate it."
"I'm fine."
His grip is too tight, the nearness of him unbearable, but the worst part is looking up into his eyes from so close. I know what I look like, can see it reflected in his eyes: wet mousy brown hair, stained shirt, flummoxed expression, with high spots of heat on my cheeks. There are unspilled tears in my eyes. I tell myself they're from getting watercolor and ink to the face, but I know better.
I want to cry because he ruined something beautiful I made.
I told him he had no power over me. I was wrong.
Anger burning inside me like a furnace, I knock his hands away.
"Let go!"
"Fine."
He lets go of me alright—suddenly and all at once, before I get the chance to get my feet underneath me. I fall to the ground in a heap, hitting the stool on the way. Ass thoroughly bruised, pride wounded, uniform stained, and the only thing I've cared about so far at this school ruined, I look up at Cole and wonder if it's worth it.
Maybe I shouldn't have some grand plan of taking down him and his friends. Maybe I'll never have enough dirt, or enough power, to ruin him. This might be the only chance I get to do what down and dirty country girls like me do: form a hand into a fist and punch him so thoroughly that he has to curse my name from a mouth that's missing teeth.
It would get me expelled, but I wonder if I care anymore. Rolling to my feet, legs aching, none of the other students in the class looking my way, I face him with my fingers curled towards my palms and my thumb on the outside of my fist just like Silas taught me. He smirks, and I imagine wiping that smirk from his pretty rich boy face. Like a train rolling off the tracks, I feel dangerous and unsteady, certain I should stop but unsure how to.
One moment. One shot. That's all I'll ever get—the instant I hit him it's all done. Every hope, every dream of revenge, dead as soon as my knuckles hit his face.
He's looking at me. I'm breathing fast, hard. The pain of my snake bite, of the ill-thought-out burn, makes my right hand throb. But the left will do just as well; Silas was a southpaw, and I imitated him so much as a little girl that I know how to use both hands when I want to.
"Look at you." Cole laughs a little, eyes skimming me from head to toe, heat following wherever his gaze touches. "You sure made a mess of things."
"And now you're gonna pay."
"For an accident?" Looking around, he surveys the class and asks me in a mocking tone, "The teacher's not here. It'll be your word against mine if you use those fists you've curled up so nicely." Stepping forward, he cocks his head at me and looks at me like I'm trash—like I'm nothing. "Think any one of these kids will help you if you get expelled?"
"It'll be worth it," I tell him—tell myself, really.
"Go on then. Do it."
He steps closer still, until I can p
ractically feel each breath he takes, the very heat of the blood pumping through his body. Warmth pools through me, the fire of my rage and pain desperate to take action—and something more, a sinister desire that fills me with self loathing.
Cole asks, "What are you waiting for? It's not as if you're doing anything useful by staying here. You'll just fail out like all the other unworthies."
His last word snaps me out of my rage. That was a text Silas got, from an unknown number somewhere out in Oregon: You're just another unworthy. Coleridge is too good for you. He believed it, apparently, lost faith in himself and took the fast lane out of Dodge.
I won't let myself do the same. I have to live—for him, if not for me. And I have to prove that Wilders are good enough for this godforsaken shit hole.
So I let my fists uncurl.
Push down the anger I got from Daddy.
And echo his mocking smile back at him, tilting my head and creasing my brows in faux confusion. "Why would I hit you? It was just an accident—when you fell, and when you dropped me."
Laughing, I shake my head—and let my hair shake out a little, drips of dirty water flying to smack him right in his Coleridge button-up. "It's no big deal. I drew it once, I can draw it again—even better next time."
Then I crane my head to the side, peer at his easel, and cover my mouth as if I'm shocked to see what's there. And really, I am, just a little—I thought kids like Cole were supposed to be good at everything they try. But the perspective on his piece is off, the contour flat and lifeless, his watercolor barely contained to the lines he's made.
"Oh. I see now." I shoot him a pitying expression and murmur, in a voice loud enough for others to hear but soft enough to mock him, "You ruined my piece because you felt bad about yours. Don't worry—you'll get better." Smacking him on the side of the arm, I add, "We've all got to start somewhere."