by Angel Lawson
“We’ll see.” He looks over his shoulder, back at the cafeteria line. “You really think I can talk her into extra dessert?”
My smile grows wider. “I have a feeling you can talk almost anyone into anything.”
“No time like the present to test that theory.” He hops up, striding across the room.
Sometimes being here is like carrying around a duffel bag filled with lead, every day, every class, every night. And although whatever happened with Hamilton in that locker room probably increased the weight of my baggage to the power of a gazillion, having someone to talk to—someone who understands, even if only on a surface level—has taken some of that weight off. And that’s...
I watch Tyson lean against the glass case and charm the pants off of Bev. Lo and behold, a moment later he returns with two extra desserts and a wide smile on his dimpled face.
Well, that’s something.
6
Hamilton
I started this utter cluster-fuck of a day squeaky clean from the shower, ready to forget about Gwendolyn Adams and her mouth. And her tits. And her hips. And her hands against my—
Well, moving on from that.
Obviously, one final and very necessary interaction had to be arranged.
I had to put the fear of God into her.
I’m not proud of how I’d left the locker room that night. Running away had been a clear sign of weakness. Really, I should have owned it. I should have picked up my bag, properly explained what I would do to her if she told anyone what happened, and then strutted out of that gym with my chin held high.
As it happened, my bag is still in the locker room, Adams is walking around there with a figurative H-bomb pointed at the very concept of my existence, and I’d spent the entire night whacking off like a panicked, hormonal moron.
That wouldn’t do.
It’s like my dad’s always said: The best time to prevent a scandal is right before it happens. The second best time is right after it happens. The third best time is right fucking now.
So I waited for her before first period, perfectly aware that by the time she slipped into the classroom, the halls would be empty. Obviously, no one could see me talking to her. That was a risk I wouldn’t take.
It was the perfect plan, except for one thing.
She was late—really, annoyingly, uncharacteristically late—for the one fucking class that has a zero-tolerance policy on tardiness. When I spotted her running toward me, down the deserted hall, I could instantly tell that she’d slept less than I had. She had dark smudges beneath her puffy, bloodshot eyes, and her long hair had been twisted up into a sloppy bun that had worked itself free enough to bob clumsily along behind her as she sprinted. Her unzipped hoodie had slouched itself down one of her shoulders, pinned to her arm by the straining strap of her book bag.
Jesus, she looked wrecked.
As if kissing me was actually horrible. As if Adams were the one lowering herself in that exchange. As if getting kissed by easily the most attractive and successful guy in this school was such a burden.
Fucking spare me.
In any case, we were both late because of her bullshit, so now I’m looking down the barrel of five Saturday detentions and ten hours of isolation with her. Not happening.
Probably, I could call my father and he’d have this shit taken care of by sundown. Well, normally. But I’m already up shit-creek with him. The last thing I want to give him is more fodder to fuel the crushing depths of his disappointment in me.
No, I’ll have to deal with Mr. Dewey myself. How hard can it be to get him to put us in separate rooms or something?
Of course, there’s a far more pressing matter, in that Gwendolyn has made friends with the new kid—that diver from Northridge brought in on scholarship. He’s sat with her two days in a row and for the last fifteen minutes, it’s obvious that she’s been giving him the run down on the school. I don’t necessarily give a shit about that. What concerns me is the fact they’ve both looked this way more than once. I can practically hear her voice in my head, whispering to him about it, lying about it, embellishing it; telling him everything about what happened between us last night.
“Babe, want to go take a walk by the lake before next period,” Reagan whispers, her hand running down my thigh. This girl. I can’t shake her. She’s been riding me all day. Does she know? How would she know?
To be fair, I’d intentionally sought her out earlier, following a truly depressing jerk-off session. I’d just wanted to get my game back, re-focus my hind-brain. So I’d made out with her behind the main building, spent a few long minutes sucking on her neck, giving her the mark. It was an effort to stabilize myself—to pretend everything was normal.
And fine, sure. I’m man enough to admit it.
I’d wanted Adams to see it.
Now, the regret cringes inside me. It’s only going to encourage Reagan’s interest in me more. Last fucking thing I need.
I take her wrist between my forefinger and thumb and ease her hand aside. My tight smile probably doesn’t do much to lessen the sting. “I actually need to grab something in the... uh, library.”
Reagan’s fallen expression instantly perks back up. “I can come with! Let me get my stuff.”
I shoot Campbell a pleading look. She’s kind of their Queen Bee. She’s with Emory now, but we dated sophomore year. It was a disaster. Campbell and I are way too much alike. But it gave her the social leverage she needed to dominate over the other girls. And, like me, she knows how to keep them in line.
“Reagan,” she says, her green eyes cutting away from mine, “come to the bathroom with me. I need a tampon.”
The guys groan. No one wants to hear about shit like that, which is exactly why she said it. I send Campbell a subtle nod in appreciation.
“Sure,” Reagan says, quickly gathering her things. She’s more scared of Campbell than me. “Later?”
“Maybe. I’ve got a lot of shit to do this afternoon.” Grabbing my backpack off the floor, I bolt before she can say anything else.
I fuck around in the hallway for a minute trying to figure out what to do. Not one person can know about this. I know how gossip spreads in a place like Preston Prep—like chlamydia in a whore house. Fun while you’re doing it. A pain in the ass to recover from.
Ducking into a small storage closet off the main hall, I crack the door and wait. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, some weird thrum of adrenaline. Fear? Worry? Something’s got me wound up, and the rising tide of it fills my chest in a rush when I spot her exiting the cafeteria, parting ways with the new kid. That non-emotive mask slips back on, like the blinders horses wear not to get distracted. Oh, Gwen, Preston Prep is not the place to let down your guard.
Just as she passes the storage room, I reach out and grab her arm, yanking her out of the hall. I shut the door with an ominous click and stand in front of it, blocking her escape.
“What the—” her blue eyes widen with alarm. “Seriously, Bates!”
“Shhhhhhh!” I press my palm over her lips. They’re warm and moist and puffy. I instantly yank my hand away, giving my palm a long wipe on my thigh. “Shut up.”
“You shut up.” She looks around like she’s just realized where we are, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “Oh, my god, are you going to assault me again?"
“Assau—” It’s my turn to go bug-eyed. “I did not assault you.”
She hisses, “You attacked me in the locker room! At least with your mouth. That counts as an attack.”
“Oh, fuck off.” I sneer down at her. “I can’t be the first person driven to extreme measures just to shut you the hell up.” My eyes narrow. “And let’s not forget the part where you enthusiastically kissed me back.”
Her jaw drops. “You were holding me with those… those...” her eyes dart down to my hands, which I’m desperately trying to keep from throttling her, “animal paws! I had no choice.”
A derisive laugh escapes me. “That’s such creat
ive editing, you should consider joining the AV club. Remember how I let you go? You could have left at any point.”
She blinks, jaw opening and closing like a fish. At first no words come out, so it’s pretty clear I’d one-upped her. I smirk in amusement. But then a flicker of light sparks in her eyes and her upper lip curls. “You had a boner, Bates. I felt it.”
That bit of information clings to the air like an undeniably bad scent.
“So what?” I shrug it off. “I’m a guy, that’s what happens. If my dick doesn’t get hard while kissing a girl, then one of us is broken.”
“So I should be flattered that you were grinding into me like a horny dog.” She snorts.
“Oh please, definitely fucking don’t flatter yourself. I live with teenage boys, Adams. A wet rag could get us hard.” My eyes take her in, head to toe. “You’re nothing special.”
“What, like you are?” Oh, she’s really getting worked up now, all steely-eyed and straight-backed, nostrils beginning to flare. “Maybe having so efficiently starved me of human interaction that your disgusting mouth actually seemed quasi-appealing for the five seconds you forced it on me seems like a big win to you, but trust me, it’s not.” She eyes me in much the same way I’d eyed her. “You’re repulsive.”
I shoot back, “And you’re a bitch.”
“And you’re a sociopath!” she seethes. “I say that, by the way, with deepest apologies to the sociopath community!” She growls, thrusting her hands in her hair. “What is it that you really want, Bates? Why did you drag me in here?”
I watch her, her cheeks flushed from anger, chest heaving, and it takes me an infuriatingly long moment to remember. Why had I brought her in here?
“I thought so,” she replies to my silence. “You’re just fucking with me again.” She moves to leave, which snaps me back to reality.
“I needed to talk to you,” I blurt, stopping just short of grabbing her arm. “To make something clear.”
Her arms cross over her chest. “What?”
“What happened between us last night?” I don’t grab her arm to stop her from leaving, but I do lean closer, eyes narrowed in threat. “If you tell anyone, even that new kid—”
“You’ll what? Make my life miserable? Give me the silent treatment? Oh, wait, I know, you’ll convince the entire school not to speak to me and treat me like a pariah.” She rolls her eyes. “Trust me, Bates, you don’t have to worry about me telling anyone what we did. I know it must be hard for you to imagine, but it’s actually more embarrassing for me than you.”
My responding laughter is jagged with hysteria. “Yeah, right.”
“What, you think I’m joking?” When our gazes meet, the corners of her eyes are pinched. “Last night was the most humiliating moment of my life. Not just because you kissed me, but because—” She pauses here, looking away. “Fine, okay? I kissed you back. You gave me the chance to leave and I didn’t go.” She looks as untethered and confused as I’ve felt all day. “And I don’t even understand why. I don’t even know myself right now, do you have any idea how that feels? I didn’t just demean myself, I betrayed everything I believe in, including my family.” She swallows, finally looking at me again. “Trust me, I don’t want anyone to know what happened between us. That secret is going with me to the grave.”
It’s quite the rant, self-pitying and delusional. Oh well. Whatever she needs to tell herself. “Fine. Just make sure it stays that way.”
With that I exit the closet, refusing to let her be the one that walks out first this time. It’s petty and juvenile—this whole thing is, really—but Gwendolyn Adams has always had an irrational effect on me, whether I want to admit it or not. Those days are long past and things have changed. That girl is kryptonite—the ultimate derailment of an already derailed senior year. One thing is for certain, I will not let her be the catalyst of my undoing. I’ll make sure she runs from Preston Prep long before that.
7
Gwen
The next few days pass without incident, falling into a typical pattern of meeting the twins for carpool, and being ignored in the halls and classroom. I tutor a few elementary kids in the afternoons and sneak in extra swim practice in the evenings. Every now and then, Tyson will accompany me to the pool to practice his dives in the deep end, but other than that, everything is comfortingly, horrifyingly, normal. There are no more run-ins with Hamilton, who has just as easily fallen back to pretending I don’t exist.
Balance is restored.
That said, I can’t help but notice the subtle winds of change. Daylight savings rolls in and it gets dark earlier, the air a bit crisper, cooler. Madam Okausa gives us extra French homework. And, not that I notice overmuch or anything, but Reagan and Hamilton seem closer than usual. Like right now, as I walk across the quad from the dorm to the library for a tutoring session. I see them wrapped up in one another, leaning against a locker. She’s got her back pressed to the red metal and he’s leaning over—into—her, moving a lock of her shiny blonde hair away from her ample cleavage.
Not that I care.
Because I don’t. It’s just curious. He’d always seemed pretty aloof about her, blowing her off and snapping at her all the time, but now he’s giving her all this obvious attention. Maybe, I think, his brush with being a cheater made him realize he liked her more? Whatever. Not my business.
Except…
Except now I can’t un-know what I know. Like how Hamilton kisses with his tongue in these really elegant looping sweeps, or how his fingertips feel when they’re pressing into the flesh of my hip, and how the little crescent impressions from his fingernails take approximately an hour to completely disappear. And I know other things, too. Like how when he’s turned on, there’s this little divot between his eyebrows, like he’s confused but also really impatient. Or how he apparently likes to guide a girl’s head with the fist he winds into the hair at the base of her skull, but he also doesn’t pull it.
But the biggest thing I can’t un-know is definitely the shape of him pressing into my belly, hard and eager. He felt big, which is just stupidly predictable. Of course, he has a big cock. And it’s probably gorgeous, too. It probably performs magic tricks and solves complex algebraic equations and holds the answer to the universe or whatever. A perfect cock to go with the perfect body and perfect face and perfect trust fund. There is truly no justice in this world.
But not being able to un-know these things—and the unfortunate consequence of knowing them frequently, and with a frankly concerning amount of fascination—makes me ponder the rumors of the blow job test and whether or not it’s true. Does he really make potential girlfriends take a test? The sordid locker room gossip about it varies, the veracity of which verges perpetually on the edge of urban legend.
Most believable is the gossip that one girl took the test and gagged, therefore failing. And another, who used too much teeth. And a third, who refused to swallow.
Far less believable is the gossip about one girl getting it stuck in her throat. And another, who ended up spraying his spunk out of her nose.
If the test does exist, then Campbell Clarke obviously passed. They were the couple sophomore year. Even a break-up didn’t hurt either of their reputations. If anything, it just made them more popular, like when those huge crime families split up into different but symbiotic factions.
Even hours later, I’m still lost in some bizarre train of thought about the blow job Costra Nosta as I enter the fine arts building. The library is on the other side of campus, but it’s cold and much warmer to cut through the music hall. Preston Prep has an incredible fine arts program—theater, orchestra and band, visual arts, even dance. Micha is in the dance program, and he’s incredibly talented. It’s also his happy place. It’s like every worry, every thought, every distraction melts when he steps on the stage.
I don’t have a creative bone in my body, but I feel the same way when I get in the pool. There’s something about the silence, the cool embrace of isolation, that
just sets my mind into a singular, comforting focus. All I have to do is swim. I don’t have to think about who is looking at me, or what they’re saying about me or my family. No one knows my pedigree. The judgement is purely merit-based. There’s just a time at the end, and it’s not subjective, not based on who your parents are, how you look, what you say. You win or lose, it’s that simple. And typically, I win.
I turn the corner into a long hallway of private music rooms. These rooms, booked by students in advance for practice or individual tutoring sessions, are state of the art, and mostly soundproofed. Although, as I pass, I can hear the faint strains of different students as they work. Their faces are visible through the windows. One girl is playing a flute, her posture perfectly straight. Another boy is playing a trumpet, and from what I can hear of it, really badly.
Toward the end of the hall, I feel a vibration before I hear any actual music. I peek in the window just enough to discern the warm, curved wood of a cello. I pause, leaning against the wall there, watching, mesmerized by the deep reverberations and the quick slim fingers of the musician. There’s an innate confidence in the movements, quick and nimble, something I long to possess, but never will. I’m satisfied to just appreciate it, watching as the bow moves gracefully, with competent intent, coaxing a dark, haunting melody from the instrument. The fingers glide over the strings, pressing down hard when needed, then switching to a gentler touch to get the desired result. There’s never a break in the music, never a skip. It’s deep and powerful, and yet, there’s also a vulnerability to it—a longing, wistful sound to the dips and keens.
Reluctant to give up my personal show but knowing that I can’t afford to be late for my tutoring session, I push away from the wall and finally pass the window. Unable to help myself, I dare to shoot a glance at the person cradling the instrument.
My stomach sinks like a rock.