by Angel Lawson
I don’t even make it to my table at lunch. As soon as I see Tyson sitting alone, I know something’s up.
“Hey,” I say, grabbing him by the sleeve after he dumps his tray in the trashcan. “Where’s Adams?”
“I don’t know.” He’s still chewing, shoulder lifting in a shrug. “She never showed for lunch.”
“Did you text her?”
“Did you?” he snaps back, eyes narrowed. “Why are you looking for her, anyway?”
Okay.
Getting real tired of this guy.
“Because,” I say, struggling to keep my cool. “I need to talk to her before practice.”
He exhales. “I did text her. No reply. Don’t you have some classes with her?”
“First period.” I run my hand through my hair and avoid Reagan looking at me from across the crowded room. “She looked… I don’t know. Weird. Tired, sort of.”
“Look, Bates, I don’t know what’s going on with you two—”
“Nothing is going on,” I reply too quickly.
Tyson rolls his eyes. “Just don’t fuck with her, okay? She’s a nice girl and you’re...” Tyson makes a sweeping gesture.
I pull myself up. “And I’m what?”
He shrugs. “You. A Devil. She’s tough, but she’s not like you. She’s not the manipulative type.”
“You’ve known her for like three weeks,” I give him a long, sweeping glance. “What makes you the expert on Gwendolyn Adams.”
“I’m not saying I’m an expert on girls like Gwen, but guys like you?” He grimaces. “I know plenty of guys like you, and she doesn’t need whatever bullshit you’re slinging.”
Anger licks at the back of my spine and I react spontaneously, grabbing Tyson by the arm and dragging him into the hall. Once we’re away from the crowd, he pushes me off with two hands. “What the hell, Bates?”
“I’m not messing with Gwendolyn,” I say in a low voice. Little does he know how much that girl messes with me, intentional or not. “It’s not like that. I just need to talk to her—that’s all. If you see her, let me know, okay? You should have my number from the team list.”
He nods and I storm off, still not finished searching for her. This would be a whole lot easier if everyone would stop jumping to conclusions about my intentions. I check the library and the computer lab. The bell rings and everyone files into their classes. I look in the Chem room—her class after lunch. She’s not there, either. I skip my own class, exiting the main doors and walking across the campus. It’s not like her to disappear like this, and it wouldn’t be such a big deal—not normally—but after what happened to her in the hall the other day, I feel more on edge about it than I should. I’m already in the crazy habit of looking at people’s shoes, eyes peeled for any flash of orange.
I’m halfway across the quad, headed toward the fine arts building when I see Gwendolyn’s little sister.
“Hey,” I say, trotting over. “I’m looking for your sister. Any idea where she may be?”
“Hopefully in the infirmary,” she says nonchalantly, eyes fixed to her phone. “She looked like crap this morning.”
I blink in surprise. “She’s sick?”
“Looked like it. She played it off though, you know she loves to be the mar—”
“Martyr,” I echo. We both laugh. “Yeah, she does like that.” I scratch my neck, looking around. “Okay, well, thanks. I’ll see if she made it there.”
“Tell her not to come home and give whatever she’s got to the rest of us. I don’t want to spend my whole Thanksgiving break sick with whatever plague she’s carrying.”
This little girl is a piece of work.
“I’ll pass that along.”
She continues toward the fine arts building and I turn and head the other way. I duck in the nurse's office and ask, “Have you seen Gwendolyn Adams?”
“Not today,” Mrs. Tolbert replies. “Should she be here?”
I rap a quick rhythm on the desk. “Not sure.”
I walk back out before she asks any more questions. There’s only one other place to check—her dorm room—which definitely puts me in the position of obsessing over this. If Gwendolyn is in her room, then she’s not regret-confessing what we did last night, and she also isn’t being maimed by some wayward Devil. But that doesn’t stop me. Something else propels me across the campus toward her dormitory, where I punch in the code and enter the empty building. Since everyone’s at class, there’s no one around to stop or question me as I climb the stairs to the fourth floor. At her room, I tap on the door.
There’s no answer.
I try the knob and it twists, door opening easily.
My eyes sweep around the dark room, and at first glance, it appears empty. Then I distinguish the crumpled mass on the far side of the room, beside the bed, like a mountain of blankets on the floor. My heart thuds when I see feet sticking out, still in shoes. I walk over and drop to my knees, bending next to her. It’s Gwendolyn, still in her school uniform, including her shoes, flat on her stomach, fast asleep.
God, please let her just be asleep.
I press my fingers against her forehead. She’s burning up.
“Hey,” I say quietly, trying to rouse her. “Hey, Adams.”
She doesn’t budge. My heartrate kicks up and I nudge her again, this time touching her warm cheeks. “Gwendolyn, hey, wake up.” She exhales and I do, too. “Listen, wake up, you hear me? Gwen…”
She sighs and shifts, eyes barely opening. “Bates?” she mumbles, voice a harsh rasp. “What are you…”
“I think you’re sick,” I tell her as she pulls her knees up to her chest. “Can you sit up?”
“No. My head is killing me.” She keeps her eyes closed. “Just leave me alone, I’ll be better in a while.”
I shake my head and lean forward, scooping her up into my arms. I carry her to the bed, laying her in the middle. Her legs flail about, seeking the covers, but her shoes keep getting hung up on the blanket.
“Hey,” I sit next to her and pull her foot in my lap, unlacing her shoe. “I’m going to call the nurse. Did you take any medicine or anything?”
“No.” She cracks an eye for only a split second, immediately cringing down into the bed.
I take off one shoe, then the other. She pushes at her knee socks and I roll them down. “Do you need anything else?” I try to think of what my mother—or let’s face it, my nanny—would do in a situation like this. “Ice? A drink?”
There’s a long pause where I’m almost sure she’s fallen back to sleep. Then she tilts her head. “Can you get my pajamas? This skirt is so itchy.”
“Sure,” I say, ruffling the back of my hair. “Where are they?”
She points across the room to the dresser. I take a guess, open the top drawer, and am greeted by lacy bras and panties, one a soft shade of blue. My mind wanders, thinking about what she’d look like wearing them, until she coughs, and I snap back to the present.
“No, on the top of the dresser. The shorts and shirt?”
I shut the drawer, grab the clothes, and bring them back over. It looks like a massive struggle when she gets her hand underneath her body and heaves herself somewhat upright. Her hair is a mess, a total nest, and her cheeks are deeply flushed. She looks gorgeous in the oddest way—vulnerable, her tough exterior completely stripped by the illness and exhaustion.
“Here you go,” I say, handing her the clothes. “I’ll go call the nurse while you change.”
She nods and fumbles with the buttons on her shirt, but quickly gives up, falling back on the pillow. “Fuck my entire life.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You okay?”
“Every time I move, I feel like there’s a woodpecker stabbing at the back of my eye, trying to drill a hole into my head.” She holds the shirt straight up in the air. “A little help?”
I shift my feet, stuffing my hands into my pockets. “You... uh, want me to help you dress?”
“It’s not like you haven’t seen
it already.”
Well, she’s got a point there. I step closer to the bed, and sit on the edge, taking the clothing back. Gwendolyn lifts herself up again, her uniform shirt wrinkled and twisted at the waist. I reach over and unbutton the top button and make my way down, revealing an ivory bra that closely matches the tone of her skin. Her eyes are closed, as though just opening them is painful. I quickly remove the shirt and direct, “Lift your arms up.” She does and I slowly lower the T-shirt over her head, tugging it over the swell of her tits, down her torso. “Okay,” I breathe. Okay. I can totally do this. I can be the kind of guy who cares for a sick girl. Sure. “Lie back,” I instruct. She does as I say, and I proceed to take her skirt off, tugging at the zipper on the side and shimmying it over her hips. It takes a minute, but I get her shorts on, and get her under the covers.
“Now, I’m going to call the nurse.”
One of her hands shoots out, nudging blindly at my thigh. “Thank you.”
I bite my lip, looking around. “Do you need anything else?”
She opens her eyes. “Thank you for checking on me.”
I crouch down, fingers reaching out to graze her warm cheek. I almost tell her that pure paranoia drove me to it, but I don’t. It’s not true, anyway. Seeing her in here all alone, passed out on the bed, I’m glad I pushed through. “You’re welcome.”
I stand and pull out my phone, calling the main office to get linked through to the infirmary. When I look back, she’s already asleep, covers pulled close under her chin. I wait by the door, not leaving until the nurse arrives, then slip down the back staircase. In that moment, I don’t care who finds me here, but I know that she would, so I leave quickly, making sure that no one knows I was ever there.
21
Gwen
“Two days, Mom,” I say over the phone. “I’m sure I’ll be all better by then. I’ll be home with plenty of time to help get ready for Thanksgiving.”
My mom’s sigh is full of static and worry. “I just hate you being there all alone like this.”
“I shouldn’t be around anyone right now, anyway.” I straighten the quilt over my legs, fighting a shiver at my chill. “The nurse says it’s just a nasty, and very contagious, virus. It’s been going around for a few weeks. I really don’t want to get the twins sick, especially with Micha’s show coming up. I can order food, have it delivered here, and just rest up.”
I hate being sick, but it doesn’t happen to me often. The respite is almost a welcomed gift. With the help of my teachers and dorm advisor I’ve managed to keep up with my schoolwork, so I don’t even have to spend the downtime feeling guilty and anxious. I’ve made myself a comfortable nest of blankets on my bed, laptop open beside me, and spend most of my time sleeping.
My mom says, “I know you like to be independent. It’s one of the things I admire most about you. But I want you to know, it’s okay to let someone take care of you.”
“I will,” I promise, hunkering back down into my blanket nest. “In two days. You know Micha would kill me if he got sick before his performance.”
She laughs. “No, you’re right about that. He’s been absolutely off the rails this past week, as it is. But if you need anything—”
I reassure her over and over again, growing tired but more and more determined. Especially after the incident in the hallway during the fire, my mom has been particularly attentive. She’d had a long talk with the dean right after it happened, but I wasn’t privy to more than his strained, pale face when they left his office. I still remember the complicated look my mom had given me, something both concerned and scarily protective, and I knew instinctively that she’d threatened to sue the school into the ground if anything like this happened again.
Preston Prep is definitely on her shit list.
It takes a few more minutes until she relents. “You order whatever you need, you hear? Soup, more blankets, junk food, anything. Charge it to the credit card, go nuts.”
“I promise to be financially reckless,” I oblige, finally hanging up.
It’s Saturday morning, and by the time late afternoon rolls around, most of the campus will be gone for the break. A few students always hang around, so the dormitories are still technically open. Faculty will still be here. It’s not a big deal for me to rest and recover in the safety and comfort of my room.
I’ve been in bed since Friday morning. Sometime after second period, I started to feel worse—lightheaded, and feverishly hot. I remember trudging up the stairs to my dorm to change, and not much else. Not until I awoke to Hamilton’s worried voice.
I wish I didn’t remember what happened next; Hamilton bent over me, picking me up off the floor, and putting me to bed. I cringe at the hazy memory of me pitifully asking him to help me with my pajamas. Almost begging, really. I blame the fever, one hundred percent.
He vanished after calling the nurse and I haven’t seen him since. I have no clue what he was doing up here. If he was looking for sex, then he was SOL, although I remember the way he undressed me. It was perfectly clinical, no sense of that crackling tension present when he pulled down my socks or shucked off my shirt— only the gentle, sure touch of efficiency.
Maybe he has matured a little.
After the call with my mom, I take some fever-reducer and pass out again, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep. I’ve been inwardly referring to it as time-traveling, because it’s like I close my eyes, and instantly open them again to find that hours have passed. This time when I wake up, I feel better than I have in days. The light coming through the room tells me it’s already early afternoon. I shift on the bed, turning my face into a long beam of sun, basking comfortably.
Saturday afternoon.
I jerk up in the bed.
Shit. Shit. Shit!
I missed detention.
I fumble for my phone. There are no messages from the Dean, and nothing whatsoever from Hamilton. I scroll through my contacts, since I have his number from the swim sheet, and send him off a frantic text.
G: I’m so sorry about detention! I slept right through it. How mad is Dewey? How mad are you?
I stare at the phone, panic building in my chest. I know Dewey would excuse me if I’d brought him a note, but I didn’t. I completely forgot about it! I groan miserably into my hands at the thought of him adding more days to my detention. We were so close to being done.
My phone pings and I scramble for it.
H: No worries. I took care of it. How are you feeling?
He took care of it? What does that mean?
G: Better. Alive. Thank you for... you know, yesterday.
H: Picking you up off the floor? You’re not the first girl I’ve had do that for.
I pause, stomach sinking. Of course. He only came in that day because he wanted something. He was probably hoping for a different kind of sweaty moaning than the one he found. I take a controlled breath and pick up my phone, determined to be civil despite the fact he’s not being very nice.
G: Well thanks anyway. I hope you have a good Thanksgiving. I’m sticking around here for a few days in quarantine to keep my family from getting sick.
I wait for a reply, phone held limply in my hand, but nothing comes. I curse myself for getting too familiar, too invested. Hamilton’s obviously not one for small talk or friendly banter. And even if he were, it’s not like we’re friends. We’re something way less easily defined than that. Enemies who occasionally hook up? Sex enemies? Sexemies?
I toss the phone aside and close my eyes, hoping another nap can provide a distraction from that humiliation. I’m giving him too much, showing him parts of myself that can be used to hurt me, intentionally or not.
Sleep comes easily. I’m not even sure how long I’ve dozed off when I’m awoken by a quick rap at my door. I squint down at my phone and blearily determine that it’s only been fifteen minutes. I also can’t help but notice the screaming lack of any reply from Hamilton.
The knock comes again, so I begrudgingly heave myself ou
t of bed. Either the resident has more schoolwork for me, or Mom took it upon herself to order me some food, assuming I wouldn’t do it on my own. She knows me almost too well.
I’m still clumsily smoothing down my hair when I swing the door open, my eyes falling on a nonchalant and achingly good-looking Hamilton. He has a paper bag in his hand and a backpack slung over his shoulder.
I almost stumble back a step at the sight of him. “What are you doing here?”
From his tight jaw, he looks as though he doesn’t know how to answer that question. His mouth works around an aborted reply before he just thrusts the bag in my direction. “The delivery guy said this was for you. I told him I’d bring it up.”
This doesn’t actually tell me anything about what he’s doing at my dorm in the first place, but I reluctantly take the bag and don’t protest when he follows me in the room. I dump the bag on my desk, peeking inside briefly enough to confirm that it’s from the pho restaurant in town. Just a whiff of it makes my stomach clench in hunger.
When I face Hamilton, his eyes sweep over me, and I can’t even imagine how I look. There he is with his perfect hair and nice clothes, and I’m standing here looking like a zombie in a low-budget horror flick. I’m too worn out to work up the appropriate amount of embarrassment at this.
In fact, I’m too worn out to even stand here locked in some weird power struggle with him at all, so I cross the room and fall back into bed.
“So, really, what are you doing here?” I ask, tugging my blanket back over my legs.
He leans against my dresser, all long and assured. He lowers the backpack to the floor. “You kind of freaked me out the other day, Adams.” He says this without any outward sign of self-consciousness, his gaze sweeping over my plague nest. “Guess I wanted to see with my own two eyes that you haven’t perished like a wilting Victorian heroine or whatever.”
My first instinct is to send him a weak glare. I’ll fucking show him a wilting Victorian heroine. Asshole. But then I realize that Hamilton Bates basically just admitted to being worried about me.