by Angel Lawson
I’m not sure who I’m expecting to find on the other side of the door. Reagan, maybe, coming to push some more salt in the wound. Maybe she’s found more creative ways of telling me I’m nothing. All the same, it could be Hamilton, or any one of his Devils, coming to gloat. It could be my dorm resident coming to ask why I missed classes today. It could be Dewey coming to tell me that I have a thousand years of detention for skipping classes.
The reality is all at once far less dramatic and way more surprising.
My mom gives me a small, sad smile, holding up a bag. “I brought pho.”
My mom and I eat on the floor. I think how similar this is to the time I spent in here with Hamilton, and then I can’t help jerking violently away from the memory. At first, my mom doesn’t talk at all, just busies herself with unpacking the food and drinks. Nevertheless, I can see the question in her eyes, the intensity of her concern. She doesn’t verbalize it, though. She gives me a pair of chopsticks and lets me distract myself with the business of eating.
I eat mechanically. The soup seems tasteless. The motions of chewing feel foreign and strange, all of a sudden. My stomach accepts the offering, anyway. I can see her in my periphery, eyes searching, waiting, but I don’t have anything left. I feel numb now, like something came when I was sleeping and hollowed out my insides, and now I’m just a brittle shell made of dead nerves and unfamiliar skin.
My mom sighs. “Got a call today.”
I push a chopstick-full of noodles into my mouth.
There’s a beat of silence before she continues, “I take it you saw it?”
I stab my chopsticks into my soup, offering only a single, heavy nod.
“Oh, Gwen.” She sighs again, pushing her cup of soup away. “Sometimes I really hate my commitment to letting all of you make your own choices. If it were up to me, I’d pull the three of you out of this place so fast.”
Despite the broth and the iced tea I’m drinking, my throat still feels dry when I swallow. “Does Micha know?”
Her face falls. “There were pictures. Online.”
I nod. “Is he okay?”
She reaches out to sweep my hair away from my face, arranging it behind one of my slumped shoulders. “We spent the day with him and Michaela. Had a nice, long talk with them. He seems to be taking it as well as can be expected. I think Michaela took it harder than him, truth be told. It seems like maybe you did, too.” Her smile is rueful. “I suspect I’ve raised some really amazing girls.”
I push my own food away. “I don’t think I can handle any more.”
She doesn’t ask which I mean—the soup or the antics. Instead, she asks, “Do you know why I asked the moms for Thanksgiving dinner?”
I give her a look that I’m pretty sure says it all for me.
“I know you think my insistence is selfish.” She scoots until she’s beside me, our backs against my bed. “And I suppose you aren’t wrong. It is selfish, in many ways. I know what you all go through here. I also know that you are all the stubbornest, most resilient kids I’ve ever met. But I feel so helpless.” She takes my hand in hers. “I can’t make things better for you here—I can’t give you my blood—and I worry that, at some point, you’ll all start internalizing this nonsense. That maybe you’ll start feeling like something really is missing. Sharing you with your biological mothers is the only power I have over this.” She ducks her head until our gazes meet, eyes shining. “Gwen, I never wanted to make you feel like I don’t respect you. I can’t promise that I’ll always be perfect, but I can promise this: I will never again put you in a position where you feel forced to face her.” Her hand comes up, thumb swiping at my cheek, and I become aware of the wetness there in a detached, surreal sort of way.
I hadn’t thought I had any tears left.
“Mom?”
She tucks my hair behind my ear. “Yes?”
I shift my gaze to darkness beyond the window. I know that this school is a machine, that it has moving pieces that never cease, and I know that I’m tired—so very tired—of being crushed between the rusty cogs.
I look at her and say, “I don’t want to be here anymore,” and then break into a wet, broken sob.
She instantly pulls me into her arms, cupping a warm palm over my head, as if shielding me from it all. I want to tell her that it’s not what she thinks, and how guilty it makes me feel. That what happened to Micha and Skylar was awful, but that this gaping void in my chest is the result of me stupidly giving my heart to a guy who could never want it. I want to tell her that it hurts, and that it doesn’t seem like it’ll ever end. Instead, I bury my sobs into her shoulder, hands fisted into her cardigan as if I could force it into her through osmosis, this ghoulish truth that I brought it upon myself.
Her fingers card through my hair as she soothes me through it, and the only thing that calms me are her soft, whispered words.
“Pack a bag.”
27
Hamilton
It doesn’t take long to burn, at all.
The metal barrel flashes sharply when I throw the match into it, and then a few moments of leaping flame. It calms into an almost serene glow, the paper of the poster and programs curling into dark smolders. I watch, transfixed as the halo of fire gets consumed by the ashes, until the barrel finally goes dark again.
The whole thing is disappointing.
It should have been bigger, brighter, something worthy of the catastrophe it caused. Instead, I’m bathed in darkness once again, with nothing but the sounds of tree limbs rattling in the chilled breeze. I should have brought more shit to burn. It’s late enough that the whole campus is dead. Even Buster, the floppy old security guard, is probably taking a nap somewhere. It seemed like a good time to come down and destroy the evidence.
Well, that and I got sick of the pervasive and weirdly angry silence in the suite since I’d beaten the shit out of Heston and declared the Devils dissolved.
Ansel and Emory aren’t talking to me. Heston spent four hours in the infirmary, and then got sent home, even though nothing was broken, and it wasn’t all that bad. I probably hurt myself more than anything, my shoulder throbbing wildly with even the slightest movement. I rotate it now, just to feel the pull and ache, letting the pain anchor me.
For a long time, I wonder where I went wrong.
“What are you doing out here?”
I flinch in surprise, whirling around. I’d been so lost in thought, staring into the black pit of the barrel, that I didn’t even hear anyone approaching. I squint against the brightness of the flashlight, holding up my hand to block it.
“Buster?”
So much for his nap.
He lowers the beam enough that I can actually see his face. “You’re breaking curfew, young man.” He points the flashlight into the barrel, face stern. “And I saw that fire.”
I explain, “I was just getting rid of something. It wasn’t...” I push my hands into my pockets, frowning. “It wasn’t a big fire.”
“Nevertheless,” he says, “I think you and yours have left your mark on school property enough for one day. Don’t you?”
I stare blankly at his sharp, disapproving frown, and it’s probably a good thing that the Devils are done, because in a single day, we’ve lost every bit of favor. Even after getting Ansel and Emory immediately down there to clean it up, and even with Xavier standing guard to divert any attention, it didn’t matter. Since we live in a society where everyone has to document everything—even stupid illegal, expellable things—someone took pictures, and someone shared them on social media.
“Yeah, I guess we have.”
“Back to bed, Mr. Bates.” He grabs my arm and starts marching me back toward Cresswell. “Word has it you’ve got a big day tomorrow.” And while I wouldn’t describe the fissure of buoyancy in his voice as delight, it isn’t far off.
I never really gave much thought to it before—how much of a burden the Devils have been on the staff here. There are pranks, of course. There’s the initia
tions. There’s the sneaking out, and the booze, and the girls, and the vandalism. Pissing off the staff has never been anything more than a childish game, as far as the Devils are concerned.
When we reach the dorm, I turn to him. “I’m really sorry if we caused you trouble, Mr.—er, Buster.”
He peers at me through his thick glasses, mustache twitching. “No use sucking up to me, son. Administration doesn’t give a hoot how I feel. If they did, all of you would have been expelled years ago.”
“No, I’m not—” But the rest of it gets blown away on a tired exhale. “Never mind. Good night.”
I’m halfway up the steps when he says, “A bit of wisdom, Mr. Bates?” and I turn back, lifting an eyebrow. “If you think nothing you do matters, one day you’re going to wake up and find out that what you’ve done is all that matters.” He turns, waddling away. “Make it out count, kid.”
At eight a.m. the following day, I’m sitting in Headmaster Collins’ office with my father.
Even he can’t fix this.
I stare at my hands as the Headmaster lists the charges accumulated in the last twenty-four hours. It’s quite the laundry list. Setting aside the context and severity of the crime, the old me would have probably been a touch proud. But all leniency for the Devils is gone. The acts of vandalism, bullying, and general violations of the school’s code of conduct are in direct defiance of the deal we made last year. Targeting Micha Adams was more than just abhorrent. It goes beyond even the cowardice of the thing. It was just plain fucking stupid.
Off limits. That was the rule about the Adams family. And we all broke it.
By all accounts, I’m the worst offender.
I wait patiently for him to bring up my treatment of Gwendolyn, an accusation of sexual misconduct looming stark on the horizon. That’ll really be the cherry on this shit pie. I spent all night thinking of what I’d say. The way I see it, I have two choices. I can either insist that there’s been a huge misunderstanding and drag her in here to give her full account, or I can just... sit back and take it.
I decided long ago to simply roll with the punch.
I’m mentally preparing to prostrate myself in the face of it all—obviously, some of Gwendolyn’s martyr complex must have rubbed off on me—but it’s all for nothing.
It never comes up.
“It’s my understanding, Hamilton,” the Headmaster says, “that you spearheaded the clean-up of the wall.”
Well, at least the guys told him that. “Yes, sir.”
“Can you explain why you’d vandalize something only to immediately clean it off?”
I’d shrug if my shoulder didn’t hurt so much. “No.”
“No?” My father shifts in his seat, turning his irate gaze on me. “You can’t explain your own senseless actions?”
I flick my eyes toward him, wishing I could muster even a fraction of the fury I see in his eyes, because seriously, join the club. Despite having been boiling with rage about this for twenty-four hours, it’s buried so deep beneath my apathy that all I can manage is a nod.
“Look, just give me my punishment. I can accept the consequences.” I glance at the Headmaster, asking plainly, “Are you kicking me out?”
He sighs, folding his hands on the desk. “Can you give me a terribly compelling reason why I shouldn’t?”
Again, I say, “No.”
“Hamilton!” My dad fumes at me for a few solid seconds before turning to the Headmaster. “He’s the top of his class, Victor. You know his record.”
“You’re right,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “I do.”
“A few disciplinary problems don’t cancel out years of academic, athletic, and creative excellence. Hamilton is a pillar of this institution. A legacy. I defy you to look me in the eye and say that Preston Prep won’t be losing more than it gains by being rid of him.”
The Headmaster’s gaze turns to me. “Academics, athletics, and creativity are an important part of this institution. But you cleaned up the vandalism and there’s no evidence that you participated in the social media bullying campaign. Those are the only reasons I’m giving your continued enrollment here any thought. Do you understand?”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
He sighs, watching me closely. “I’m willing to let you remain on campus, but there will be conditions. For one,” I don’t miss his weary glance at my father, “you’ll have to resign your position as co-captain of the swim team, and this will go on your permanent record, which means you’ll have to reveal this as a disciplinary action on your college applications.”
“Now, you wait—” my father begins, but the Headmaster cuts him off.
“This isn’t going away, Martin. I’ve done it once. I can’t do it again.”
“It’s fine,” I say, no longer caring about swim or college or anything else. Why should I? I found something more important to me than any of that, and before I ever truly made her mine, I lost her. I deserve this and so much more. “Whatever you think. I accept it.”
“There is one more thing,” he adds.
“Yes, sir?”
“The Devils are to be disbanded and—”
“Already done,” I reply.
My father’s gaze whips to mine, wide and shocked, and if I thought he’d understand, maybe I would explain. I’d tell him how serious their actions were, how even Xavier got caught up in this, despite having nothing to do with it, and how completely fucked that is. I’d tell him that I’m over it, and that the Devils harm more than they help. What’s that line? With friends like these, who needs enemies?
That’s how I feel about the Devils right now.
But he wouldn’t understand—wouldn’t even bother trying to. This diminishes me. This makes me weak. This makes me powerless and yadda yadda, blah blah.
Moments later, I’m excused. I walk out of the office, passing Emory on the way out. He’s a junior and losing the Devils is going to hurt—he undoubtedly would have been coronated their next leader. He looks at me hopefully, but I clench my jaw and walk on. My father catches up to me outside the front door.
“Stop and turn around,” he demands when he sees that I have no interest in listening.
I slowly turn on my heel, levelling him with a bored look. “I have a lot of shit to do today, so if this is going to be your regular oral history on the magnitude of my fuck-ups, can you just skip to the part where you get in your car and speed off?”
“I don’t know what’s going on with you, Hamilton,” he strides forward, eyebrows pulled low in anger, “but this streak of defiance has been going on for months, and I won’t tolerate it anymore. I told you weeks ago to stay away from that girl—that just being near her would cause you trouble.”
“Sure, it was her,” I look away, eyes scanning the hall to make sure we’re alone. “It wasn’t the Devils. They never cause problems. We’re a fucking bastion of best behavior.” I say, laughing humorlessly. “When are you going to open your damn eyes?”
“Oh, my eyes are open.” He steps closer. “I know you went to see your sister at Thanksgiving. I can only imagine what kind of garbage she’s filling your head with. Is that what made you think you could throw it all away? I’ve half a mind to pull you out of this school and send you to Sparrowood Academy for the rest of the goddamned year.”
“Do whatever you want, Dad. I don’t give a shit anymore.” Even though it hurts, I shrug. “I’m done with the Devils, I’m done trying to be a leader, and most of all, I’m done trying to satisfy you. I could drop out, for all I care.”
His jaw drops and his eyes widen, and I think for a minute he may lash out. But he seems to recover, simply shaking his head. “I don’t know what’s come over you, son. But whatever it is, you’d better work it out before you ruin everything.”
I gape at him, flinging my arms out wide, gesturing broadly. “Everything is already ruined.”
He argues, “Nothing has happened here today that can’t be fixed.”
The worst thing is that,
as it relates directly to his goals, he’s completely right. None of this will make a mark on him, and if he has it his way, none of this will leave a mark on me. Oh, it’ll have to be creative, for sure. Maybe this time he could donate a new gym, a new library, a new science wing, tennis courts, lacrosse field. It doesn’t matter. He’ll throw money at it until everything is perfectly smooth.
The thought of it makes me want to scream. It makes me want to go get that metal barrel, throw my entire life into it, and just burn it the fuck down.
“I think—” I pause, wondering if I really want to do this. But honestly, what the hell do I have to lose? “I think I’m learning that there’s more to this world than your legacy and this...” I struggle, thinking, “...this constant clawing rat race for prestige. Blood doesn’t make you a family, Dad. If it did, you never would have cut Hollis out.”
His nostrils flare as he surges forward. “Family is about loyalty!”
But I stop him. “Yeah, and I’m learning that loyalty is about more than just what someone can do for you. I know you might not want to hear it, but I don’t want to be loyal to you. Not the way you want me to be, at least.”
His eyes bore into mine. “I’ve never done anything but guide you on the path to success. I don’t care whether or not you want to be loyal. You will be.”
“No, I won’t.” I shrug again, stepping back. “I know you think you’re just helping me—maybe you’ve really convinced yourself of that. But we don’t share the same beliefs, Dad. Right now, I don’t deserve to lead the Devils or the swim team. I accept that, even if you don’t.”
“Deserve?” He scoffs, giving me a snide look. “This isn’t something you deserve, it’s something you’re entitled to.”
It’s then that I realize I won’t get through to him. I can see it on his face. He still thinks he has me, that he can still control and reason with me on the merit of our last name. He hasn’t heard a single word I’ve said.