After that, our street looks inferior.
I get out of the backseat and follow my parents into the house.
“Are Lia and Taylor okay?” Mom’s asking me as we walk up the steps. I eye her cautiously as Dad fits his key into the lock. Everyone saw Mrs. Reagan at the bonfire, sloshing her wine.
“They’re … fine.” It’s the polite way to say it, I guess. Nothing out of the ordinary here. “Lia got her mom out of there before she could really make a scene.” Then I absentmindedly tug on my dress, thinking about what Mrs. Reagan said to me.
“Thank God those two were born with some sense,” Mom says as she kicks her heels off at the staircase. “Because neither of their parents have a lick of it. One can only assume it’s recessive and nature prevailed over nurture at some point.”
“We should have them over for dinner sometime,” Dad says. He presses his fingers into my back in a way that feels protective.
I don’t answer.
“I’m opening a bottle of wine. I hate those godforsaken events,” Mom says. “Nell, honey, can you unzip my dress?”
I do as she asks and the zipper exposes her freckled back. She rolls her shoulders up and down in a familiar motion and then saunters off into the kitchen, coming back with a bottle of white and two wineglasses, her entire back and her bra just exposed like that’s good enough.
“You’re in a good mood,” Dad says as if it’s an unusual thing, taking the wineglass Mom passes to him. He flips the television on.
“Must you watch TV?” she asks, and he resumes ignoring her. Mom narrows her eyes, twisting the top off the wine bottle rather aggressively. “Only three more ridiculously overproduced ceremonies to go before this school year’s over. Nell, why are you standing there? Why don’t you come sit down?”
I look over at her, already drinking her wine, and Dad, already watching something like there’s nothing in the conversation for him, sipping absentmindedly on the glass she poured him.
“Did you see the Harts tonight?” I ask her.
She drinks her wine slowly, not answering.
“I have seen more ridiculous fights between adults in front of their children in Mary’s three years at Prep than I have in my entire life,” Dad says, not looking away from the TV. “The maturity level. What my dad would think of that, if he were still alive.” He whistles and shakes his head.
Mom continues sipping her wine. Her not having an opinion is unusual. She loves judging people.
“Taylor said he’s never seen the Harts act like that,” I continue, stuck on the point.
“Are you concerned?” Mom asks as if she’s uninterested. “You see the Reagans like that all the time, don’t you?”
“That doesn’t make it okay,” Dad replies to Mom, a challenge in his voice. “I can’t stand that Nell has to be around that. It was never like that where I’m from.”
“Oh, yes, life was so much better in Buckley, South Carolina,” Mom says sarcastically. Mom grew up half an hour outside of Cedar Woods—her family was old money, but her dad had lost most of it in business ventures—while Dad is from a small town a few hours away. They met in college.
Them ever having been in love isn’t something I can imagine.
“People respected family,” Dad bites back at her. “They respected privacy.”
“Look,” I cut in between the two of them, hoping to defuse. I know Dad doesn’t see why I need to go to private school, why we’re suddenly too good for the public school our taxes pay for. He didn’t grow up middle class, and even though he never actually says it out loud, it’s clear he thinks this whole town and this elite Cedar Woods world is a betrayal of his values. “I wasn’t trying to start something. I was just wondering if something happened with the Harts. I don’t know—it seemed hostile.”
“Nell,” Mom says, cutting a sharp look at Dad before she continues, “you’re going to see people like the Harts for the rest of your life. You’d do best to forget it. It’s none of our business what goes on behind closed doors.” Dad looks like he wants to say something but doesn’t.
I think about that, nodding my head slightly. “So I should pretend it never happened? That doesn’t seem right.”
“It doesn’t,” Dad mumbles. “Maybe you should check on the kid tomorrow.”
Mom sighs. “I don’t think Jackson Hart needs our help. You know he’s the one right behind Nell in the class rankings,” she informs Dad.
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
Mom sips her wine. “Only that our daughter has a chance to be the third female valedictorian in Prep history, so I don’t think she needs to be wasting her time cheering up Jackson Hart. Or had you forgotten that?”
I don’t see how he could. I’ve heard it so many times, it’s basically carved on my brain.
I watch Dad’s unimpressed face, and then start, “Maybe I should—”
“Nell,” Mom cuts me off with a tone of finality. “Mind your own business.”
6
I’m walking toward the weight room before seventh period the next day when I see Jackson walking in the opposite direction. I slow down. He doesn’t look any different from every other day. Arrogant and annoyingly superior in his regulation khakis and white Oxford, his sleeves rolled up to expose his tanned forearms. But I hear my dad’s voice the way I do sometimes—his voice imploring me to take his side every now and then—and stop.
“Hart,” I call.
He diverts from the straight line he’s walking through the hallway and comes over to me, his blue eyes already looking bored with the conversation we’re not having. “Can I help you?”
I blink slowly, looking up at him. I wish this were anyone but him, because the last thing I want is for Jackson to think I care about his well-being. I just want to be the kind of person my dad would be proud of, to show I haven’t lost myself in Cedar Woods. “Look, I know it’s none of my business, but is everything okay? Taylor said your parents…” I trail off. I don’t even want him to know I asked about him to begin with.
He rubs his eyes. “Jesus Christ, you’re really this clueless, aren’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“How could you possibly have been going to school here for this long and still have absolutely no idea how to deal with people?” Everything in his tone is condescending. My blood runs through my veins hot and angry.
“I seem to do all right,” I shoot back.
“Ignore it, Becker. Just like every other person besides you in this school knows how to do. Even your precious Taylor. Look at what the Reagans are doing every day. Why must you make it so obvious you don’t belong here?”
I curl my fingernails into my palms. “My valedictorian spot and All-State volleyball nomination seem to disagree.”
“And what are those things going to do for you in the real world?” He shakes his head. “You are so ignorant.”
“You just keep hoping that if you give me enough shit, eventually I’ll roll over and let you win, don’t you? Like, I’m so sorry my parents know better than to embarrass me in front of the entire school.”
He gives a dark chuckle in response to that. “Let me give you a helpful tip: Try and understand how this place works before your accomplishments no longer mean anything.”
“You think I don’t know how it works? How you cover up your sad little hurt feelings by insulting me? Like I’m the damaged one for asking.”
He stares at me and I stare back, waiting for something I don’t think will ever come. Finally, he blows out a sigh. “One day you’ll figure out how to leave well enough alone.”
“Get out of my face,” I say at last.
“With pleasure,” he answers, stepping around me as he goes. I watch him continue down the hall, moving slowly at first, different from before. But gradually, it comes back. The shoulders, the bored posture. The arrogance. So simple.
I turn around, frustrated. Don’t care. Don’t show emotion. Stay on top.
Easy e
nough.
7
On Friday the baseball team wins their game, the poor little public school they play handily dismissed. After the game Taylor and Lia talk me into going, just this once, to a party at Alston Marcus’s house. We have a late club volleyball practice tomorrow and don’t I want to celebrate the awesome victory? And I agree, mostly because I think they just don’t want to go home.
Alston Marcus graduated from Prep last year and instead of doing the college thing, decided to strike out on his own, move from his parents’ house, and live like the common people. Or his dad threw Alston out after he caught him dealing prescription pills out of their house—whichever version you prefer. He lives in a falling-apart two-story on my side of town and hosts parties on an almost-weekly basis. I do not attend these parties.
Taylor finds a parking spot down the street and the three of us make our way to the house.
“This seems like a bad idea,” I say, watching a group of older kids walk up onto the porch and inside. College semesters are ending and Prep alumni are flocking home for the summer to enjoy their parents’ speedboats and a summer of endless booze and weed.
Life is so perfect for them.
We follow the kids’ path up the stairs of the caving-in front porch, practically hidden thanks to huge, untrimmed bushes in front of the house. We’re right across the street from Cedar Woods High, the public school in town—Alston’s parties are usually the perfect place for rich Prep kids to pick out public-school prey. Raise them up to high-class status and then dump them without a second thought.
I think of Jackson’s words to me earlier this week: You don’t belong here. I shake my head to push the thought away.
The house smells like stale beer and weed. It’s so grunge chic. As if Alston Marcus’s parents aren’t paying for anything except the state-of-the-art blender caked with fruit chunks and the one-hundred-dollar liquor coating the flaking linoleum counter. Kicked out didn’t mean cut off in Cedar Woods. The heat inside is oppressive and the fans running in three corners of the room aren’t doing much more than pushing the hot air around.
I grimace.
“Oh, come on, Nell,” Lia says with a laugh. “Don’t look so horrified.”
“It’s even dirtier than it looks when people post pictures.” I’d never been to Alston’s house but I’d obviously seen it via everyone posting ridiculous videos and pictures on social media, desperately seeking attention.
“It’s all part of the charm,” Taylor tells me. Then he stops, his eyes falling on Columbus mixing drinks at the bar.
“Hey, Reagan, my man, you pitched a great game tonight,” Columbus says, reaching out to shake Taylor’s hand, as if everything is normal. Taylor offers his hand back begrudgingly. “Good to see you. Lia. Nell.” He gives us both a wave, flashing his hundred-megawatt smile—he’s one of those people who always finds a smile easily. He is skinnier than his dad but almost as tall. His black hair is cropped close to his head, his white Cedar Woods T-shirt in sharp contrast to his rich brown skin. “Y’all want anything? I don’t see you around these parts much.”
With good reason. Nothing good happens at a place like this. I rock back on my heels.
“Where’s the keg?” Taylor asks.
“Down in the basement, I think,” Columbus answers. Lia is looking at the drinks cautiously, and Columbus is looking at her. “Can we talk really quick?” he asks, and I see the desperation in his eyes. Columbus isn’t used to being disliked by anyone.
“Sure,” Lia says, confidence covering up any nerves. To Taylor and me, she says, “I’ll meet you in a bit.”
I run myself a cup of water from the faucet of the questionable-looking sink, and Taylor and I head down the dirty staircase in the corner. “What do you think Proctor wants?” Taylor asks me.
“To talk?” I guess.
“I wish he wasn’t so nice,” Taylor complains. “I can’t hate anybody, much less nice people.” He rubs his hands through his hair.
“Relax.”
“I’m always relaxed, Nell,” he tells me. “Can’t you tell?”
“Likewise,” I answer. Then after a second, I laugh and he does too. We hit the floor of the packed basement that is, if anything, hotter than upstairs. The lights are dim everywhere except the entrance, and the music blasts as people dance practically on top of one another. The concrete room is nothing but an empty bar, a keg, and one huge speaker.
“So, this is what you do on the weekends, huh?” I ask as we go. Taylor smiles guiltily.
“Usually when Amanda goes to visit her brother for the weekend. But I actually think she’s coming tonight. It’s a nice break for her sometimes,” he admits. Amanda’s six-year-old brother is currently being treated for leukemia at the Medical University of South Carolina in Charleston. “She’s going through so much. It’s tough.” I nod, as if he’s said something not completely generic about Amanda’s situation.
“It’s good you guys have each other,” I answer, wincing at my clichéd response.
“Amanda didn’t cause her own problems,” Taylor replies darkly. “My dad did.”
We walk together over to the keg and he pumps it expertly before pouring himself a beer. He tries to hand me one, and I shake my head.
“You’re so good, Nell,” he tells me.
“Don’t remind me.” Damn, do I get sick of hearing it.
“Do you want to dance?” he asks, gesturing at the floor with his beer. I cut my eyes at him and he laughs. “No, I guess not,” he answers his own question.
“I’m sorry I’m no fun,” I tell him.
“No-Nonsense Nell.”
I grin and bear it.
Taylor looks at his phone, searching for an escape I assume. It’s not that he doesn’t like me—Taylor and I are friends—but Taylor is the person people want to hang out with at a party. I’m the one who calls the cops.
I should go home so my friends can have fun.
“Amanda’s here. I’m going to go find her. Are you good?”
I’m about to tell him I’m leaving when someone grabs me from behind, hugging me. I turn to see Michonne holding on to me. She has her braids pulled up into a bun, and is wearing a bright yellow crop top, revealing her flat stomach. She smells of some kind of liquor.
“Nelllllll!” she yells. “What are you doing here?”
“I think I’m good,” I tell Taylor with a smile. And stuck.
“You need a shot,” Michonne tells me as Taylor walks up the stairs.
I shake my head. “I am not drinking.”
“Fine,” she says. “Wait, do you see that tiny, dark-haired girl over there? She found out that I broke up with Brad and has been flirting with me allll night. Stay right here really quick.” She runs over to the girl, roping her into a shot instead. I decide to make my escape anyway, but as I’m headed back to the stairs, Jackson comes down them. How can he be everywhere?
He stops in front of me. “What are you doing here, Becker?” he asks me, a smile playing at his lips. “Columbus said he saw you, and I told him he’d had too much to drink already. And it’s early yet.”
“That’s funny,” I say, laughing like I actually think it is. “You think we’re speaking.”
“Are you mad?” he asks, rubbing his hand over his chin as if interested. I stare at him because he’s finally completely lost it. What little of it he had to begin with.
“You think you can talk to people like you talked to me the other day and then be like, ‘Are you mad?’”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I never really talk to other people like I talk to you. May I?” he asks, and he nods toward my drink. It happens so fast that I let it. He takes a sip out of my cup and hands it back. “Water. That’s what I thought. It’s like I told you,” he goes on without a beat passing, “just pretend it never happened. It works for everyone else except you.”
“That’s what you do, isn’t it? Pretend none of it ever happens.” I stare at my cup, thinking it’s tainted now. H
e doesn’t move out of the way.
“Do you want something?” I ask him at last. It works about as well as it usually does, because he keeps standing there looking at me.
Finally, he winces as if in pain. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?”
He looks around, like he’s waiting for an escape route to open up to him. “For the other day. For laying into you. I’ve got some stuff going on.”
I snort. “You’re not sorry,” I tell him.
He raises an eyebrow, takes a sip from the drink in his hand.
“Why did you say it, then?”
“All right, fine.” He tilts his cup up, draining the whole thing in one go. Then he flings the red Solo cup to the ground, looking straight at me as if readying himself. “Maybe it’s because I didn’t want to talk about my parents having a fight in front of everyone I know with the person who admits she hates me the most of anyone at Prep. Maybe some extremely small part of me felt just a little horrified by the whole thing and needed some space. Maybe I took some of my anger out on you. Maybe part of the problem with us rich people is that we don’t talk about our problems, so we don’t have a sweet fucking clue how to handle them. And maybe, Becker, the one thing I can’t stand worse than anything is that you, of all people, might pity me.”
I bite into my lip, mostly to have something to do. He’s looking at me and I want to look away, but I don’t. “I didn’t feel sorry for you,” I say.
“God,” he says, rolling his eyes. “There it is.”
“Okay,” I admit. “It didn’t feel right to me to just ignore what happened. Which makes me weak, apparently.”
He shakes his head. “Just naïve.”
“Yeah, this is why I came to this party. So you could corner and insult me. This is good fun, I can see why you do it.”
“Actually, I’m bored.” His eyes flash as he looks at me.
I hear the way he says it, the way he repeats the word I’d said to him at the bonfire. Almost like an admission. Or a challenge.
Winner Take All Page 4