The second I pass through the doors leading from the main hallway to one filled with rows of lockers, I’m completely alone. My immediate instinct is to turn right back around and find Travis, even if he is insane and kind of Stepford. At least I know his name. And at least he’s human-sized, since I’ve apparently stepped into Munchkinland. On the bright side, it’s easy to see over the heads of everyone in this hallway. On the dark side, every single one of them is staring at me like I’m a mutant freak from Plant Whatthefuck.
“You must be new,” says a voice to my left. I barely glance down at the speaker, a dark-haired guy who must be at least half a foot shorter than me.
“Yeah. And either this is a town full of midgets, or I’m in the wrong place,” I say.
“Obviously. This is the freshman hallway. If you’re a senior, I can show you our hallway. I’m headed up there too,” he says. When I look at him for real, it’s obvious he’s not a freshman. His face has none of the pre-pubescent boyishness that everyone else in the vicinity has. Instead, there is a wry smile on soft, full lips, and appraising blue eyes lined in black. The dark hair, which I had figured to be bed-head, is meticulously straightened and mussed, like a slightly tamer version of my own. He looks like he’s one Converse-wearing step away from being emo. Not my usual type at all, but still doable. Very, very doable.
“Sorry,” I say, eyes now focused on his decently tight jeans. “I didn’t realize.”
“I get that a lot,” he says, and then holds out a hand half-hidden under the sleeve of his dark gray sweatshirt. “I’m Ben McCutcheon.”
“Garen Anderson,” I say. I let my hand stay in his for as long as I dare, but he doesn’t seem fazed. I didn’t think he would be. When I finally release him, he reaches past me to push open the door, and leads me back down the main hall to another set of doors.
“Where’d you move from?” he asks. I pause next to a classroom to peer inside as he continues on one, two, three steps ahead of me, then take a brief glance at his ass before he turns back around to look at me. I flash him a well-earned smile.
“I went to school in New York, but I lived in Cleveland with my dad during the summers,” I say.
“Really? My cousin goes to school in New York too. Where’d you go?” Ben asks.
“Patton Military Academy,” I say. “And if your cousin goes there, I probably fucked him. My bad.”
The pause before his laughter is noticeable, but still less than three seconds, which settles it. He’s definitely on my team, but most likely a virgin. And oh, how I love those virgins.
“He doesn’t. Which is probably fortunate for you. He’s about half my height and three times my weight,” he says. He plucks the office paperwork from my hands and sifts through it until he finds my locker number and combination. He glances around, then leads me about halfway down the hall to locker 327. Three twenty-seven. March twenty-seventh. My birthday. Weird.
“Combination’s six, twenty-five, eleven,” I read over his shoulder before he can check the paper again. He hums softly in acknowledgement as he twiddles the dial and pops the door open.
“I haven’t had a locker since middle school. I forgot how nasty they are,” I say. He shrugs.
“Everything sucks in Lakewood,” he says.
“I’m beginning to see that,” I say, scraping at an ancient piece of tape that seems to be permanently affixed to the inside of my locker door. Ben doesn’t respond immediately, and when I finally glance at him, he’s shuffling through my papers, his eyes pointedly avoiding mine.
“I’m having some friends over to my house later. I don’t know if you’d be interested in meeting some new people, but if you’re free, you should stop by,” he says.
If he asks for my number, he’s a virgin. If he gives me his, he’s not. It’s all in the details, all in the confidence, the need to be able to chicken out.
“Yeah, that’d be awesome,” I say, flashing him my most calculatingly dick-hardening smile.
“Cool. Let me get your number, and I can call you later to give you directions,” he says. Bingo. Virgin. I dig in my pocket for the Sharpie I used on Travis this morning and reach for his sleeve to pull it up. He twists his arm suddenly, giving me only the back of his hand to work with. I shoot him a curious look, but he’s staring at the marker, so I let it go. I scrawl my number across his skin. For good measure, I write my name underneath. If I have one more person give me two r’s or decide my name is Garret, I’ll kill something.
“Great. So, I’ll talk to you later, I guess,” Ben says. He checks the schedule once more before handing it back to me. “Room three fourteen is down the hall on the left.”
Room three fourteen is the science lab where I have Genetics. Directly across the hall from it is where I have Calculus, and on the complete opposite end of the school is where I’m late to English. Back next to Genetics, I show up ten minutes late to French, and on the floor below… is Home Ec. Just like Travis predicted, just like I’ve been trying to pretend isn’t on my schedule all day. The teacher, Mrs. Browne, is ancient. Her body is so frail, I’m afraid to walk past her too quickly in case the shifting of air molecules makes her break. She hears out of her ears as well as I hear out of my eye sockets, and it takes me ten minutes to introduce myself and explain that I’m new. When she says, “Welcome to Lakewood, Garret, dear,” I cross the room in three strides and crank the heat on the blue oven up as high as it can go.
I’m sitting outside the principal’s office when I make up my mind.
I hate this town.
I hate my dad for making me move here, when I would’ve been just fine alone in New York like I always am. I hate the new house, which looks exactly like the old house, which I also hated. I hate Evelyn, I hate Bree, I hate stupid, beautiful Travis. I hate all the people who won’t stop giving me strange looks, and I hate myself for thinking I could be just fine with walking into Nowhere, Connecticut, with ridiculous spiked hair and worn-in combat boots and my whole stupid gay self. I hate the principal, I hate my teachers, I hate my classes, I hate my school. I hate everything in this town except for the Ferrari in the parking lot and the guitar in its backseat. The only two things I’ve ever really loved, besides my best friend. My best friend. Right. I fish in my pocket for my cell phone and dial the number before I can think of a single reason not to.
“I was wondering when you’d finally call.”
The second I hear that sweet Southern drawl, I can finally breathe again. I laugh.
“Hey, Jamie,” I say.
“Hey yourself. Tell me you fucked him.”
“I fucked him. Who are we talking about?”
“You don’t even know who we’re talking about and you’re admitting it?” James demands. I shrug even though he can’t see. My body finally feels less tense, for the first time in more than twenty-four hours. I shake my free hand slightly to bring some feeling back into it.
“Well, I’m playing the odds. I mean, it’s me, so—”
“True. Whore.”
“Jamie, you’re as bad as I am.”
“Not the point. Did you fuck him?” he asks impatiently.
“I really don’t know who we’re talking about.”
“Your new brother, Gare. Trevor.”
“Travis.”
“That’s what I said. Whatever. Come on, tell me everything. How many times? How big’s his cock? Is he better than me? Actually, don’t bother answering that last one, we already know he’s not.”
I snort and pull my legs up to my chest, hugging them with one arm. “James, the last time we had sex, I was fifteen. I barely remember it.”
“Excuse me?” James says, in the same polite tone you’d use to reply to someone suddenly speaking a language you don’t know.
“You heard me,” I say.
“I heard you, I just don’t believe you. Next time I see you, I’m fucking your brains out, just to remind you.”
“I can’t wait,” I deadpan.
“I know you can’t, you smartass. Now tell me some details before I drive to Connecticut and beat them out of you.”
“There are no details,” I say. There’s no point to pretending anymore. “I didn’t fuck him. I can barely talk to him without him getting mad at me. He hates me. And I hate him. He’s lived in Lakewood his whole life, so it’s not like he lost any friends because of moving. He knows I don’t know anybody here. This whole place is fucking ridiculous. Dad thinks I’m overreacting, he thinks I’m going to be fine as soon as I give it a chance, but I’m giving it a chance, and I still hate it. These people are different, they aren’t at all like the guys at Patton. They all stare at me like I’ve got the plague, and I’m starting to think that having the plague would be better than having to live here. I don’t know anybody, Jamie. I’m all alone in this stupid school, and it sucks. My teachers all hate me for being late to classes, because I keep getting lost because this school is a fucking maze. I’m outside the fucking principal’s office right now because I started a fire in Home Ec, which I didn’t even wanna take. I just wanna go home.”
“So do it,” James says. “The Testarossa’s in the parking lot, right?”
“Yeah…”
“Then go get in it and drive. We’re what, an hour away? Two? Come home, Garen. You know I’d never let somebody else move into our room, so it’s not like you have to sleep on the floor. Your bed’s still here, waiting for you. I’m still here, waiting for you. Please.”
“I want to. So fucking badly. You have no idea—”
“Mr. Anderson, do you mind?” demands a voice from the doorway. I glance up. Principal Hammond is glaring at me, his arms crossed in what he obviously believes is an imposing, authorative stance.
“I’ve gotta go, James. I’ll call you tonight,” I murmur.
“Good luck, buddy. You can text me if you need me,” he replies, and I snap my phone shut. Hammond’s hand twitches like he expects me to hold it out to him, but I simply check the time on the front screen and slip it back into my pocket.
“We don’t allow students to use cell phones during school hours, Mr. Anderson. Since it’s your first day here, I’m willing to forgive that, but from now on, I expect your phone to be turned off and kept in your locker. Do you understand?” I nod like a chastised child. “Excellent. Now, I just got off the phone with your father.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. Hammond blinks at me for a moment, but clears his throat and continues as though I didn’t speak.
“I’ll be very frank with you, Garen. After reading your Patton Military Academy file—which, I promise you, took me several hours—I can’t say I’m surprised that you set something on fire your first day. The appliances in the Home Economics room are quite old, and some just don’t work like they should. I am going to pretend, therefore, that this was an honest mistake, and not arson. I understand that your transition may be difficult, and I’d like to make sure you’re as happy as possible here at Lakewood High. Just so we don’t encounter a further misunderstanding in this class, I’ll be transferring you to a Musical Theory elective during fifth period. I believe you’ll find it more enjoyable; your father tells me you play the guitar. However, I would like to impress upon you the fact that I will not tolerate the kind of acting out that you reportedly did at Patton. To help further this message, you will have the pleasure of joining me for detention every day for one week. I hope that after this week, I will be seeing much less of you. Do you understand?”
I nod again, and he smiles in clear satisfaction. “Excellent. Now, if I’m not mistaken, you’re missing lunch. Run along.”
I have never been able to stand adults who treat me like a kindergartener, but I smile politely, thank him, and make my way down to the cafeteria, which might as well be in the basement. Only half of the tables in the room are full; it seems as though LHS greatly overestimated the number of teenagers in town when the school was built. But as if drawn by force, my eyes go straight to Travis, who is sitting across from a laughing girl with sleek ginger hair. Before I can think better of it, I cross the room and straddle the bench across from him.
“Remember how you told me they’d stick me in fifth period Home Ec?” I ask. The flicker of his eyes up to mine is obviously a forced movement, and I have to work to keep my smile in place.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. His voice is barely more than a whisper, a husky bedroom tone. I want to lick his freckles.
“Well, you were right,” I say. “Remember how you said the blue stove sets itself on fire if you turn it on?”
“Yeah,” he says again.
“And remember how I have self-control issues?” I prompt. You should know. You had a prime example of those issues this morning in the hall. Show me you remember it. Show me that you felt something when I had my teeth on your ear, my tongue on your skin. His eyes lock onto mine again. He looks like he was just electrocuted. I bite back a smile.
“Yeah,” he whispers a third time, his voice cracking. I knew it. God, I knew it.
“Well… the bad news is I have detention for the rest of the week. The good news is that they were able to put the fire out in under five minutes. The even better news is that they transfer me to Musical Theory starting tomorrow,” I say. Musical Theory wouldn’t be my first choice, but I doubt I’m in anybody’s good graces enough to request another music elective. I open my mouth to say this out loud, but Travis is muttering some stupid single word response, making it clear he wants me gone. “What’s your deal?” I demand. No response. I finally remember the girl sitting next to me, and turn to face her. Her face is calm, but her eyes are searching my face almost frantically.
I should’ve remembered to factor in friends. More than three years of Patton fooled me into thinking this really isn’t a big deal, that no one really cares if you walk into a room and try to flirt with your stepbrother. I forgot this was Lakewood. And I forgot Travis would always be sure to remember.
“Sorry,” I say. “Garen Anderson.”
The redhead smiles brightly and shakes my offered hand. “I know. Travis was just talking about you, actually. Faye Taylor.”
Of course he was. I try to gauge Travis’s reaction, but his blazing eyes are locked on Faye’s face. He’s furious, and it’s adorable. His freckles stand out even more, and I just want to take him out to my car and… Christ. This needs to stop. Step out of the fantasyland, Garen, no matter how fun it may be. The boy is a closet case, but basically unresponsive.
“You were talking about me? How cute,” I say. I can feel someone’s eyes on me. When I glance around, I notice tiny little Ben leaving the cafeteria with a tall blonde guy in a slightly wrinkled button-down. Ben is looking over his shoulder at me, but once he realizes I’m watching him, he breaks the stare. “I’ll have to go get friends so I can talk about you to them too. In fact, I think I’ll go do that now. You need a ride home tonight?”
But across the table, Travis’s hand is going up to his mouth, his thumbnail between his teeth. God. His teeth are perfectly white, perfectly straight. He’d have such a gorgeous smile if he knew how to smile. Which I know a few ways to teach him.
“I have track tonight,” he says, snapping me back to reality. “I normally just walk home in the afternoon ‘cause my schedule’s different every day. Work, track, shrink. You know the deal.”
“So I’ll wait in the library and then drive you home after. Big deal,” I say. And if you just so happen to decide that we should have hot, crazy sex in my car, and if you just so happen to end up falling in love with me, and if we just so happen to run away back to New York together and spend the rest of our lives sleeping together in a tiny apartment in the Village? Then so be it. I can work with that.
“You don’t have to, really,” he says quickly. Did you know that we’re soulmates? I want to say. Did you know that my locker number is my birthday, and my locker combination is the number of letters in your first name, the sum of the digits in the cell phone number you logged in my received calls list this morning, and the day Dad told me you were born, which obviously means we’re meant for each other in some cosmic stupid way? And did you know that I was able to figure that out because I can’t stop thinking about you, because you’re under my skin in a terrifying way no guy ever has been before? Instead, all I can say is his name. Two short, stupid syllables. It gets him to look at me, though. “I’ll be out front after your practice. Meet me there, okay?” I stand before he has a chance to argue, and add to Faye, “It was nice to meet you.”
It takes most of my self-control not to bolt out of the cafeteria. Once I clear the doors, however, I skid to a halt. Ben and the blonde guy are sitting nearby on the floor, leaning back against a display case for the National Honor Society and talking quietly. Ben glances up when the door slams shut behind me, and whatever sentence he’s saying seems to die in his mouth.
“Hi,” he says blankly. The blonde guy blinks at him, brow furrowed, then looks around and sees me.
“Hi,” I echo, to both of them. There’s a moment of silence where Ben just stares at me, and then he’s suddenly on his feet.
“Garen, this is Alex. Alex, this is Garen. It’s his first day here. He moved from New York,” he says.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“Same here,” Alex replies. “Did your parents get a job transfer or something?”
“Uh, no. I live with just my dad, and he got a new girlfriend. We moved here so they could live together without her kids having to switch schools,” I says. Ben cocks his head to the side.
“Do her kids go here?” he asks. I shrug.
“One does,” I say. “He’s a junior. His name’s Travis. You’d know him if you saw him, trust me.”
“Shit,” Alex says, drawing the word out for a few seconds longer than necessary. “You mean Travis McCall?” I nod. Ben turns to Alex.
“He’s the one who overdosed, right? God, those assemblies were the fucking worst,” he says.
“Assemblies?” I echo.
“Yep,” Alex says. “After he tried to kill himself, we had probably ten different assemblies about suicide prevention and stuff. It sucked.”
“The guy’s gorgeous,” Ben says, and I exhale a laugh. You think? “There’s no denying that. But he’s also insane as fuck. You’d be better off avoiding him as much as possible.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I mutter.
Previous Chapter Next Chapter
“You must be new,” says a voice to my left. I barely glance down at the speaker, a dark-haired guy who must be at least half a foot shorter than me.
“Yeah. And either this is a town full of midgets, or I’m in the wrong place,” I say.
“Obviously. This is the freshman hallway. If you’re a senior, I can show you our hallway. I’m headed up there too,” he says. When I look at him for real, it’s obvious he’s not a freshman. His face has none of the pre-pubescent boyishness that everyone else in the vicinity has. Instead, there is a wry smile on soft, full lips, and appraising blue eyes lined in black. The dark hair, which I had figured to be bed-head, is meticulously straightened and mussed, like a slightly tamer version of my own. He looks like he’s one Converse-wearing step away from being emo. Not my usual type at all, but still doable. Very, very doable.
“Sorry,” I say, eyes now focused on his decently tight jeans. “I didn’t realize.”
“I get that a lot,” he says, and then holds out a hand half-hidden under the sleeve of his dark gray sweatshirt. “I’m Ben McCutcheon.”
“Garen Anderson,” I say. I let my hand stay in his for as long as I dare, but he doesn’t seem fazed. I didn’t think he would be. When I finally release him, he reaches past me to push open the door, and leads me back down the main hall to another set of doors.
“Where’d you move from?” he asks. I pause next to a classroom to peer inside as he continues on one, two, three steps ahead of me, then take a brief glance at his ass before he turns back around to look at me. I flash him a well-earned smile.
“I went to school in New York, but I lived in Cleveland with my dad during the summers,” I say.
“Really? My cousin goes to school in New York too. Where’d you go?” Ben asks.
“Patton Military Academy,” I say. “And if your cousin goes there, I probably fucked him. My bad.”
The pause before his laughter is noticeable, but still less than three seconds, which settles it. He’s definitely on my team, but most likely a virgin. And oh, how I love those virgins.
“He doesn’t. Which is probably fortunate for you. He’s about half my height and three times my weight,” he says. He plucks the office paperwork from my hands and sifts through it until he finds my locker number and combination. He glances around, then leads me about halfway down the hall to locker 327. Three twenty-seven. March twenty-seventh. My birthday. Weird.
“Combination’s six, twenty-five, eleven,” I read over his shoulder before he can check the paper again. He hums softly in acknowledgement as he twiddles the dial and pops the door open.
“I haven’t had a locker since middle school. I forgot how nasty they are,” I say. He shrugs.
“Everything sucks in Lakewood,” he says.
“I’m beginning to see that,” I say, scraping at an ancient piece of tape that seems to be permanently affixed to the inside of my locker door. Ben doesn’t respond immediately, and when I finally glance at him, he’s shuffling through my papers, his eyes pointedly avoiding mine.
“I’m having some friends over to my house later. I don’t know if you’d be interested in meeting some new people, but if you’re free, you should stop by,” he says.
If he asks for my number, he’s a virgin. If he gives me his, he’s not. It’s all in the details, all in the confidence, the need to be able to chicken out.
“Yeah, that’d be awesome,” I say, flashing him my most calculatingly dick-hardening smile.
“Cool. Let me get your number, and I can call you later to give you directions,” he says. Bingo. Virgin. I dig in my pocket for the Sharpie I used on Travis this morning and reach for his sleeve to pull it up. He twists his arm suddenly, giving me only the back of his hand to work with. I shoot him a curious look, but he’s staring at the marker, so I let it go. I scrawl my number across his skin. For good measure, I write my name underneath. If I have one more person give me two r’s or decide my name is Garret, I’ll kill something.
“Great. So, I’ll talk to you later, I guess,” Ben says. He checks the schedule once more before handing it back to me. “Room three fourteen is down the hall on the left.”
Room three fourteen is the science lab where I have Genetics. Directly across the hall from it is where I have Calculus, and on the complete opposite end of the school is where I’m late to English. Back next to Genetics, I show up ten minutes late to French, and on the floor below… is Home Ec. Just like Travis predicted, just like I’ve been trying to pretend isn’t on my schedule all day. The teacher, Mrs. Browne, is ancient. Her body is so frail, I’m afraid to walk past her too quickly in case the shifting of air molecules makes her break. She hears out of her ears as well as I hear out of my eye sockets, and it takes me ten minutes to introduce myself and explain that I’m new. When she says, “Welcome to Lakewood, Garret, dear,” I cross the room in three strides and crank the heat on the blue oven up as high as it can go.
I’m sitting outside the principal’s office when I make up my mind.
I hate this town.
I hate my dad for making me move here, when I would’ve been just fine alone in New York like I always am. I hate the new house, which looks exactly like the old house, which I also hated. I hate Evelyn, I hate Bree, I hate stupid, beautiful Travis. I hate all the people who won’t stop giving me strange looks, and I hate myself for thinking I could be just fine with walking into Nowhere, Connecticut, with ridiculous spiked hair and worn-in combat boots and my whole stupid gay self. I hate the principal, I hate my teachers, I hate my classes, I hate my school. I hate everything in this town except for the Ferrari in the parking lot and the guitar in its backseat. The only two things I’ve ever really loved, besides my best friend. My best friend. Right. I fish in my pocket for my cell phone and dial the number before I can think of a single reason not to.
“I was wondering when you’d finally call.”
The second I hear that sweet Southern drawl, I can finally breathe again. I laugh.
“Hey, Jamie,” I say.
“Hey yourself. Tell me you fucked him.”
“I fucked him. Who are we talking about?”
“You don’t even know who we’re talking about and you’re admitting it?” James demands. I shrug even though he can’t see. My body finally feels less tense, for the first time in more than twenty-four hours. I shake my free hand slightly to bring some feeling back into it.
“Well, I’m playing the odds. I mean, it’s me, so—”
“True. Whore.”
“Jamie, you’re as bad as I am.”
“Not the point. Did you fuck him?” he asks impatiently.
“I really don’t know who we’re talking about.”
“Your new brother, Gare. Trevor.”
“Travis.”
“That’s what I said. Whatever. Come on, tell me everything. How many times? How big’s his cock? Is he better than me? Actually, don’t bother answering that last one, we already know he’s not.”
I snort and pull my legs up to my chest, hugging them with one arm. “James, the last time we had sex, I was fifteen. I barely remember it.”
“Excuse me?” James says, in the same polite tone you’d use to reply to someone suddenly speaking a language you don’t know.
“You heard me,” I say.
“I heard you, I just don’t believe you. Next time I see you, I’m fucking your brains out, just to remind you.”
“I can’t wait,” I deadpan.
“I know you can’t, you smartass. Now tell me some details before I drive to Connecticut and beat them out of you.”
“There are no details,” I say. There’s no point to pretending anymore. “I didn’t fuck him. I can barely talk to him without him getting mad at me. He hates me. And I hate him. He’s lived in Lakewood his whole life, so it’s not like he lost any friends because of moving. He knows I don’t know anybody here. This whole place is fucking ridiculous. Dad thinks I’m overreacting, he thinks I’m going to be fine as soon as I give it a chance, but I’m giving it a chance, and I still hate it. These people are different, they aren’t at all like the guys at Patton. They all stare at me like I’ve got the plague, and I’m starting to think that having the plague would be better than having to live here. I don’t know anybody, Jamie. I’m all alone in this stupid school, and it sucks. My teachers all hate me for being late to classes, because I keep getting lost because this school is a fucking maze. I’m outside the fucking principal’s office right now because I started a fire in Home Ec, which I didn’t even wanna take. I just wanna go home.”
“So do it,” James says. “The Testarossa’s in the parking lot, right?”
“Yeah…”
“Then go get in it and drive. We’re what, an hour away? Two? Come home, Garen. You know I’d never let somebody else move into our room, so it’s not like you have to sleep on the floor. Your bed’s still here, waiting for you. I’m still here, waiting for you. Please.”
“I want to. So fucking badly. You have no idea—”
“Mr. Anderson, do you mind?” demands a voice from the doorway. I glance up. Principal Hammond is glaring at me, his arms crossed in what he obviously believes is an imposing, authorative stance.
“I’ve gotta go, James. I’ll call you tonight,” I murmur.
“Good luck, buddy. You can text me if you need me,” he replies, and I snap my phone shut. Hammond’s hand twitches like he expects me to hold it out to him, but I simply check the time on the front screen and slip it back into my pocket.
“We don’t allow students to use cell phones during school hours, Mr. Anderson. Since it’s your first day here, I’m willing to forgive that, but from now on, I expect your phone to be turned off and kept in your locker. Do you understand?” I nod like a chastised child. “Excellent. Now, I just got off the phone with your father.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. Hammond blinks at me for a moment, but clears his throat and continues as though I didn’t speak.
“I’ll be very frank with you, Garen. After reading your Patton Military Academy file—which, I promise you, took me several hours—I can’t say I’m surprised that you set something on fire your first day. The appliances in the Home Economics room are quite old, and some just don’t work like they should. I am going to pretend, therefore, that this was an honest mistake, and not arson. I understand that your transition may be difficult, and I’d like to make sure you’re as happy as possible here at Lakewood High. Just so we don’t encounter a further misunderstanding in this class, I’ll be transferring you to a Musical Theory elective during fifth period. I believe you’ll find it more enjoyable; your father tells me you play the guitar. However, I would like to impress upon you the fact that I will not tolerate the kind of acting out that you reportedly did at Patton. To help further this message, you will have the pleasure of joining me for detention every day for one week. I hope that after this week, I will be seeing much less of you. Do you understand?”
I nod again, and he smiles in clear satisfaction. “Excellent. Now, if I’m not mistaken, you’re missing lunch. Run along.”
I have never been able to stand adults who treat me like a kindergartener, but I smile politely, thank him, and make my way down to the cafeteria, which might as well be in the basement. Only half of the tables in the room are full; it seems as though LHS greatly overestimated the number of teenagers in town when the school was built. But as if drawn by force, my eyes go straight to Travis, who is sitting across from a laughing girl with sleek ginger hair. Before I can think better of it, I cross the room and straddle the bench across from him.
“Remember how you told me they’d stick me in fifth period Home Ec?” I ask. The flicker of his eyes up to mine is obviously a forced movement, and I have to work to keep my smile in place.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. His voice is barely more than a whisper, a husky bedroom tone. I want to lick his freckles.
“Well, you were right,” I say. “Remember how you said the blue stove sets itself on fire if you turn it on?”
“Yeah,” he says again.
“And remember how I have self-control issues?” I prompt. You should know. You had a prime example of those issues this morning in the hall. Show me you remember it. Show me that you felt something when I had my teeth on your ear, my tongue on your skin. His eyes lock onto mine again. He looks like he was just electrocuted. I bite back a smile.
“Yeah,” he whispers a third time, his voice cracking. I knew it. God, I knew it.
“Well… the bad news is I have detention for the rest of the week. The good news is that they were able to put the fire out in under five minutes. The even better news is that they transfer me to Musical Theory starting tomorrow,” I say. Musical Theory wouldn’t be my first choice, but I doubt I’m in anybody’s good graces enough to request another music elective. I open my mouth to say this out loud, but Travis is muttering some stupid single word response, making it clear he wants me gone. “What’s your deal?” I demand. No response. I finally remember the girl sitting next to me, and turn to face her. Her face is calm, but her eyes are searching my face almost frantically.
I should’ve remembered to factor in friends. More than three years of Patton fooled me into thinking this really isn’t a big deal, that no one really cares if you walk into a room and try to flirt with your stepbrother. I forgot this was Lakewood. And I forgot Travis would always be sure to remember.
“Sorry,” I say. “Garen Anderson.”
The redhead smiles brightly and shakes my offered hand. “I know. Travis was just talking about you, actually. Faye Taylor.”
Of course he was. I try to gauge Travis’s reaction, but his blazing eyes are locked on Faye’s face. He’s furious, and it’s adorable. His freckles stand out even more, and I just want to take him out to my car and… Christ. This needs to stop. Step out of the fantasyland, Garen, no matter how fun it may be. The boy is a closet case, but basically unresponsive.
“You were talking about me? How cute,” I say. I can feel someone’s eyes on me. When I glance around, I notice tiny little Ben leaving the cafeteria with a tall blonde guy in a slightly wrinkled button-down. Ben is looking over his shoulder at me, but once he realizes I’m watching him, he breaks the stare. “I’ll have to go get friends so I can talk about you to them too. In fact, I think I’ll go do that now. You need a ride home tonight?”
But across the table, Travis’s hand is going up to his mouth, his thumbnail between his teeth. God. His teeth are perfectly white, perfectly straight. He’d have such a gorgeous smile if he knew how to smile. Which I know a few ways to teach him.
“I have track tonight,” he says, snapping me back to reality. “I normally just walk home in the afternoon ‘cause my schedule’s different every day. Work, track, shrink. You know the deal.”
“So I’ll wait in the library and then drive you home after. Big deal,” I say. And if you just so happen to decide that we should have hot, crazy sex in my car, and if you just so happen to end up falling in love with me, and if we just so happen to run away back to New York together and spend the rest of our lives sleeping together in a tiny apartment in the Village? Then so be it. I can work with that.
“You don’t have to, really,” he says quickly. Did you know that we’re soulmates? I want to say. Did you know that my locker number is my birthday, and my locker combination is the number of letters in your first name, the sum of the digits in the cell phone number you logged in my received calls list this morning, and the day Dad told me you were born, which obviously means we’re meant for each other in some cosmic stupid way? And did you know that I was able to figure that out because I can’t stop thinking about you, because you’re under my skin in a terrifying way no guy ever has been before? Instead, all I can say is his name. Two short, stupid syllables. It gets him to look at me, though. “I’ll be out front after your practice. Meet me there, okay?” I stand before he has a chance to argue, and add to Faye, “It was nice to meet you.”
It takes most of my self-control not to bolt out of the cafeteria. Once I clear the doors, however, I skid to a halt. Ben and the blonde guy are sitting nearby on the floor, leaning back against a display case for the National Honor Society and talking quietly. Ben glances up when the door slams shut behind me, and whatever sentence he’s saying seems to die in his mouth.
“Hi,” he says blankly. The blonde guy blinks at him, brow furrowed, then looks around and sees me.
“Hi,” I echo, to both of them. There’s a moment of silence where Ben just stares at me, and then he’s suddenly on his feet.
“Garen, this is Alex. Alex, this is Garen. It’s his first day here. He moved from New York,” he says.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“Same here,” Alex replies. “Did your parents get a job transfer or something?”
“Uh, no. I live with just my dad, and he got a new girlfriend. We moved here so they could live together without her kids having to switch schools,” I says. Ben cocks his head to the side.
“Do her kids go here?” he asks. I shrug.
“One does,” I say. “He’s a junior. His name’s Travis. You’d know him if you saw him, trust me.”
“Shit,” Alex says, drawing the word out for a few seconds longer than necessary. “You mean Travis McCall?” I nod. Ben turns to Alex.
“He’s the one who overdosed, right? God, those assemblies were the fucking worst,” he says.
“Assemblies?” I echo.
“Yep,” Alex says. “After he tried to kill himself, we had probably ten different assemblies about suicide prevention and stuff. It sucked.”
“The guy’s gorgeous,” Ben says, and I exhale a laugh. You think? “There’s no denying that. But he’s also insane as fuck. You’d be better off avoiding him as much as possible.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I mutter.
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