“You joined the lacrosse team?” he snaps.
“Did I not tell you that?” I could have sworn I did.
“No! I had to learn it from Neville!” Rafael throws his hands into the air. “Of all people, Neville had to tell me.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and starts pacing. “I can’t believe this. This is the worst thing you could’ve done.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” I say, fumbling with another cigarette. “They dragged me—”
“I don’t care if they beat you to a pulp, you should have refused. They couldn’t take your hand and force you to sign. You should’ve just taken your lumps and signed up for chess club or something!”
“I can’t play chess.”
“That’s very much not the point.” Rafael sighs heavily and leans against the wall beside me. “Do you realize what this means?” he asks as wearily as an old man, slipping his own pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He stopped lending me his own a long time ago and made me buy a carton from him—at a steep upcharge, of course. This dirty little habit is going to cost me my entire savings before too long. Better hope it’s worth it.
Better hope Bleakwood is worth it.
“ … that I’m going to humiliate myself? That’s nothing new.”
He goes through his cigarette ritual; lights it, pulls in a small draught, and breathes it out in a little puff as he tucks his lighter back into his pocket. Then he grabs it and sucks in a big, long breath, closing his eyes, tilting his head back and relishing it before he breathes it out again.
“You’re going to be found out,” he says finally, calm as you please.
Stunned, I watch him take another draught. “What the hell do you mean? I’m doing all this work!”
“How do you plan on getting through even one practice?”
“Painfully.”
He shakes his head. “You won’t even make it onto the field. The locker room, Alex.”
My mouth snaps shut. I’m sure the color drains from my face. I look, horrified, into Rafael’s passive eyes as he continues smoking.
“Shit.” My voice is a whisper.
“Shit’s right.” Smoke curls out of his lips as he speaks. “I think I’ve got an idea, though. Uh, but you’re really, really not going to like it.”
“I’ll do anything,” I say quickly. “Just tell me.”
Rafael eyes me as he continues to puff on his cigarette. “I’ll tell you once we get inside for dinner.”
“I don’t want to go until it’s late.”
“That’s too damn bad. Sneaking around like this just ends up drawing more attention to you in the end.”
All I can do is make him wait until I finish smoking my own cigarette down to its butt while Rafael does the same beside me. I make sure to take my time, make him wait. I know I should be grateful. I am, really. But it’s all a bit much sometimes. All of this.
By the time I’m done, the tips of my fingers, the short tendrils of my hair, my skin, the collar of my shirt—it reeks of smoke and cheap cologne. A swish of mouthwash and hand sanitizer dulls the scent, but it doesn’t cover it entirely.
Not that anyone cares. No one here seems to care.
Bleakwood isn’t what I expected. It’s a surprisingly lawless place. So long as I get good grades, I don’t think anyone cares what I get up to.
No one certainly cares what The Brotherhood gets up to.
Just a few weeks in, and I have the growing suspicion that all this … all the bullying, the snide remarks, the threats … it’s just the beginning. And I’m not looking forward to see how it ends. Probably with me on a plane heading home, disgraced and discovered.
Or in a body bag.
“You’re a weirdo,” Rafael says as we walk toward the dining hall, the scent of tobacco fading with each step, each breath.