“No, I don’t,” I insist, crossing my arms. “Helping others is just something we were raised to do.”
“Obviously,” he says dryly.
My skin pricks with anger. “What does that mean?”
“It means your whole family is one big charity case, looking for more charity cases to mount on your shoulders while you climb the hill of mount martyr.”
“First of all, that’s ridiculous. Second,” I push the headband off my ears. They’re suddenly hot. “You say that like helping others is a bad thing.”
He looks at me incredulously, as though I’m missing something.
I continue, “It’s not a bad thing. My parents decided to use their wealth and privilege for something other than just furthering their own position in society. They saw a need and they wanted to fill it. Why is that so terrible? Do you really think that people—children in particular—don’t deserve a better life? An opportunity to make more of themselves than what they were raised in?”
“You know what I believe in? I believe in the American dream. I’m a fucking capitalist, I believe in meritocracy,” he says, without a trace of irony. “If people want to waste their hard-earned time and money pulling people from gutters, then I’ve got no problem with that, just—” He goes suspiciously silent here, mouth snapping shut.
“Just what?” I say it like a dare.
His face screws up into the mask that transforms him into the Devil, the Prince of Preston Prep. It’s cruel and calculating. “Just not in my backyard, or my school, or my fraternity. Keep it somewhere else. Like over at Northridge or wherever the hell it is you people frequent.”
A bark of laughter escapes my throat. I can’t help it. It bubbles in my chest and explodes from my lips in a harsh bark.
He raises an eyebrow. “What’s so funny?”
“You, Bates. You have absolutely no idea how ridiculous you sound. Just look at you.” I wave a hand at him. “Your whole life is one big vanity project. I bet even your shits are hollow.”
“No, Adams, I’m sane. I sound like every goddamned Bates that came before me. Reasonable. Rational.” He tips his chin up, head high. “Look, you grew up your way—with your whole ‘it takes a village’ hippie shitshow. I grew up my way, where we’ve learned to protect our way of life, where we’re taught to preserve our lineage.” Something dark flickers in his eyes. “I’ve learned that when you don’t tow that line, there are consequences, and I’m talking about actions, choices, that can’t be undone.”
He’s breathing heavy, agitated. He’s always on the edge. One step from crossing over. Tantrum. Rage. There’s something strange in the way he’s standing, the dull heat of his eyes. I suspect, though I couldn’t begin to explain why, that Hamilton Bates has been very badly hurt.
There’s something dark in the boy in front of me. I can’t help but wonder how deep it goes and what’s caused it.
Without thinking I ask, “What’s your deal, Bates? Who’s hurt you?”
He blinks, like maybe he’s just seeing me for the first time. But the reprieve only lasts a moment before the curl of his upper lip is back. “Let me guess, this is the part of Saturday detention where we huddle in the library and tell each other why our lives secretly suck, therefore discovering that, despite our differences, we’re actually a lot alike.” He mock-frowns at me. “Sorry, this isn’t Breakfast Club, and you’re sure as fuck no Molly Ringwald. I’m not going to let you drag me into the swamp with you like you tried to do the other night.”
My jaw drops. “When I what?”
“You know what you did.”
“Wow.” I laugh, pushing my hair from my face. “Are you accusing me of something? Because if memory serves, you assaulted me.”
The tips of his ears turn red and his jaw locks. His frame seems to expand, hulking over me, and a shiver runs down my spine. It’s an instinctive reminder of how dangerous this boy is, how much harm he could do, if he wanted. He stares down at me, so full of hate that I can almost taste the tangy, bitter edge of it. I’m so aware of his gaze dropping to my lips that my tongue darts out to wet them, something instinctive and involuntary. For a heartbeat, I worry that he’s going to do something to me.
For more than one heartbeat, I really want him to.
“Forget it.” He lurches back. “I’m not doing any of this bullshit. I’ll just deal with the fallout later. You can tell Dewey I’m out.”
I watch, stunned, as he walks back across the campus, shoulders tense and angry. I don’t follow him. I don’t even really care that he only managed a measly seven minutes of actual work, and somehow ended up making more work for me in the process. Hamilton Bates is a spoiled brat, and I’m better off without him.
8
Hamilton
Who hurt you?
The question throbs in my mind like a headache, and it’s still less infuriating than her having the nerve to even ask.
My response had burned hot and sour in the back of my throat. The raw, feral edge of me wanted to hurt her in return, make her pay for believing me some secretly weak and damaged little boy. It wanted to lash back, warn her to be worried about who was hurting her, threaten and intimidate. How fucking dare she look at me like I was less?