Sure, people put up a façade of politeness. We do live in the South after all. Manners are key. The truth is that, the twins even have a few genuine friends down in the middle school wing. But my class? Dominated by the Devils?
They’d been pacing like tigers in a cage for years, just looking for a reason. Snitching on them at the party was a gift on a silver platter.
Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I follow the brick-paved sidewalks toward the courtyard by the carpool lanes. It really is a lovely campus, full of rich old architecture. You’d never know, just from looking at the facade, how much evil is contained in its walls. There are sprawling live oaks in the quad and behind the dorms, dressed to the nines in Spanish moss, and at just the right time of year, I can look out my window and see a delicate, pulsing swath of lightning bugs. Leaves crunch under my feet, dried from the summer heat. I briefly second-guess my decision to wear a sweater. It’ll probably be seventy by lunch. I’m just determined to make fall start even if I’m miserable. But I’m always miserable at Preston Prep. Why should today be any different?
It’s not long before the blue mini-van arcs through the driveway, intermingled with the Teslas and Lexuses and BMWs. It’s out of place, which is fitting. The Adams kids are square pegs trying to fit in the gaping round hole of this world. Debbie’s car pulls up to the curb and the back door flies open. My twelve-year-old twin siblings, Michaela and Micha, spill from inside. They run toward me as the passenger side window rolls down and Debbie leans toward me.
“Hey babe, how are you?”
This is one of the first times in my day I don’t need to force my smile. “I’m good.” Michaela runs toward me and gives me a hug. I squeeze her tight and tug on her twisted braids.
“We’re having my famous lasagna tonight, want to come?” Debbie asks hopefully, and truthfully, it is tempting. She’s a great cook, after all. It’s one of the reasons my mother hired her to be our nanny. That and the fact neither my mother nor father have the slightest idea of how to actually parent.
Nevertheless, my smile tightens. “I wish I could. I have a big test tomorrow.”
“Sure, you do,” she replies, skeptically. There’s no anger in her voice. Debbie understands why I moved on campus at the beginning of the year. She just doesn’t like it. “Don’t stay away too long, okay?”
I nod and the carpool monitor waves her forward. Michaela and I wave as she drives off.
“How was trick-or-treating?” I ask the twins. They had big plans for costumes and had been preparing them for weeks. They’d gone as Willow and Jaden Smith. Micha had been particularly excited about wearing a dress, which is understandable. Preston Prep has a pretty strict dress code. Individuality is frowned upon, and Micha definitely marches to the beat of his own drum. My little brother has had to learn to choose his fashion battles wisely from the start, and I doubt he understands yet just how unfair it is. Michaela can wear pants, boots, and graphic tees marketed to boys, and at most, she’s just a bit of a tomboy. But for Micha, a bit of glitter and lip gloss are the makings of a full-blown scandal.
“I got so much candy,” Micha says, gripping the straps of his bedazzled backpack. The sequins and glitter match the laces in his shoes, and something inside of me softens and glows. Because even with the strict dress code at Preston Prep, Micha finds his own little ways to do the complete opposite of me—not hide. “And Mom let us eat as much as we wanted before bed.”
I’m sure. Why set limits?
The twins talk about Halloween the whole way to their building—the middle school wing—giving me a breakdown of the best candy. Snickers are at an all-time high, but Milky Way futures are way down. Better invest in fun-size boxes of Nerds, as the trick-or-treat economy as it relates to our particular gated community is experiencing a serious chocolate deficit.
“When are you coming home?” Michaela asks. It’s a common question. My answer is the same every day.
“Not until after graduation.”
She gives me a sly look. “Mama said if you don’t move back by Christmas, she’ll let me have your room.”
It’s an empty threat. Debbie already told me that Michaela moved into my room three weeks ago. She’d brought in her blanket and a least a dozen stuffed animals. If anything, this is a test to see how soon she’ll have to move back into the room she shares with Micha. Because Micha is painfully earnest and unassuming, but Michaela... Michaela schemes.
I sigh overdramatically. “That’s a risk I’ll have to take. It’s not that I want to stay away. It’s just easier for me to do my schoolwork and swim practice when I live on campus.”
Micha gives me a long look but says nothing. It’s not that I haven’t noticed that things have been strained between us since I moved to the dorms. The twins see all our adopted siblings as their own. As twins, they’re innately used to having siblings, but to them, siblings should always be there. Me moving to the dorms makes the third of us to leave. Clearly, this is not proper siblinghood.
“When does the swim season start?” Michaela asks.
I squeeze her hand, giving it a jiggle. “Next week.”
“Maybe once it’s over, you can come home.”
“Maybe,” I lie, halting by the door and giving one of her braids a soft tug. “Okay, we’re here. You’ll have a good day, yeah?”
Michaela gives me another hug while Micha throws me a peace sign in his wake. I push my worry aside as they disappear into the building. They’re too young to really understand what happened with Skylar and no one at school is allowed to mention it.
Ever.
That was the deal my parents made with the school and the other parents. No one would call the authorities about the culpability of the Preston Prep students as long as no one discussed it ever again. Because, it was agreed, they had some accountability, even if they didn’t participate. This is a problem for both the school and the kids, like the Devils that I’d seen there that night. They knew Skylar was in that room and what she was doing, and they let it happen. Maybe even worse, they stood back and had a good time, relished in it, took something sordid and horrifying and made it into a sick joke, a currency of high-fives and muffled laughter.
Sky confirmed this all long ago, that no one had intervened, but none of them had participated. Truthfully, I’m not convinced she’d admit to anything that might mean getting them into trouble. It’s not about protection. It’s about her need to belong, to feel approved of. I can handle being shunned. Being silenced. Being cast aside. It’s not fun, but it won’t break me. For Sky, this would be worse than a nightmare—it’d be an unspoken validation of her every single insecurity.
“Who was it, Sky?” I asked that night, struggling to keep my attention on the road as I drove us home. I can still remember the ache in my knuckles as I strangled the steering wheel. “Was it a Devil? Was it Ansel? Heston? Did—” I had to take a moment when my voice cracked, but I forced the question out through my teeth, “Did Hamilton make you do this?”
I glanced at her only long enough to register her frown, her eyes a mixture of confusion and innocence. “I wanted to do it,” she said, shocking me to my core. “It was fun.” She touched her jaw. “Although I am a little sore.”