Mom and Dad may have saved us from a hard, uncertain life, but they tossed us into the lion’s den, and I’m not sure that’s any better. Honestly, it’s probably worse.
2
Hamilton
“Dude, dude, where did you even go last night? We looked all over for you,” Ansel asks as we meet up in the stairwell leading from the boys' dormitory. “That party was fucking lit.”
“You’re such an idiot.” I reply, “I was there, didn’t you see me?”
Ansel, who has been one of my best friends since middle school, looks at me through his ridiculous hipster glasses and asks, “What was your costume?”
“Michael Phelps. Speedo, swim cap, and goggles. I even had a stack of gold medals hanging around my neck.”
“Seriously? How did I miss that?” Ansel looks just like someone you’d expect named Ansel to look. Every part of him, from his non-prescription glasses to his manbun, has been pieced together with carefully derivative dumbassery. Sometimes the urge to slap him upside his big dumb head is so strong, it almost chokes me to death.
It’s usually best to just give in to these impulses.
“Hey!” he squawks. The velocity of my palm sends his glasses lurching off his nose and he indignantly adjusts them. “Uncool!”
“You were trashed.” Our smarter friend Emory explains, falling in step. Unlike Ansel, Emory has an impeccable memory. He got tested once, but it turns out, he isn’t eidetic, he’s just really into being a know-it-all. He’s a year younger than the rest of us but fits in nicely. “You took Elana Maxwell behind Connor Hall. She showed up thirty minutes later with puke all over her tits, screaming about what a dickhead you are. Xavier and I hauled your ass up to your room before security found you.”
“Ah,” Ansel says, as if it all suddenly makes sense. “That explains the messages from Elana on my phone.” He glances down at his phone, warily. “Thirty-six so far.”
Xavier not-so-subtly coughs, “Stalker,” and even I smirk.
Elana Maxwell is a stalker. Classic Stage 5 Clinger. Once she gets her hooks into you, it’d be easier to get rid of the clap. But Ansel, being the insufferable dumbass of the group, is our peak romantic. He’s always on the lookout for love, although a consistent fuck buddy has never gone amiss. Elana’s been around for a few months now. It was only a matter of time.
Truthfully, I didn’t stick around the party long at all. I made an appearance—as was expected—fooled around with Reagan for a bit—as was expected—and then went back to my room. I’ve got too much on the line over the next few weeks to blow it all on one night of Halloween partying. I can celebrate after I’ve been named captain of the swim team. Then I can add that detail to my college applications and solidify once and for all that Gwendolyn Adams is done at this school.
It’ll be the final nail in the coffin, and I can’t wait t
o pound it in.
“What’s with the weird look?” Emory asks me. “You look like an evil villain or something.”
I shrug, smirking. “Just plotting to overtake the world.”
He snorts. “From you, I believe it. Geez, I wonder who’s pissed you off this time?”
It’s a rhetorical question. Everyone knows who is number one on my shit list. She’s been perched there for six months now. To be fair, maybe even longer.
We reach the main landing and I look around the crowd, making sure Reagan’s not around. She’s clingy—not as bad as Elana—but she’s looking for something. A date to the winter formal? A relationship commitment? A ride on my cock? None of those things are going to happen. Don’t get me wrong—she’s hot. Sexy. Not to mention, seriously good at giving head. But sometimes at this school, it’s like shooting fish in a fucking barrel. Absolutely zero challenge. Sometimes it’s almost like I want a chase. Which doesn’t make sense, either. Easy pickings is what I really need.
Zero distractions, right?
I breathe a small sigh of relief when I don’t see her anywhere, but I do catch sight of a pale face and dark wavy hair cutting through the crowd. Her eyes are focused straight ahead, oblivious to everyone around her. Mine narrow.
Xavier’s fingers snap in front of my face. “Hamilton!”
“Huh?” I ask, dragging my eyes away from the girl.
“I asked if you wanted to use the box seats this weekend. Dad’s out of town on business. He said I could have them.”
“The United game?” I raise an eyebrow, and he nods. If Ansel’s thing is being a dumb hipster and Emory’s thing is being a smartass know-it-all, then Xavier’s thing is being the guy with connections. “I’m in, definitely.”
“Awesome. I’ll text you details. We can get there early, there’s a full bar.”
We bump fists and Xavier heads off to his first period, but I hold back a minute, skimming the room.