We’ve won the state championship three years in a row, so we both need me to be healthy if we’re going to get a fourth.
I glance at the clock on the wall. There’s one minute left before class starts. Dr. Ross is already at the front of the room. She’s an old hag with a hard-on for punctuality and will assign detention if you’re even a single minute late. My gaze jumps a row and two seats over to the seat that’s always empty until right before the bell rings.
At twenty-five seconds ‘til, she walks into the room, skirt swishing against her long legs. She doesn’t look at anyone, not even Dr. Ross, before hooking her bag on the back of her chair. She sits, smoothing her skirt underneath her. She’s got a swimmer’s body. Lean, strong, long. When the bell rings a second later, she tosses her hair over her shoulder and stares straight ahead.
I flinch when I feel a sharp kick against my leg. Heston smirks at me and mouths, “Obsessed.”
“Fuck off.” I glare at my book and flip to the page written on the board.
“I will if you stop looking at her like you want to peel off her skin.” He whispers, but the laughter is clear in his voice. “Your name is Hamilton, Bates. Not Norman.”
My jaw tenses. Am I pissed at Gwen? Fuck yes. Do I want to make her pay for dragging me into all this? Absolutely. But obviously Heston is right. I seriously need to chill the hell out. I just don’t think she realizes how much she’s messed up my life. My dad wasn’t the only one upset about the party. My mother was convinced I was going down as a sex offender, that this will hit the news, that “people” (AKA: the women in at the club, at her charity groups, the Junior League) will know.
Bad PR?
Heaven forbid.
Gwendolyn Adams and her siblings are garbage picked up by her hippie parents out of some unfortunate need to show the world how charitable and virtuous they are. It’s a freak house over there. You can take the trash out of the trailer, but you can’t take the trailer out of the trash.
If anything, I blame the school board and my parents—all of the parents—for letting this happen in the first place. I remember when Brayden and Gwendolyn showed up at Preston Prep, back when we were all in the elementary wing together. Hell, we played on the playground together every day at recess. Brayden was cool, good at football. And Gwen—Jesus Christ. She was so pretty and unassuming... right up until she opened her mouth. The girl would fight about anything. I’m pretty sure she had whole treaties solving the line to the swing sets, an
d some of the kids were just outright over trying to use the monkey bars when she was around.
I figured, even then, she’d inherited that trait from her lawyer parents. We thought they were like the rest of us. Mark Adams’ name was on the alumni list. Why wouldn’t we assume? No one realized the truth until the twins appeared. Becca Adams just showed up one day with two new babies, and like, come on. It was obvious she’d never been pregnant, not like Ansel’s mom two years before. Instead, Mrs. Adams was as skinny as ever. But when she showed off those babies, she called them her own.
They weren’t hers. Not with the green eyes and creamy brown skin.
That’s when we knew.
All of the Adams kids were adopted.
They weren’t like us, they weren’t legacies.
They didn’t deserve to be here, to absorb our knowledge, to win our awards, to dictate our behavior. Gwendolyn Adams is the worst of the worst. That little play with her hot mess of a sister? That was aimed at us. The Devils. The popular people. The ones who belonged here. She’s determined to topple our system, our history, and anything else that makes us who we are.
I’m sure as fuck not going to let her.
3
Gwen
Thwwwiiiick
The dome of mac n’ cheese on my tray wiggles once it’s released from the scoop. Bev, the lunch lady, adds a watery spoonful of green beans and plops a greasy piece of chicken next to it.
You’d think rich kid school would have better food, but cafeteria fare may be one of the world’s great equalizers.
“Here you go, hon,” she says, after adding a large, square brownie.
“Thank you.” My voice sounds small and weird. It may be the first thing I’ve said since seeing the twins that morning. Exiting the line, I turn and face the room. Every move has become a landmine. This is part of the plan, obviously. They can’t get back at me and Sky the traditional way, but they can make every little thing as difficult as possible. I kind of have to hand it to them. It’s almost impressive how these people truly excel at the art of ostracism.
As I walk past each table, empty seats are immediately swallowed by shifting bodies. There’s no eye contact. No invitation. For a while there, I secretly ate in the library. I could get my homework done and have a little respite from all the intensely aggressive being-ignored. But that came to a sharp and sudden end following an announcement over the intercom letting the student body know that eating outside the cafeteria was now prohibited. Now, to the casual observer this might have seemed like an unfortunate coincidence.
I know better.
I make my way across the room to a small table by the vending machines. It’s not the worst seat. There’s a window that looks over the middle school wing’s garden and sometimes I can catch a glimpse of the twins. Opening my juice, I peer out the window and—what the hell?
A reflection hovers on the glass—like I’m staring right at him.