It’s not totally a lie. My leg didn’t hurt, but I did have to do stretches. I know from experience just how difficult it is going from a summer free of academics to suddenly having to haul books around on my back all day. The administration gives me plenty of time allowances to travel to and from my locker, but if I accepted all of them, I’d miss half of every class. Being stuck with back pain, a limp, and disfiguring scars the rest of my life was bad enough without throwing ‘never graduated high school’ into the mix.
Aside from that, I’d also been working on my newspaper proposal. Every year, Mr. Lee, the Chronicle sponsor, chose a student to do a deep dive for an investigative topic. This topic had to cover something current and gritty, something worthy of six months of focus, and something that was of interest to the Preston Prep community without actually offending anyone or making the school look bad.
I know people will assume I want to follow in my mother’s footsteps, and why wouldn’t they? She’s a moderately popular investigative journalist who’s made quite a name for herself. But the reality is, I’ve seen what my mother does, and while she works hard and rails about things like justice and truth, her work is just a numbers game. The number of people who care, the number of viewers it can get, the number of ads they can run during the program, the number of dollars they can earn.
I don’t want to follow in her footsteps.
I want to recreate them. The right way.
I’d been considering ideas all summer long and had finally settled on what I believe to be an amazing topic; the systematic classism and bigotry that has permeated a school like Preston Prep through the generations. I want to explore how that type of environment is a hotbed for racist and classist behavior—specifically the incidents leading to the Devils being disbanded. It’s a tough topic, but one I think Mr. Lee, and the school at large, may finally be willing to address.
I keep my topic and the idea of proposing it to myself. This would be the kind of thing my family would cling to if I told them, feeding into their desperate hope that I’m doing more than just surviving. I don’t want that kind of pressure.
I glance out the window as Emory drives past the McAllister house, next door. There’s a black jeep in the driveway and it gives me a moment of pause. I wonder if Mr. McAllister got a new car. Seems a little juvenile for him, but he’s been flirting with a mid-life crisis for years, part of which is likely courtesy of his delinquent son.
I shift uncomfortably, the pain in my back flaring, and divert my eyes. Although I don’t like to think about Reyn, he’s on my mind constantly. I can never forget that smile on his face as he held out his hand, daring me to go for a joyride with him. The way he confidently sat behind the wheel, peeling out of the parking lot. That moment, right before the world spun, with his wide eyes and locked jaw as he slammed on the brakes.
And, of course, I can never forget the last time I saw him—fighting through a wall of nurses, doctors, and emergency room security—pale-faced, covered in blood, eyes wild like a man possessed as he struggled to get to me. I still hear his screams in my nightmares, sometimes. “What are you doing to her? Tell me what’s fucking happening! Is she okay?”
Emory cranks up the music as he drives the ten miles to schoo
l, and I let it drown out my thoughts. My brother and I don’t talk much anymore. I don’t blame him. The oxy made it easy for me to check out, and he’s been focused on actually having a social life, unlike me. I know things kind of derailed for him when the Devils were disbanded. With most of the other guys—particularly Hamilton Bates—graduating last year, Emory had been in the position to take over the group. Even I had been stunned when Hamilton fell in love with his arch-nemesis, Gwendolyn Adams. The entire social eco-system had been shattered. Emory no longer had a girlfriend, nor his group. He was understandably a little adrift.
Welcome to my world.
He turns into the Preston Prep parking lot, securing a spot in the senior section.
“Don’t forget,” he says, unbuckling his seat belt, “I have football practice.”
I nod, gathering my bag. “I’m going to a meeting for the Chronicle, so I’ll probably get out around the same time.”
His nose wrinkles. I know he hates that I’m involved with “nerdy” stuff, but good grief, what does he expect me to do? It’s not exactly like I can be an athlete or try out for the cheer squad with Syd.
“Okay.” He commands, “Meet me out here when you’re done.”
Sydney’s for me waiting at the edge of the parking lot. Her eyes are glued to her phone until she sees us walking over.
Well, until she sees my brother, which will always catch her attention.
“Heya, Em,” she says, beaming at him. He gives her a quick nod and strides across the quad, unmoved by her batting eyelashes. Sydney turns to me, fanning herself with her phone. “If it’s possible, I think your brother actually got cuter over the summer.”
I grimace. “Hmm…”
Syd has had a crush on Emory since before we even got to Preston Prep. There’s really no nice way to tell her that he’s not interested, and frankly, he doesn’t even like us being friends. But unlike him, I don’t have a million people lining up to become my buddies, and sure, Sydney has issues, but she’s also stuck by my side during everything. Even if it means I have to put up with a lot of her self-inflicted drama.
Speaking of, Syd’s phone buzzes and she glances down. “Oh my god.”
“What?” I ask, taking an awkward step over the curb.
“Fucking Caleb. He just texted me to say that everyone is talking about me.”
“What now?” People ‘talking’ about Sydney is a common occurrence.
“Some insane rumor that I fucked two guys from North Ridge, at the same time, last weekend. As if.” She laughs and shakes her head. “God, when are people going to stop being so interested in my sex life?”
I grip the straps on my backpack and don’t reply to what is obviously a rhetorical question. Sydney’s social life—her sex life—has been a constant source of gossip and fascination for years. She’s either a slut, or a tease, or a sex goddess, or a virgin, at any given moment. I stopped keeping up years ago, and after the blow up with Skylar Adams, it seemed like maybe it would slow down, but nope. According to Syd, the rumors keep flying.
“Whatever,” she mumbles, pushing her phone in her backpack. She turns to face me, her eyes searching my face. “How are you? You ready for this?”