My eyes flit up to the rearview mirror, checking to see Reyn’s expression. The smile has faded. I have no idea what he thinks about my confession, but I’m not going to let anyone judge me, least of all him. I was in pain for a long time. Sometimes, I still am.
Emory talks about the game the rest of the drive, but Reyn’s responses are all rote and quiet. When we get out of the truck I call out, “Good luck,” before walking over to the non-player bus. Emory raises his helmet in response and Reyn meets my gaze, offering a tight smile that’s nowhere near the dimpled easiness as before.
I bite back a sigh and look for Syd.
The bus I’m riding on is filled with cheerleaders, members of the dance team, and their coaches and sponsors. Micha Adams is standing in a grassy area behind the bus with a cluster of cheerleaders showing off his backflip. Sydney glides up to me the instant she sees me, eyes focused toward the field house.
“Did Reyn ride with you?”
“Yes.” I dig in my bag for a pen.
“Oh.” She frowns, eyes following them to the bus. “So, you two are like… cool now?”
“Um.” I chew on my lip for a moment, thinking. “I don’t know if I’d call it that. We’re neighbors, and he’s Emory’s best friend. Civility just seems the best way to handle it.”
She looks at me, eyebrow curved upward. “I heard he’s not allowed to have anything to do with you—per Headmaster Collins.”
“Well, Headmaster Collins can stuff it.” My bristling tone is only half meant for Collins. Some of it’s reserved for Syd’s snarky tone. “It’s not a big deal. I mean, we weren’t friends before he left. We just had—” A life changing event? A shared tragedy? An epic failure? “Well, nothing really. He’s back. I’m me. We definitely don’t reside in the same social circle. Other than rides to school with Emory, I doubt our lives will even cross.”
As I say it, she glances at my neck and says, “What’s that? A new necklace?”
I touch the metal hanging at the center of my chest. “It’s nothing.” But right when I say it, Afton walks by, dolled up in her cheer uniform. She does have a necklace on, but it’s a delicate chain with a cursive ‘A’ hanging in the V of her top. But then she raises her hand high into the air and I see it. The black cord is wound around her wrist.
And like that, we’re connected.
“Devils!” Afton shouts, fingers snapping. All the girls—plus Micha—focus on her intently. “Gather all the stuff and get in the bus, we’re leaving in five! No dawdling, got it? You all know what it’s like when the players get there before us.”
“Well, I don’t think you can sit with the squad on the way there,” Sydney says, giving me an exaggerated frown, “Afton likes us to do this whole ‘bonding’ thing before the games. It’s super lame. But we can talk at halftime, okay?”
“Yeah.” My smile feels a little tight. “Sounds great.”
She skips off, her little skirt flouncing behind her. I know by now that climbing on the bus and navigating the aisle will hold the people behind me up. I’m waiting for everyone to file on first when Elana walks up in her black and red sparkly dance leotard. She stops next to me and bends to tie her shoe.
“So listen,” she says, and it says a lot that it doesn’t even register that she’s talking to me, “some people are coming over to my place tonight. You’re invited if you want to come.”
I look around, blurting out a confused, “Me?” and her eyes jump to mine.
She’s looking at me like I’m dumb. “Yes, you.”
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“Uh, yeah.” My reply is somehow both too enthusiastic and overly flat. “I’ll um… think about it.”
“Cool,” she says, tightening the bow of her lace and walking off. She gets onto the bus and I’m left standing there, wondering if it actually happened.
I’m still wondering, minutes later, as I pass her and her friends for one of the last available seats on the bus. I look over and see the black cord tucked just beneath her leotard, and on impulse, I reach up to touch the key under my own shirt. I have no idea what the key actually goes to, but one thing is clear.
It’s definitely opening doors.
My mom didn’t exactly give me permission to go to the party, but she did say I could hang out with Sydney after the game. In her mind, that probably meant milkshakes and cheeseburgers at The Nerd, but hey. To-mayto, to-mahto. Technically, it’s not a lie. She didn’t ask for specifics. This only makes the guilt a little stronger when I take the glass of red punch from Sydney. My mom trusts me not to be a liar.
All I do is lie.
I tip the plastic cup back and swallow a gulp of the concoction Sydney gave me. It burns my throat and I fight a gag. “Jesus,” I cough. “What the hell?”
“Grain alcohol.” Syd makes her own face after taking a sip. “You get used to it.”
“Yeah,” I peer down in the cup, “not sure I want to.”