I linger by the marble staircase leading to the second floor, trying to remember the layout, where the science wing is, the hall to the cafeteria, the restroom where I’d once drawn a crude stick figure on the red stall door. It’s fucking stupid. It’s been three years, but it feels like a lifetime ago.
I go straight instead, toward the main hall where large glass cases line the walls. They’re filled with bragging rights I never had the chance to lay a claim to. Shiny gold trophies and mounted awards. Photos of championship-winning teams and distinguished alumni. The cases are big and flashy. Automatically, I try the door, testing the sliding glass with my fingers. It doesn’t budge. Smart. Lock these valuable memories up tight. I duck down to check the lock and scoff.
I could have this shit open in three seconds flat.
I don’t bother. My eyes skim for familiar names, people I knew from my freshman year here, before everything went to shit. Before the hospital. Before the three months of juvie. Before the years of Mountain Point Military Academy. I see the massive trophy from last year when the football team won State. There’s a photo of the team minutes after the win, clustered together in celebration. If things had gone differently—I jab the tip of my forefinger into the glass—I’d be right there. Instead, I’d probably been scrubbing floors or doing drills until my arms felt like spaghetti.
The spike of envy is brief, feeble.
I shift away from football and move down the hall, perusing the various victories, hundreds of names and faces, people who have made their marks on this place. People who didn’t fuck up and throw everything away. People who could still look at this building and think of it as big and scary and invincible, because they hadn’t spent years at a military school that actually was all of those things.
It doesn’t take long before I see Hamilton’s name.
State record holder in freestyle.
Beta Club President.
Class Salutatorian.
I can’t help my snide laugh, already imagining that fucker’s reaction to Class Salutatorian. Just for the fun of it, I look to see who beat him for the title of Valedictorian. Gwendolyn Adams. Ouch. His well-known nemesis and, if the word on the street is to be believed, his current girlfriend. I snort spitefully, because even if he is getting a piece of that, I bet it still stings.
I wasn’t here when shit went down with Skylar Adams at that party, but Emory and I keep in touch. In the summer, Mountain Point allows its students four weeks of supervised free time privilege. Mine were spent at the same football camp he attended. Aside from that, we were allowed our own phones and the occasional computer use—contingent on both behavior and performance—so we’re in the same Discord gaming group.
He told me about Skylar because of our ties to the Devils, but when he explained how they were on a pretty short leash with the school at the time, all I felt was a hot surge of anger. Pretty short leash? There I was having my browsing history monitored, being woken up at five in the morning for drills, being told how much to eat, what to wear, when to go to bed, how to tie my shoes, how to make my bed, and this fucker was whining about a short leash? Try having some geriatric douchebag look over your shoulder while you piss in a cup for your monthly drug test, and then you can talk to me about a short fucking leash.
But apparently things imploded at Preston Prep, and now the Devils are completely defunct. Emory’s pissed as hell about that, and maybe he’s had it a lot better than me over the past few years, but I get it. He had the rank to take over Bates’ position as leader this year.
Truth be told, I’m kind of relieved the Devils are finished. Better to not have the option at all than try to save face when I back out. That kind of thing is a slippery slope for a guy on probation. The more low-key I can keep it, the better off I’ll be. Sliding back into the Devils wouldn’t be a good move.
The rest of the awards case isn’t that interesting; debate team photos, reading bowl winners, mathletes. Nerds, nerds, and more nerds. I unthinkingly pass the cheerleaders’ showcase before hastily backing it on up.
One of the worst parts about the military academy was how much of a dick-fest it was. It was a sad state of affairs, three hundred some-odd teenage guys trying desperately to find ways around the academy’s internet filter, just to get a taste of something even vaguely resembling porn. I’m not going to say I’ve jacked it to YouTube bikini try-on videos, but I won’t say I haven’t, either.
But these.
Fuck me, these are the real deal. I take in a few of the current classmates I’m looking forward to reacquainting myself with. Midriff. Cleavage. Legs. Shit, I’d almost forgotten how awesome a girl’s thighs were. I want to drown myself in as much pussy as possible, but I won’t front. I could legit fuck a girl’s thighs right now and it might be the best sex I’ve ever had. That’s how horrifically deprived I’ve been.
My eyes land on a familiar face. Afton Cross. I press my forehead against the glass as though that will get me a better look. Yes, I’ll take one of these, to go. Huge rack, tiny little waist, long, tanned legs, and those thighs. Those are thighs I can imagine wrapped around my hips.
I shove a hand into my pocket to discreetly adjust a growing situation.
I take a furtive look around the hallway. Preston is nowhere close to resembling the ridiculous police state from whence I sprang, but you never know. Cameras are everywhere these days. Luckily, I don’t see any, so I reach into my back pocket and retrieve the pin from my wallet. Crouching down, it takes almost no time at all to pick the lock. The photo is easy to remove from the frame and folds nicely, fitting right into the inside pocket of my jacket.
Mine now.
Setting everything to rights, I turn and head back toward the main door, aware that it’s almost time to get to the headmaster’s office. I’m halfway there when I stop abruptly, gaze caught on another photo. It’s framed in a dark mahogany, sitting dead center in the case. A picture of a banquet. The engraved lettering at the bottom lauds student-athlete leaders in a rigid serif. In the photo, Emory is holding a plaque, posing happily with his parents, but that’s not what makes my blood run cold.
It’s the other person in the photo. Her hair is long and blonde, shiny. She’s wearing a lazy grin and her eyes—eyes that I once thought of as a vast ocean of crystal blue—are unfocused and dull. Her hands are clasped behind her back, but her shoulders are sort of slumped, like maybe it’s not the first photo that’s been taken that night. I search her image carefully, for long moments, eventually hit with the realization of what I’m looking for.
Visible damage. Any sign of injury. Obvious scars.
I can’t find any.
Maybe I hadn’t completely broken Vandy Hall in the accident that night.
That’s the only thing I’m thankful for.
It’s a frail consolation. Even if she isn’t horribly disfigured, it doesn’t mean anything. Not really. I’d still hurt her. I know that. It’s the shittiest, most unforgivable thing I’ve ever done. I’ve taken a lot of things in my life, but none more valuable than what I stole from her. I hurt myself, the stolen Porsche, our families, my friends...