My stomach sinks like a rock.
Palms growing sweaty, I rush away, the musician never distracted from his play.
Forget being late. I duck out the next door to feel the cool breeze on my cheeks and try—really hard—to reconcile the Hamilton Bates I just saw in that music room with the one I know, intimately. How can someone so evil, so dark and depraved, create something so beautiful?
Saturday rolls around with a gray, overcast sky, and a bitingly chilled wind. It’s the perfect backdrop for the first day of Saturday detention. While the rest of the dormitory sleeps in, I cross the campus toward the athletic fields. Mr. Dewey had replied to my email the night before.
Hollbrook Field, 8 AM. Dress for work.
I wear my rattiest jeans and Brayden’s old Preston football sweatshirt. A thick headband works both as a way to keep my hair out of my face and insulate my ears. Despite that, I still feel a surge of jealousy when I see Hamilton walking from the boy’s dorm with a steaming cup of coffee from the local café clutched in those long fingers.
Mr. Dewey waits for us by the front wall of the stadium, dressed in a heavy wool coat and a red and black plaid scarf. Next to his feet is a box of supplies.
“Mr. Bates,” he greets as we walk from opposite directions, “next time you get coffee delivered before detention, make sure you bring enough for everyone.”
I press a snicker into my sweater sleeve at the admonishment, which earns me a steely glare from Hamilton’s tired eyes. Jaw clenched with annoyance, he removes the lid and holds my gaze as he tips the cup, pouring all that hot, delicious coffee onto the ground.
I guess we’ll all go without.
“Dean Dewey,” he starts, using the voice he reserves for teachers and administrators. “Thank you for working around my rigorous schedule to meet on the weekend. As much as I appreciate your dedication to the school disciplinary system, I assure you that being tardy to Dr. Ross’ class was a one-time occurrence. I’m perfectly willing to submit to whatever punishment you’re got in mind, but I do have one request.”
I gape at Hamilton, because, like.... how much bullshit can one guy can muster at eight a.m. on a Saturday? Apparently, a lot.
“And what is that?” Dean Dewey asks, already sounding annoyed.
“I would prefer to take my punishment alone. To, uh, you know. Reflect on my failures.”
I roll my eyes. Jesus Christ.
“Unfortunately, Mr. Bates, the work required is a two-person job, and I assure you, this isn’t something you’d want to do alone. It would take far longer than the five weeks detention.” Hamilton opens his mouth to argue—he’d probably take thirty weeks of detention if it meant not spending them with me—but Dean Dewey cuts him off with a sharp gesture to the wall next to the stadium entrance. “As you know, the football team won the state title this year. The Headmaster wants a new mural on the wall for next season. That means the current mural needs to be cleaned, primed, and painted for the artists.
We both gawk up at the massive wall, which runs the entire length of the concession stand.
“The whole thing?” I ask, gulping at the size. Like Hamilton, I’d hoped this would be a task we could complete quickly, and then go our separate ways. Like picking up trash from the quad or covering up bathroom graffiti. But this? We’ll be lucky to get this done in five weeks.
Hamilton huffs, rubbing at his forehead in a way that always signals an impending conniption. “Isn’t this the kind of work Preston Prep pays for? Don’t we have staff for this kind of project? Is the school not even solvent anymore?”
It’s like watching a train wreck and the secondhand embarrassment burns. In five point zero seconds, he’s going to flip his lid, and that won’t go well—for either of us.
I step forward.
“We’ll get it done,” I declare. “Between the two of us, it should be a quick job.” Hamilton levels his glare at me, but I ignore him, adding, “I assume all the tools and supplies we need are in that box?”
Mr. Dewey seems delighted, either at my compliance or ability to head off one of Hamilton’s tantrums. “And in the shed. Ladders, paint rollers, scrapers, drop cloths.” He rattles off the list. “Make sure you clean up when you’re finished. We need to maintain a clean appearance while you’re not working.”
“Yes, sir,” I reply. Hamilton takes a moment to chew on the words that even he won’t allow himself to say, and ultimately nods.
Once the dean leaves, I hear the boy next to me mutter, “Kiss ass.”
I turn to glare at him. “Seriously? You’re calling me a kiss ass? Three minutes ago, you were basically groveling at his feet to weasel your way out of this.” I mock in a dumb jock voice, “I appreciate your dedication to the school disciplinary system. Do you even know how embarrassing you sound?”
“About half as embarrassing as you.” He tosses the empty coffee cup on the ground. “Let’s get this done.”
I keep my glare leveled on him as I walk to the cup and make a big show of picking it up. “Slob.”
He stuffs his hands into his pockets and shrugs, uncaring.
While I spread out the massive drop cloth, he rifles through the box and pulls out scrapers for the peeling sections of paint. He throws them carelessly on the cloth.