A Deal With the Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 2)

“Vandy!” my brother shouts down the hall. “I’m leaving in five minutes! AIS or I’m leaving.”

I roll my eyes at my own reflection.

AIS: Ass In Seat.

He’ll do it, too. God forbid Emory miss the five minutes before the bell rings to ogle and flirt with girls on the quad before class starts. It’s always been bad, but now that he’s a senior, he’s completely unbearable.

“I’m coming!” I yell, running my fingers through my hair one last time. Yes. Shiny hair, spotless face, and crisp uniform. Everything seemingly in order, I reach for the little pouch hidden in my jewelry box, pulling it open. I don’t need to count, but I do anyway, like some kind of compulsion. Twenty-eight pills for fourteen days. Two per day. One in the morning, one at night. No more. No less.

Or at least, that’s what I promise myself.

I’d spent all summer weaning myself to an acceptable amount of Oxycontin. Two pills isn’t a problem—not when you’ve been through what I’ve been through. I swallow the small circular pill dry, then tuck the pouch back in the box, snapping the lid shut. I walk across the room, one leg refusing to function the same as the other, and grab my backpack, heavy with first-day essentials.

My mother waits in the kitchen, already dressed in her bright, camera-ready outfit. I know she has a big interview today—something to do with a collapsed multi-million-dollar utility project that has possibly been the front for some shady dealings. The thing about our mom being a big-time news reporter is that she’s brushed fame a few too many times, but has never been able to really hold on to it. Instead, she has to constantly search for the next big scoop, hoping something juicy and significant will fall into her lap.

In many ways, I really respect that about her. My mom is the hardest-working parent I know who’s also still involved in, like, parenting.

“I made your lunch!” She says as she closes the fridge. The stainless-steel door is covered in an enormous, post-it riddled, color-coded calendar. Every single activity has been micromanaged down to the minute, up to and including ‘pick up lunch for the kids’. My mom cuts her eyes to the bag on the island. “Well, I packed your lunch. Spicy tuna roll, a little bit of rice, and that yogurt with the honey that you like.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I say, kissing her on the cheek. I take the bag and tuck it in my backpack. She leans over to help and I jerk around in a twist to prevent it. The horn blares from the garage, eliciting my groan.

“Your brother is anxious,” she says, rolling her eyes as well. “You know how he gets.”

“Oh, I know.” I dig a fist into the small of my back, trying to reacquaint my spine with the weight of a backpack. “Now that Campbell’s in college and they are ‘keeping their options open’,” I use finger quotes here, “he’s on the prowl.”

Mom’s nose wrinkles. “Honey, don’t talk about your brother like that. And Campbell is a sweet girl.” She frowns as she says this, as if she could will it to be true.

“Uh huh.”

Sometimes it’s easier for my mom to live in a delusion than face reality, especially when it comes to my brother. Campbell Clarke is a bitch, through and through. She has my brother completely wrapped around her well-manicured finger. But if Mom looked beneath the surface of that choice, she’d have to acknowledge a lot of the other crap my brother does, and that would take the attention off me for a second. God forbid.

Preston Prep is everything to Emory. He’d been instantly accepted when he arrived as a freshman, his social status secured by his position on the football team and admittance into the quasi-legit fraternity, The Devils. He lived and breathed Preston Prep, the letterman jacket, and the older, more experienced girlfriend. He fully embraced the entitled, privileged attitude of the majority of our classmates.

He’d live in the dorms if he could—if he were allowed to. But there was no way my parents would allow me to live on campus, which meant there was no way he could live there either. Even for my parents, some tit-for-tats are just inevitable. Ultimately, that was probably a good decision. Last year, during Emory’s junior and my sophomore year, the Devils outdid themselves, ultimately getting disbanded. The administration finally stepped in after a series of events that not only violated school policy, but brushed with illegal. To be honest, I wasn’t paying much attention at the time. I spent my days trying to catch up on the schoolwork I fell behind on as a freshman, and my afternoons in physical therapy. I also spent the majority of time blissed out on painkillers, to the point that most of my classmates thought I was an idiot.

Or, so I learned over summer break. I’d been in the country club locker room when I overheard Amanda Brown ask Sydney if the accident had caused a brain injury. Apparently, she didn’t remember me being so slow.

Ouch.

It was only through hushed talks between my parents and gossip at the swimming pool this summer that I learned what the Devils, including my brother, had really been up to for the last couple of years. None of it was necessarily good.

“I can’t wait to hear about your first day tonight at dinner.” Mom runs a hand through her hair, something she does when she’s a little nervous. It’s hard, sometimes, feeling all this bitterness toward her when she cares so much. She adds, “I’m making your favorite. Shrimp and grits.”

I force a smile. “That sounds good.” It seems a little much for the first day of junior year, but I’ve learned by now that if my mom wants to spoil me, the path of least resistance is to just let her.

The horn blasts again in the garage, and I roll my eyes, heading through the door.

“Finally,” Emory says, as I climb into his truck. It’s a beast. My parents only relented to getting it for him if he agreed to the lower running board so that I could step up to get into the cab. “I mean, what do you even do up there? It’s not like you spend a bunch of time doing yourself up like the other girls.”

Double ouch.

I scowl out the window. “You know Mom doesn’t let me wear a lot of makeup.” She also doesn’t let me wear anything revealing, or go out with boys, or stay out past nine.

“Exactly,” he replies, backing out of the garage and swinging the car around, “it shouldn’t take you so long.”

“My leg hurt this morning,” I mutter, looking away. “I had to do some stretches.”

“Oh.” I notice how his fingers grip the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. “Right, yeah.” The ‘sorry’ is implied.