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

Seeing Reynolds standing there on his porch—a pair of loose grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, threadbare black tee stretched tight over his broad chest—had been like a punch in the gut. The porch light just barely illuminated the sharp angles of his cheekbones, and with the way he was standing, so inhumanly still, he looked like a statue carved out of midnight and obsidian. In the low light, his eyes were nothing but two dark hollows of vacant shadow, but it didn’t matter. I knew he was looking right at me, could feel myself pinned under the heavy weight of it, defenseless and paralyzed.

I’ve seen him around school for days, of course. And it’s not like he’s any less intimidating in the uniform, especially not with the way he’s always sitting, slouched low, head down, as if there’s no one around to pay attention to. Every inch of him screamed ‘untouchable’.

Like this, he didn’t even feel like that boy I once knew. That version of Reynolds was sketched from long summer days spent watching him, the wiry muscles of his back shifting beneath thin shirts as I followed him and Emory around the neighborhood. It was painted with short winter evenings spent in the treehouse, watching his sly smirk as he emptied a day's worth of loot from the pockets of his loose hoodie, Emory taking a studious inventory. The old Reynolds was a hurricane full of dimples and reckless abandon, and he was just as untouchable then, but there was a thrill in knowing I had a chance to find myself in the eye of it, if only I stayed in one place long enough.

This new version of Reynolds is hard-edged and quiet, obscured by the storm cloud of blankness that sets his features. It’s almost scary to see, this new reserved stillness of him, as if he’d at one point shed his skin and floated away, and now something else is walking around with his older face and taller form.

But he had called out to me—Wait—in a voice that’s deeper, rougher than it used to be.

Yes, seeing him there had stunned me. But this had stunned me more.

I test the weight of the lipstick tube in my hand. There’s the panic that he’s seen—that he knows what’s inside—but louder than that are the questions. How? Why? I give the base two spins to the left and carefully pull the top off.

Three pills.

They’re all still there. I’d had a miniature meltdown today in Art when Mr. Kent had taken it away, apparently irked by the way I kept turning it over in my hands, eyes focused on it like a lifeline. I hadn’t planned to take them. But with the resurgence of gossip about me, I just needed the comfort of knowing I could. And then it’d been ripped away, and along with it, that soothing certainty that I had a way out if things got too bad. On top of that came the distress of knowing what would happen if Mr. Kent looked inside and reported it. Everyone would know. My parents. Emory. The administrators. Eventually, the whole school.

Reynolds had stolen it back, though. Had he done it because he knew it was mine, or was it just a coincidence?

I clutch the tube in my hand and turn back toward the house, unable to look a gift horse in the mouth. Reynolds stole it back because stealing is just what Reynolds does. The surety of that thought is almost as soothing as having the stash of pills in my pocket.

At least something about him hasn’t changed.

My proposal to Mr. Lee has an unexpected result. He’d shattered my ambition of investigating the years of systematic social inequality at Preston Prep, but he must have at least appreciated the spirit of it.

On Thursday, he stops me in the hallway and offers me a spot on the paper. “If you want it,” he adds.

“What’s the job?” I ask, as if I’m not going to say yes regardless of the position.

“Well, you got me thinking about some of the traditional roles here at Preston. While there are risks attached to certain topics, we definitely have a history mired in a deep patriarchy, and I think you’re just the person to push the boundary.” He pushes his wire glasses up his nose. “How would you like to be our first female sports reporter?”

“Sports?” The word comes out squeakier than I’d intended.

“Yep.” His grin is warm, a touch satisfied. “You’d cover the different teams and their schedules. Obviously, football is predominant at the moment, given the time of year, but it’s also girls’ softball season. And actually, water polo is co-ed.”

“I don’t know a lot about those sports,” I worry, flexing my hands around the straps of my bookbag. “Well, other than football. I guess I’ve picked up a few things after watching Emory play all these years, but you know that I can’t...” I feel my cheeks heat, “I can’t play any of those things.”

“And that’s exactly what I mean by pushing boundaries,” he says, scooting us toward the lockers when a group of students pass. “You’ll not only be the first female sports reporter here, but also the first...” He visibly struggles to find a non-insulting term.

“...with a physical disability,” I supply, grimacing.

“You don’t have to play the sports to report on them,” he concludes, “you just need to report the facts. Stats, a few highlights from the past games, and predictions for the next one. I’d also bet that you’d bring a refreshing angle.”

The truth is that, even though sports don’t interest me much, there’s no way I’d say no to this offer. One, because Mr. Lee is actually going out on a limb to make a change, and however small it is, it’s something. Two, because I’m determined to prove myself this year. It may not be the way I’d wanted, but it’s better than nothing.

“Okay,” I say, feeling a little nervous, “I’m in. Just tell me where to start.”

He hands me a notebook with the Preston Prep Red Devil logo on the front and a very official-looking pen. “Tomorrow night. First football game of the season. Let’s kick things off right.”

I clutch the notebook in my hand and swallow. “Got it. Tomorrow night.”

And that’s how I end up, twenty-four hours later, standing by the fence that surrounds the field. It’s my first time watching a football game anywhere but in the stands, next to my parents. I glance back at them now, decked head-to-toe in Devil spirit wear, eyes laser-focused on my brother out on the field.

Truthfully, I feel a strange sense of relief not having to sit with them. Sometimes it’s almost like they’re afraid to be too enthusiastic about these things when I’m around. No fun allowed. It never bothered me much before, but I’d been on the meds, the last three years spent blissfully unaware of their overprotectiveness. Now, I can feel exactly how smothering it’s been. There’s life here. The roar of the crowd. The booming announcer’s voice. The crackling energy in the air. For once, I’m able to feel it all.

No. Not just feel it.

I’m able to be a part of it.