I recoil at the way she said my name there. Not Reyn, but Reynolds, all dripping disdain. I watch her, confused. “Why are you so mad?”
Her gaze is so full of razor blades that it takes me too long to realize how wet her eyes are becoming. “Next time you want to trick some idiot girl into committing a crime with you, do me a favor and just take Afton. She doesn’t know you yet, so her legs still work fine.” Before I can respond, she’s out the door.
Not that it’d matter.
Any words I might have had are trapped by something dark and heavy, wedged into the pit where my lungs used to be. I move fluidly to a seat and carefully lower myself, shifting my gaze to the window.
I sit there for an hour.
It’s quiet and peaceful, and it’s almost a relief now to know. It was too easy, everyone forgiving me, acting like I was just coming home from summer camp or something. It’s worse now than it might have been that first day, seeing the sharp, bitter resentment in Vandy’s eyes. But it also feels so necessary, the inevitability of her hatred.
Still hurts like a bitch.
I spend the rest of the day going through the motions, trying to make myself stone. Essay for English. Worksheet for Bio. Problems for Trig. It’s one seat after another, just waiting, even though I don’t know what for. Everything feels too loud, too bright, and I’m caught in a chasm between wanting the day to end and not wanting to go home, either.
Speculation continues during football practice, mostly because it was obvious our biggest rivals had been targeted.
“Hey.” Emory corners me on the line of scrimmage. “What’s up with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit,” he says, giving me a look. “Are you worried about what he said at the assembly?”
“I skipped it.”
His forehead creases. “Well, it was nothing. Like I said, they don’t have anything. It was just a bunch of posturing about school reputation and the obligation of the student body to uphold it.”
My quiet scoff feels like the first expression I’ve made since Vandy left the tech room. I’m not sure the administration really understands the true reputation of Preston Prep, which is that a bunch of spoiled rich kids are going to do whatever the hell they want.
Em calls the play, an easy one we’ve performed dozens of times this week alone, but I’m slow. My arms don’t cooperate. My legs drag and as Emory’s perfect spiral sails into the stands, my error gives the defense an opening and they jump on me like a loose ball. The feeling of being crushed beneath seven football players is almost negligible, seeing as how I haven’t been able to reliably breathe for at least four hours now, anyway. The sharp, crushing pressure on my shoulder as they all clamor to their feet is another story.
I lay there for a moment, wincing, wallowing in some seriously pathetic self-pity, until Emory’s hand comes into view. I take it, but lift myself carefully, unable to hide the pain.
He calls the medic over, but I wave him off. “It’s fine.”
Nevertheless, I walk stiffly off the field, feeling completely done with the entire fucking day. I’m walking past the bleachers when I see her, sitting four rows up. I only look at her for a split-second, but I can tell she’s halfway out of her seat, like she’s about to come down.
I hurry past.
I get home just before dark, relieved my dad’s car isn’t in the garage. Sometimes, him being home is almost worse than him not being here. Every now and then, I half-expect him to charge me rent, because we’re more like roommates than father and son. When he’s present, we orbit one another suspiciously, simultaneously hoping for and dreading the silence being broken.
I have a good view of the Hall house. It’s clear that Mr. and Mrs. Hall’s vehicles are gone, but Emory’s truck is in the driveway. I’m only standing by my car, but I can still smell the mouthwatering scent of a home-cooked meal wafting over from their house. My stomach growls and I can’t help a surge of envy, knowing that even when their parents aren’t home, Mrs. Hall make
s sure they’re fed.
Must be real nice.
Inside, I grab a container of leftover Thai out of the refrigerator, along with an ice pack for my back. I don’t bother flipping on any lights. I just flop down on the couch in the dark of the living room and feel for the remote control. I’ve just marginally managed to lose myself in a basketball documentary when the doorbell rings.
I heave a loud sigh.
I guess that cold Thai won’t get any colder.
Adjusting the ice pack, I lumber to the door, thinking that Fucking Jerry better not be interrupting my dinner with some contrived bullshit. It’d be the second time this week. I school my face and swing open the door.
I freeze at the sight of Vandy on the doorstep, a foil-covered plate in her hands.
She chews on her lip as our gazes lock. “I brought you some dinner.”