The Conspiracy of Us (The Conspiracy of Us 1)

I could have killed her, but I just pulled my hair out from under the strap of my bag and smiled through clenched teeth.

“I think you lost this.” Jack handed me my pen as Lara walked away. “It rolled under my desk.”

“Thanks.”

He walked beside me out of class, slowing his long strides to match mine. He was probably just a little taller than average, but I still had to crane my neck to look up at him. He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye at the same time.

“And thanks for earlier,” I said quickly, “but I did do the reading. I would have remembered the answer eventually.”

“Oh.” The space between his brows knitted together. Jack’s brows were heavy and dark, and were as expressive as the rest of him was stoic. “I’m sorry. I thought—”

“No, it’s okay.” I went through the motions of opening my locker again. “I’m just saying I didn’t actually need to be rescued. But I appreciate it.”

He gave me a tiny smile, and it was like sun shining through armor. I busied myself putting my books in my bag.

“Actually, Avery,” Jack said, “I need to talk to you.”

My calculus book fell the rest of the way into my bag with a thump.

“Can we go somewhere—” His phone buzzed. He let out a frustrated breath. “One second.”

While he checked a text, I zipped my bag shut. I didn’t care what he had to say, I told myself. I didn’t. I didn’t. My black ankle boots squeaked on the damp tile, and the hall echoed with last-minute prom plans and the finality of lockers slamming one last time before the weekend.

Maybe he was going to ask about homework. Or maybe he’d say something horribly arrogant, Lara could be proven right, and I could truly forget about him.

I hazarded a glance up, and Jack’s brows quirked down dangerously as he typed a text. It was the same look he’d had on his face when he’d left lighting earlier.

“Is your grandfather okay?” I asked.

“My—” His eyes narrowed for second, then he nodded. “He’ll be fine. But, I was . . . um. Tonight.” He shifted, running a hand through his hair. “Lara mentioned you’re not going to prom?”

I clenched my fist around the strap of my bag.

“I don’t really go to school dances,” I said. My voice was an octave higher than usual.

“Oh.” Jack and I were mirror images of each other, two islands in a swirling river of people. “I get it,” he said. “You move all the time. If it’s not going to last, is it even worth the effort, right?”

I looked up sharply. There was no way perfectly put-together Jack Bishop could understand The Plan.

“It’s just that—I was wondering—” Jack rubbed the compass tattoo on his forearm with his opposite thumb, like a nervous habit. Then he looked up at me from under his lashes, his gray eyes unbearably hopeful, and I melted into a puddle on the dirty hallway floor. “I wanted to see if you’d like to go. With me.”

The rest of the school year flew by in fast-forward. We’d go to prom. Maybe kiss good night. Sit next to each other in class, walk hand in hand down the hall. Have someone who got what it was like to be new when everyone else had known each other since they were in diapers. And eventually, as much as I tried not to, I’d let him in.

I fast-forwarded more. It might be a month, it might be a year, but inevitably, we’d move, and this time I wouldn’t be the only one losing somebody.

I closed my eyes. It’d be better for him to ask someone else to prom—a cheerleader, or a choir member, or anybody who wasn’t as screwed up as I was. And better for me to forget he existed.

When my eyes fluttered open, I couldn’t look at him. “Thanks,” I said to his feet. “But I don’t think so.” I turned and stalked off before he could see the carefully patched-up hole in my heart tearing wide open.

CHAPTER 4

I was so lost in my thoughts, I almost blew through the one red light in Lakehaven on the drive home from school. I slammed on the brakes and came to a stop in front of Frannie’s Frozen Yogurt as pedestrians poured into the crosswalk.

I let my head flop back against the headrest. It was fine. I’d be fine.

Saying no was the right thing to do, even though nobody had ever asked me to a dance before. Even though it was Jack Bishop asking me. But it was fine.

I rested my forehead against the steering wheel. I wished the light would hurry up and turn so I could get home and this day could be over.

The crosswalk finally cleared, but as I sat up with a sigh and eased my foot onto the gas, one more person stepped out.

I stomped on the brake again, but the guy kept walking, like he didn’t care that I’d almost hit him. He was tall, with straight dirty-blond hair a few weeks past a haircut, and so slim I would have called him skinny if not for the tightly muscled arms peeking out from under his T-shirt. He wasn’t from here—that much I was sure of. His gray skinny jeans tucked into half-tied boots, and the bag slung across his chest—that was hard for a guy to pull off unironically unless he was a big-city hipster, and Lakehaven didn’t have any of those. And even though I might not know everyone’s names yet, I knew every face at school. I was sure I’d recognize one that looked like this.

The guy’s eyes swept from side to side, unhurried. They lit on three freshmen coming out of the frozen yogurt place, on a group of cheerleaders holding dry-cleaning bags, on a girl on a bike—and then, on me.

He stopped.

He stood there, right in the middle of the street, a smile stretched across his face. It wasn’t a friendly smile. It was a smile like a lion about to pounce on prey, like blood, and hunger, and it tingled low in my stomach and made me push the lock button.

The car behind me honked.

The guy adjusted his bag and strolled the rest of the way across the street, turning to watch me drive away.

•   •   •

When I got home, I pushed the front door closed and snapped the deadbolt shut. The sound echoed in the quiet house.

I wished I had gone to Lara’s. She had three sisters, and her aunt and uncle and cousins lived next door. Between the shrieks and giggles of the little kids and the adults in the kitchen drinking wine and teasing us about school and boys and college, her house exploded with life.

“Mom?” I called. The only answer was the washing machine’s irregular clunk and a low murmur of voices from the TV.