The Wild Mustang & The Dancing Fairy (St. Mary’s Rebels 1.5)

Stellan chuckles as Ledger swats Shep’s head. “Fuck you, dude. I’m trying to explain something.”

“No need. We get it,” Shepard says, hitting Ledger in the stomach with his elbow.

“The point I’m trying to make is, he takes advantage of that,” Ledger continues loudly, rubbing his stomach. “Of his looks. Girls become stupid when it comes to him and he uses their stupidity against them. And you’re my sister. He’s bound to mess with you. Because he’s smart enough to know that I’m going to win this season. Like last season. So you need to stay away from him, Callie. He’s a fucking asshole, all right?”

I bite my lip as I finally get my window to apologize. “I know and I’m sorry. I don’t want to ruin your game and –”

“This is not about the soccer rivalry.”

That’s Conrad’s voice.

He’s been sitting in his spot, all quiet so far, letting the rest of them talk and joke around. But I guess his patience is running thin now, because he pins Shep and Ledger with a hard gaze before turning to me and leaning forward, putting his elbows on his thighs. “I can tolerate a lot. I have tolerated a lot over the years. Rebellions, phases, tantrums. But I will not tolerate lies that involve your safety.”

He pauses for his words to take effect, and they do.

Because he has.

Tolerated, I mean. A lot.

Obviously from Shepard and Ledger, who are the more rebellious of the bunch. All the times Shepard was suspended from school for playing a prank or making out with girls in the school closest. All the times Ledger got into trouble with his anger. Even Stellan has had his moments, not as frequent or severe as the other two, but still.

And then there’s me.

I’m a girl.

A whole different species for my brothers to understand, but they’ve done their best.

Especially Conrad.

All the times I cried because of ballet and how I wasn’t good enough. How even though I love ballet, it didn’t leave me enough time to make friends and so I was always excluded from fun sleepovers and tea parties. So all my brothers would entertain me at home, play with me, drink imaginary tea with me.

Not to mention all the things a girl goes through.

That Conrad never even thought about before but had to because we had no one else to turn to.

Tampons and bras and hormones and serious talks about puberty and sex.

So he has tolerated a lot.

And I hate that I lied to him.

“We might have come down on you harder than we thought,” he continues, his serious dark blue gaze on me. “But it was because we were worried. As Stellan said, it’s not like you to lie and I’d like to think that I’ve given you enough freedom that you don’t have to lie.”

“I know, Con,” I say, contrite. “You have. I was scared that you’d be mad if I told you I was going to his party and –”

“Fuck yeah, we would be,” Ledger cuts me off.

Con glances at him. “Ledge.”

Ledger quiets down then and Con turns back to me. “The reason we don’t want you to go to his party or anywhere near him is not because of some useless, unnecessary soccer rivalry. It’s not about a game. It’s because Reed Jackson is a punk.”

Con’s jaw clenches and tics for a few seconds as if he can’t even bear to talk about Reed. He can’t even bear to say his name in front of me.

“He’s a rich punk who only cares about himself. I know him and I know guys like him. Guys like him are selfish, untrustworthy, and reckless. Guys like him don’t care about rules or people. They only care about themselves. Guys like him can’t handle responsibilities. They leave without so much as a glance back at what they’re leaving behind.”

I don’t know why, but it feels like Con is speaking from experience, but before I can ask him, he goes on, “So the reason we want you to stay away from him is because he’s not good for you. He’s not worthy of you. He doesn’t deserve you. Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Callie? He’s not the guy for you. You need to stay away from him because you deserve better and because you’re smart. You’re smarter than the rest of the girls who fall victim to him.”

I’m running from him.

Well, not exactly.

It’s not as if he’s chasing after me or anything. He’s not.

In fact, if you look at him sauntering down the hallways, being worshipped by guys and girls alike, you’d think that Friday night never happened.

That I never went to his party. He never caught me while I was trying to duck out. And I never danced for him.

The only evidence of that night is that nasty split lip and the bruise on his jaw.