“Gentlemen!” the teacher snapped.
“Yeah,” Jerry said, looking directly at Connor. “So, you should probably shut your mouth and not start rumors, motherfucker.”
“That’s it,” the teacher said, snapping her fingers at Jerry and Mike. “Get up, both of you. We’re going down to the principal’s office since you two clearly can’t keep your mouths shut for five seconds.”
They freaked. Jerry pointed at us and said we were talking too. Mike looked like he was ready to spit on us. I was sort of surprised he didn’t.
“Come on! Hurry up!” the teacher said. I’d seen her around before, some new teacher, fresh out of grad school. She wore pantsuits and heels every day, like she had something to prove. She didn’t understand this place.
And she clearly wasn’t ready when Mike lost his mind and yelled, “The principal’s onstage right now, you dumb bitch!”
Everyone in the auditorium turned to stare, even the principal and the guidance counselor, who seemed particularly scandalized. She was new here too. The teacher’s face went so red I thought she might combust on the spot.
I thought Connor might be gloating, or nervous or something. But he was just sitting face-forward in his seat, his face contorted with anger, digging his fingernails into his palms so hard a droplet of blood formed on his skin. I reached out and gently pulled his hand away.
Security swooped in and forced the Rudoy brothers up and out of the auditorium, which was now abuzz with excitement—kids with their phones out, taking videos, chatting excitedly. Onstage, Principal Oliver took off his glasses and rubbed his face.
In my mind, I could see the fear in Riley’s eyes when they pushed him up against the wall and punched him, knocking him out. I could hear the crunch of his glasses breaking, taste the blood, smell the floor cleaner, and the Sharpies, and the sweat.
I wished I had been there. To protect him, somehow. To stop them.
But if I had been there, if I had seen it happen, what would I have really done?
27.
Things have a strange way of blowing over, especially at Burro Hills High. By the next week there was another scandal, a major fight between two members of two rival gangs, and most everything about Riley Adams was swept under the rug. Riley either transferred schools or dropped out to be homeschooled. No one was sure. Whoever had attacked him had been meticulous, as there were no fingerprints found, at least according to Max’s extensive research on the crime scene. He became obsessed with the story like some deranged private investigator, tracking every local and national news outlet for a scrap of information. Toby thought the whole thing was stupid. Connor refused to talk about it, which was fine by me. I wanted to bury it into the farthest recesses of my brain.
The Rudoy brothers were suspended, so we didn’t have to worry about them for a while. I had a feeling Toby would talk to them, make things cool down. After all, they bought their pot and the best ’roids money could buy from his family.
I spotted Jess a few times with Skye Russo’s crew. They all wore heavy eyeliner, blow-dried their hair into Hollywood perfect waves, and painted their nails matching pastel colors. I missed her like hell, but she seemed so happy and giggly with them. I figured she’d been happier with them than she could ever be with some asshole like me.
Besides, outside of school, I had found my nirvana.
I cuddled into Connor’s shoulder, wrapping the strewn sheets and comforter around us. All I could hear was the hum of the air conditioner and his heartbeat. We stared up at the high-beamed wooden ceilings of his room, light oak panels flanked by skylights. Fading sunlight poured down on us, casting beams that stretched out across the sheets and our bodies.
“You smell so good,” he murmured into my ear. “Don’t stop using that aftershave.”
I laughed. “It’s from the dollar store.”
“Save those pennies, then,” he said, and I smacked his arm.
I traced the scars along his wrist with my finger, across the dip and groove of a faded cigarette burn, down the path of one lone vertical line that moved dangerously along the surface of a vein. I wanted to kiss down that wrist, every cut and bruise and burn. After we’d had sex for the second time, he’d told me the truth about them. How he’d self-harmed whenever he was angry, or scared, or sad, or lost in a sea of depression. When he thought too much about his parents or they didn’t return the letters that he wrote to them in prison.
How he’d stopped now. He said he was done. I really hoped he was done.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Ask me anything.”
“How did you do all this?” I asked. “Didn’t it hurt?”
He was quiet for a moment. “I didn’t really feel it at the time. It was…it was a way of relieving all the emotional pain, you know? All that pent-up shit inside of me.”
“But were you trying to…?”
“Kill myself?”
I swallowed the lump building in my throat and nodded.
“Not those times,” he said quietly.
Feeling like I’d entered an uncomfortable zone, I switched gears. “Have you…ever been with a girl?”
“A couple times, yeah.”
“What was it like?”
“I mean, I enjoyed myself, if that’s what you’re asking.” He grinned. “I like girls too, remember?”
I watched the steady rotation of the fan, the way the light and shadows were chopped and split by its blades.
“Jack?”
I turned to Connor, who was staring at me funny.
“You good?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” But I wasn’t so sure it was true.
“Have you ever been with a girl?”
I tried to think back to all the girls I’d kissed—at parties, at dances, on the bus, on “dates.” Girls with soft lips that crushed into mine, their long lashes and gentle hands. Dry-humping in basements and bedrooms while the
