HE CANNOT...
“Thr—”
I scramble, knocking him away as my head spears his gut. I grab the book from the floor and slam it against his chest. He winks at me before taking his seat.
I’m going to fail this fucking class.
— Ian —
“Beckett!” Coach calls. Fuck me. “Get your head in the game, or it’s double-time for the next two weeks.”
“Goddamn it, man,” Archie whines as the team grumbles around us. “Ivy will have my balls if we gotta’ do doubles. Where the fuck are you today?”
I don’t answer him. I’m thinking about her. I’m lost inside in a Storm...I wish.
I flash him my best here’s-Johnny smile, and he winces like I’ve just stabbed him. He says my smiles, and I quote, “freak him the fuck out” because, and again I quote, “you look like you are wearing someone else’s skin.”
Whatever. He’s the only one who complains, probably because he sees through my bullshit.
Well...and her. I’m pretty sure if Stormy shined a flashlight at me, she’d see something neither one of us would be comfortable with.
Anders slams the ball into my gut a little too hard, and a rush of air bursts through my lips. I crack my neck to the side and make a mental note to get him back later.
“Line up!” Coach calls.
We take our positions, Everett in front of me, to my left, just like it has been since we were toddlers. Archie is off to my right, a pristine running back, protected by the best damn wide receiver you’ve ever seen, Chase.
Rainey, Anders, Davenport, and Bones. Wimbley, Tinsor, and Patton make up the remainder, each a necessary part of our kickass offensive lineup.
“757 pump f-stop on three,” I call, and then I repeat it even though everyone is already in position because I am a lazy bastard. “Ready on three! One! Two! Hut!”
Sweat stings my eyes as Davenport hands me the ball. I run backward, my teammates grunting and grumbling as they collide. We’ve been at it for hours.
“Becky!” Archie shouts, waving his hands furiously.
I smile despite my bad mood. Fucker’s gonna’ pay for that one later. Not to mention he’s completely ignoring the play I called, but that’s probably a good thing since my fullback is currently on the ground, groaning, and cupping his balls.
I throw the football, which sails through the air in a perfect arch. It’s a good throw, but I’ve probably pushed Archie a little too hard for practice.
Archie’s feet pound the field, and although Victor “Vic” Rothschild could totally tackle me right now—if I didn’t punch him first—he doesn’t because we are all watching Archie, the beautiful, golden-haired running back he is, go for it, Coach included.
It’s like pouring a coke and watching the bubbles fizz up to the very edge of the glass and stay there. It’s like biting into a Hershey’s bar and having it break at the seam. Watching him run is goddamn, unadulterated perfection.
The ball falls in a fast but gentle arch, and Archie stretches, his hands flexing as he reaches for it.
I hold my breath as he jumps, his feet launching into the air just as he hits the white goal line.
Just a little more. Just a little...
He catches it with one hand and swings his other around to clamp it tightly.
He tumbles forward, stumbling but still standing.
Coach claps, and the whole team, me included, cheers.
7
Harlow
My gaze flicks to the clock on the wall above the dry erase board as I tap my pencil against my notebook. I need to go back to my dorm and begin on the mountain of homework looming over my head.
I’m quickly realizing Voclain isn’t just a high school for rich kids. The Academy takes its studies seriously and that includes making sure its pupils spend as much time out of class studying as they do in class taking notes.
My Organic Chemistry professor, Mr. Collins, stares out at the class. His glasses make his eyes look bulbous and enormous, and they don’t do any favors for his nose, long and hooked like a bird’s beak. Hair dusts the top of his otherwise bald head like a ruffle of feathers. He gives an I-don’t-take-shit vibe, and I’m pretty sure it’s against school policy to even laugh in his presence.
I should love this class. Science has always been my favorite subject. It makes sense when other things in life can be tricky. Yesterday though, Mr. Collins managed to make Lewis dot structures boring. By the looks of it, today won’t be much better.
Mr. Collins examines the roster in his hands, not that he needs to look at it. I am pretty sure he’s taught everyone before, just not me.
“Miss Hawthorne,” he says, “switch seats with Mr. Diode.”
“But why?” Blythe whines, her voice raking over me like nails on a chalkboard. I recognize her. She’s always hanging out with Aurora.
“If you wish to pass my class,” Mr. Collins snaps, “you should sit with your lab partner.”
She huffs, and I am glad she’s not partnered with me. Maybe I’ll get lucky and get partnered with Raven, but as Mr. Collins continues to read names, I realize I am not so fortunate.
He is barely halfway done when he says, “Miss Weathersby, join Mr. Blakely at the table in the back.”
Damn it.
I know his name from Molly’s explanation on my first day of school, but I know his face from seeing him in the hallways with Ian. He is friends with my enemy, which makes him my enemy.
I rise from my stool reluctantly as though I am a piece of tape trying to unstick itself. I hurry the pace when Mr. Collins glances over at me, his spectacles resting on the end of his nose.
As Mr. Collins continues to read names, I take a seat next to the boy called Archie. Boy isn’t really the right word for him though, given he looks like he sprung to life from a textbook on Norse mythology. He has to be a junior like me,
