Page 8 of Blacklist

That’s the nice way to put it. I had a group I ran with back in New York, but even my best friends didn’t qualify as brothers. I’d be a brother once I knew it was more than a secret handshake and keg access on the weekends.

The residence halls are outside the main campus. Cars are parallel parked in front of every dormitory despite signs declaring Fire Lane: Violators will be towed. The curbs are so tightly packed we can’t find a single space near my building.

“We’re going to have to hoof it,” Francie announces wearily after we circle it twice. “I’m glad you don’t have much to carry.”

I shrug. That’s an understatement. When she finally pulls into a spot at least a quarter of a mile from the closest dorm, I jump out of the Mazda and pop open the trunk. My whole life fits in the compartment. I didn’t come to Francie with much—just the clothes on my back and a bruised left eye. I’m not leaving her with much either. Grabbing one of the two boxes to my name, I swivel to find her watching me. Tears stream down her face.

Francie doesn’t look a thing like my mother. At least, not as far as I can remember. My memories of my mother exist in shades of black, white, and red. They’re ugly and harsh. Her face is the only beautiful part of them. Pale with luminous eyes and ink-black hair that fell silkily over my face when she would bend to kiss me. Francie’s dark skin and riotous curls are as far from my mom as possible. But for one second, I see my mother looking back at me. I hate what I see shining in Francie’s eyes:

Pride.

I’ve done nothing to deserve it—from either of them. Shifting uncomfortably, I zero in on the dorm at the top of the hill.

“I don’t have all day.” I hope I sound bored. Disinterested. Anything to get her out of here faster. She’s done her part, fulfilled the role the state gave her years ago. She doesn’t have to keep at it. The sooner she leaves, the better it will be for both of us.

“You have all week,” she reminds me, falling into step beside me, the other box in her arms. “Orientation starts tomorrow according to the email I got. There’s going to be fun icebreakers and…”

She rattles off a list of activities that she knows I won’t bother with. I have a schedule and a map. There’s no way I’m going to sit through whatever fun-filled activities they’re hocking to parents. Instead I focus on navigating the gauntlet of idiots crowding the sidewalks. Everywhere I turn a mom is sobbing and clutching an uncomfortable teen. A few dads watch these embraces with equivalent discomfort, their eyes darting to the street and their illegally parked vehicles. A long-ignored emotion wells in my chest but I shake it off.

“This is it,” Francie says brightly.

“Thank God you were here. I would have kept walking.” I shift the weight of the box to my left knee as I try to reach for the door handle, but I lose my grip in the process. The box falls to the sidewalk as the door swings open. The guys coming through it jump out of the way. Cold, gray eyes glare at me.

“Watch it,” a dark-haired guy barks. He’s wearing a worn Ramones t-shirt and jeans I suspect cost more than the total value of the contents of the box at his feet.

Anger bubbles inside me and I open my mouth to release it. Before I can, his friend punches him in the shoulder.

“Don’t be a dick.” He rolls his eyes as he bends to retrieve the fallen box. “Let me help you, man.”

“Thank you.” Francie sounds a bit too enthused and I wonder if its because she expects Southern politeness or because he’s good-looking. I hope the flush on her cheeks has more to do with hauling a box up that hill. Her attitude cools when she glances to the other man even though he’s equally handsome, I guess. Much older men had frozen under that icy stare, but if it bothers him it doesn’t show.

“Money,” the one who picked up the box addresses him with the bizarre nickname, “what have we discussed about being around other humans?”

“Now who’s being a dick, Eaton,” he bites out, but he lifts the box Francie is carrying from her arms.

Eaton. Now that sounds familiar but before I can place the name, Francie says, “There’s the Southern hospitality I expected. Thank you, gentlemen.”

I cringe at Francie’s emphasis on the final word. It’s a typical move on her part. I’ve deemed them calls to action. She doesn’t believe either of these assholes are gentlemen, but that won’t stop her from forcing them to act like ones.

“What room?” The nice one asks, holding open the door.

“226,” I mutter, wishing they wouldn’t accompany us farther. I don’t need Francie trying to impose etiquette lessons on my peers, even if they need them.

He exchanges a look with his friend. “Mystery solved.”

“I tried to tell you,” the other says with bleak amusement as he passes the entrance.

Francie caves to curiosity before I do. “What mystery?”

“I’m in 226, too. We’re roommates. Cyrus,” he says. He sticks his hand out and I carefully shake it around the box.

“Sterling,” I introduce myself. “And this is Francie.”

“That’s Montgomery. We call him Money,” he continues.

I don’t want to know why.

Cyrus studies me with more interest now. I know what he sees: a threadbare t-shirt that was once black, old ripped jeans that are a bit too loose on the hips, and the poor kid wearing them. Francie bought me some new clothes before we left, but she hadn’t been able to afford much. Compared to him, we’re total opposites other than our height. My black hair is an untidy mess from hours in the car. He’s combed his blond hair into artful submission. I hadn’t bothered to shave the last two days and dark stubble itches along my jawline. He’s clean-shaven, highlighting aristocratic cheekbones. His near-onyx eyes are his only dark feature just like my blue eyes are unusually bright. Unlike the rest of us, he isn’t dressed casually. He’s wearing tailored pants and a button-down shirt. He doesn’t look like a college kid. He looks like a CEO.