Page 11 of We’re All Going to Die Tonight!

Caulder’s jaw twitches. “Well, whatever. We should at least keep it down.”

“Where’s Mr. Jay?” I ask, not missing the fact that Caulder referred to only two of our chaperones.

Something glints in Emerson’s blue eyes as he flops down next to me on the couch. He puts his loafered feet up on the coffee table, not caring that it’s clearly an old, expensive piece of furniture and not a footrest. Though, actually, maybe to him, this furniture is cheap, a downgrade from his living room. I know for a fact he’s never set foot in an IKEA.

“Probably outside sneaking a smoke,” he says. “But why do you wanna know, Winslow?”

I arch my eyebrow, my skin crawling. I thought I’d been doing a decent job of hiding my loathing for Mr. Jay, but clearly, Emerson’s picked up on something. Before I can come up with a response, Caulder speaks.

“Jay’s upstairs with Lucas,” Caulder says. “Apparently, there’re a bunch of old movie props—even some Hitchcock ones. They’re looking together.” Then he holds up his phone and asks, “Do you have the Wi-Fi password? I’ve tried all over the house to get service.”

Emerson grins. “Afraid not. The whole place is ‘unplugged.’ Meant to give us the full experience of being out here separated from society.”

No service? I guess I wasn’t going to get much done before bed anyway, but I still would’ve liked to have some time to scroll to keep my mind off…everything else. Plus, I’m pissed Emerson’s just now bringing this up. So much for a perfect place to stay.

“There’s a landline for emergencies, though,” Emerson adds, practically bouncing in his seat with glee, reveling in his reveal. “Do you want to call home and check in?”

“I’m good,” Caulder grumbles, also clearly irritated. “This all just gets better and better.”

Emerson, if possible, looks even more delighted thanks to Caulder’s misery. He settles deeper into the couch, leaning back and crossing his arms behind his head. His blond hair’s starting to dry a little, the usually perfectly smooth strands frizzing slightly on top. His heavily applied cologne has managed to stick around even after the rain and a shower, nearly choking me even though there are several feet between us.

I sigh and put my phone into my pocket, and he turns his eyes on me. He likes to say his eyes are gray, but really, they’re just blue. Slate blue, not bright blue. Like water that’s gone cloudy or the bottom of a treacherous lake.

“Disappointed, Avery?” Emerson asks. “Planning to work on your college essay, perhaps? A valedictorian never sleeps, right?”

My heart thumps. He’s prodding. The worst part is, his prod has found the bruise.

“You know I’m not the valedictorian, Emerson,” I say.

He puts his hand over his mouth in faux embarrassment. “Do I? Sorry. Must’ve slipped my mind.”

It definitely didn’t. If anything, Emerson’s the only person more aware of the fact that I’m the salutatorian and not the valedictorian. Because while I have the second-highest GPA in the school, he has the third. He missed me by less than two-tenths of a point. I know because he’s reminded me of that every day, along with his insistence that his private school classes were “obviously harder and should’ve been weighted.”

I’ve never asked him why he left his private school to come to our “shitty” public school. Because one, I don’t want to hear his explanation. And two, I know he would find a way to throw in an insult.

“Even more of a reason to get your essay finished, then,” Emerson muses, voice bordering on singsong. “What sort of pitiful narrative are you weaving for Stanford, Avery? Something about having your hopes and dreams crushed by our actual resident valedictorian?”

My cheeks burn, and now it’s essential that I avoid looking at Caulder and Emerson. I glance over at Marlene to see if she’s picked up on what Emerson’s doing, but she’s still drawing.

“Caulder,” Emerson says when I don’t answer. “You must know what Avery’s writing about. Come on. I won’t tell anyone.”

“No,” Caulder says.

He doesn’t elaborate. Caulder Grant has never said an unnecessary word in his entire life. He doesn’t need to constantly defend or explain himself. He doesn’t struggle to be taken seriously. He gets to walk into a room and people instantly know who he is: baseball star and team captain with scholarships already pending, valedictorian guaranteed to major in whatever high-paying STEM field he decides he wants to try, and, oh yes, co-captain of the debate team…even though he was never on debate until last year, when his baseball coach, Mr. McCullough, encouraged him to “give it a whirl” after hearing Caulder did a great job in a mock trial in AP Lang.

A mock trial where I pointed out multiple flaws in his logic, but no one cared. All they saw was Caulder, golden boy, shining like always—though this time, in a new way. Who cared that I had been in Speech and Debate since freshman year, or that it was my entire life?

Because it wasn’t enough that Caulder Grant disappeared from my life. No, he had to reappear and be naturally better at everything I loved—and then some. He had to have turned into someone so bright they erased everyone around them, including me.

Especially me.

“Have I hit a sore spot?” Emerson says, practically purring as he looks from my face to Caulder’s. “I always suspected you two had beef, but how deep, exactly, does it go? And who’s to blame?”

“Just drop it,” Caulder says, but Emerson only laughs.

“C’mon, guys,” Emerson says. “What’s the lore? Or is that what you’re writing about in your essays? Was there some huge, traumatic event with both of you at the center? Did you—?”

“What’re you going to write about, Emerson?” Marlene asks, surprising me. I guess she was actually listening.