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I thought he might press the issue—half the time his questions or requests were really just statements and commands—but he just dipped his chin in a nod, reaching over to tuck a small strand of blond hair behind my ear.
“See you tomorrow, Coralee.”
My heart gave a little flutter at the new nickname.
I’d gotten used to all of them calling me “Princess”, but even though it’d shifted over time to sound more like a pet name and less like an insult, it’d still originated during a time when they all hated me with a vengeance.
But this new name rolled off Bish’s tongue in an entirely different way.
It sounded sweet.
Almost… tender.
I swallowed, turning my head a little to chase his touch. When he finally withdrew his hand, I reached for the door handle. “Bye.”
“’Night,” Misael called from the back seat, and Kace leaned his head out through the window to watch me, making sure I got back into the house without incident.
Despite what I’d said to Bishop though, I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep. Mom was still tucked safely away in bed when I went to go check on her to make sure everything was okay. I might still be pissed at her, but that didn’t mean I wanted her to end up back in the hospital or something.
Instead of forcing myself to lie awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling, I decided to make something to eat and mull over what I had learned.
It wasn’t much, really. It was just a name. I wasn’t even sure what context Flint had mentioned Abraham in, and I couldn’t really ask the guys about that either—I was too afraid those kinds of probing questions would just make it obvious I was after information about my dad.
To most people, I imagined it might not even seem worth pursuing. It was just a name. A loose connection. A shot in the dark. But Dad had always said that the smallest possibilities could lead to the biggest outcomes, and at the moment, I was a firm believer in that.
I couldn’t rely on the boys to lead me to Flint.
That just meant I had to lead myself to him.
The man with the raspy voice was still on my mind as the weekend came and went and a new school week started.
On the plus side, concerns about my dad and whether he’d been set up were the most pressing things I had to worry about. With mom out of the hospital, the rest of my life had settled into relative calm.
I never would’ve seen it coming, but school had actually become a place I was excited to go to. That had largely to do with my deal with the Lost Boys. Their claim over me and protection of me were still in place, and once people stopped trying to come after me for what they thought my father had done, they actually treated me… decently.
In fact, some people even went so far as to start sucking up to me, probably trying to use me to get in good with the Lost Boys. My association and clear connection with the three of them gave me what Jessica laughingly referred to as “a fuckton of social clout”.
It was weird to feel comfortable at Slateview, but that was the point I was reaching.
I liked being able to walk the halls and have people say hello to me without vitriol behind their words. Even Serena didn’t bother me anymore, though I couldn’t say she went out of her way to be friends with me either. We were comfortably out of each other’s hair, and that was good enough for me.
The only person at school who seemed to have an issue with me hanging out with Lost Boys was the last one I would’ve expected: Mr. Tyson.
Over the course of the semester, Mr. Tyson had solidified his standing as my favorite teacher. He had this air about him—a little overworked and tired, but focused on ensuring that whatever he was teaching was quality, even if what he taught ultimately ended up falling on deaf ears. Mr. Tyson had never spoken to me directly outside of class, although he called on me all the time in History.
After class one day in the middle of the week, he caught my eye before I could leave the classroom at the end of sixth period.
“Cordelia. Can you stay behind for a minute?”
I was surprised by the request, but he was a teacher, so who was I to refuse? I nodded, gathering up my books and putting them away in my bag before I walked to the front of the classroom. A few gossip-hungry kids lingered, looking back with the hope of catching the conversation. Mr. Tyson very obviously walked over and closed the door, making sure people wouldn’t be able to eavesdrop. I watched him curiously.
“Is something wrong?” I asked, sure my confusion was obvious in my expression. “I’m caught up on all my homework assignments, right?”
It was virtually unheard of, having a teacher hold a student back after class. That kind of thing had happened all the time at Highland Park, but most of the teachers at Slateview just didn’t care enough to bother meeting with students one-on-one.
Mr. Tyson shook his head. “Nothing is wrong. Nothing with school, at least.”
Well, then. That’s not cryptic at all.
