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Ryke’s liver transplant was heavily documented online. He gave a part of his liver to his dad, and I remember seeing the shaky video of Ryke being wheeled out of the hospital a few days ago.
I frown, thinking about something else. “I thought the media stopped hounding you when the novelty of you being Loren’s cousin wore off. What’s made them come back?”
“I think maybe Connor and Rose?” She shakes her head, not knowing either. “Paparazzi have been asking me why the two of them are suddenly so ‘PDA-heavy’ in public. I’m like the lowest person on the list of people connected to them, so they think I’ll have looser lips or something. Even if I knew something though, I wouldn’t say anything.”
That, I know.
Willow has always been really careful around me when it comes to Loren Hale and his family. She won’t talk about anything that isn’t already public knowledge, and even then, I can tell she’d still rather be discussing something else. It’s not new for her anymore, but it’s still uncharted territory that she’s trying to navigate by herself.
It’s understandable.
She quickly changes the subject. “Make any new friends?”
“Nope. You?”
“Nope.”
Good.
No, that’s shitty of me to think. Really, I don’t know how I fucking feel about her making friends, okay? Depends who they are, I guess.
The quiet weighs on us for a second, and then I say, “Hey, you know any Latin?”
“Um…just what’s on the back of a dollar bill.” Her eyes drop to my hand as I light a new cigarette. “Your fingers have returned to a normal color.”
“A miracle.” I blow out smoke.
Someone passes the abandoned hall and shakes their head at me. “No smoking inside, man.”
I think he’s just warning me, but then he stops a foot away and unfurls a small booklet. “I’m going to have to write you up.”
“What?” I frown. What the fuck?
“It’s against code of conduct rules.”
“Are you like a hall monitor or something?” I say, confused. Aren’t those only in movies?
“That’s exactly what I am.”
Fuck me.
Willow grimaces as I look back to the phone. “I’ll let you go,” she says quickly. “See you Saturday?”
“Saturday,” I say into a nod and we hang up.
I wait while the hall monitor scribbles on the notepad, and Sasha Ander’s words hound me. Find an exit.
It sounds like an easy task, but I’ve been searching for an exit my entire life and have yet to find it. Someone point the way. Anyone?
Please.
I’m waiting.
april
24
garrison abbey
Breaking and entering wasn’t on my list of things to do. Ever. But things change. I slide a paperclip through the keyhole of a deep navy door, scratches and dents marring the steel. Garbage stinks up the alleyway, and cigarette butts line the pavement.
Working at Superheroes & Scones gave me a lot of insight into this place. Like how the left alley door doesn’t have any security cameras. Most of the employees smoke pot and suck face on this stoop. So I’m not even sweating as I take my time with the lock. The pitch-black night conceals me enough.
Honestly, I just need a place to sleep tonight. A warm floor. That’s it.
Because I can’t go back to Faust.
This morning the headmaster called me into his office—and I thought for sure he was going to just tell me I needed a tutor. Because I did nothing wrong. No vandalism. No cheating. No cursing. No cutting class—except for that one time with poly-sci.
I was on my best fucking behavior.
Bookshelves towered against every wall, and the place smelled like moldy paperbacks. I took a seat in front of his polished oak desk.
“Mr. Abbey,” he said, “seeing as you’re a new student, I’ve tasked myself with looking into how you’re faring here at Faust.” He barely blinked. “Unfortunately, your current academic standing isn’t up to par with the other pupils.”
Not a surprise. I shifted on my chair. “So who’s my tutor…?” My voice trailed off as I saw the expression on his face. Pure fucking pity.
He sighed heavily. “I’m afraid, we’re past that stage. With your current marks, you’d have to score well beyond one hundred percent on every final to even move the needle. This is the end of the road for you and your time here at Faust. You can pack your bags. A car is waiting to take you back to…” He glanced down at a sheet of paper. “Philadelphia.”
It’s official. I’ve flunked out of two prep schools.
Really, I was pulled out of Dalton before I even had the chance to flunk. But I was well on my way there.
The one silver-lining in all of this, Faust doesn’t contact parents by phone. Not when most of the students have moms and dads sailing the globe on yachts or too damn busy to lift their own cell. So Faust does everything by mail.
Before coming to the comic book shop, I made a quick detour at my parent’s house. Stopped by for point-two-seconds. Just long enough to swipe the letter from their mailbox. The one “notifying” them that I’m a loser.
