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Jenny kept up a steady stream of narration as we walked, heading toward the dorms first, then past the dining hall on our way toward the academic buildings. She gave a thorough description of the history of the school, as well as an overview of some of its more famous alumni—who ranged from presidents to rock stars, tech moguls to owners of sports teams—and eventually I tuned her out, focusing my attention instead on my surroundings.
The buildings were almost entirely built of red brick, covered in ivy and surrounded by impressively lavish landscaping. Everything had a name, I noticed. We went past the Fairchild Hall of Sciences, Halpern Auditorium, the Giancarlo Velez Liberal Arts Building. Fountains were dedicated to famous alumni. Even the stone benches that lined the walking paths had placards listing their esteemed benefactors. It was a far cry from the single-story, graffiti-tagged high school I’d come from, whose familiar facade had resembled a jail more than any kind of educational institution.
It was like I was on another planet.
As expected, the students here wouldn’t have fit in at my former high school, either. They weren’t anything like the kids I’d grown up with. They stood too straight; their clothing was too clean, too well tailored. Perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfect smiles. Like aliens imitating teenagers based on pictures in magazines.
It occurred to me that maybe those glossy photos in the brochure hadn’t been staged after all. Maybe everyone here really looked and acted like that, and I snickered at the thought.
“Over here on your left,” Jenny said, her voice cutting into my amused thoughts, “is the Graysen-Billings Fine Arts Pavilion.”
I only barely managed to keep from rolling my eyes at the word ‘pavilion’—it sure looked like a normal building to me—as she went on. “This building houses everything fine arts related—art studios, music rooms, photography labs, dance studios. If you’re taking any fine art electives, you’ll be in here at some point.”
I drank in the sight of the building. Unlike all the others I’d seen so far, this one wasn’t brick, but smooth limestone instead, built in a sweeping modern design. I wondered if it had been added more recently than the others, and I itched to take a look inside.
Having fulfilled many of my core requirements early on—and thank God those credits transferred—I’d been able to add on quite a few fine art electives. This semester I was signed up for an advanced drawing class as well as art history, and while there hadn’t been any space left by the time I’d registered, they even had a theater set design class, something that hadn’t been offered at either of my previous schools. Despite my plan to leave this place the second I turned eighteen, I still felt a flutter in my chest at the idea of drawing again in a real studio, the smudge of charcoal on my fingers and the wonderful feel of silence inside my head.
It took a moment for me to realize the tour group had moved on ahead and disappeared around the side of the building. I turned, hurrying to catch up, but when I rounded the corner I caught sight of another figure, standing alone up ahead at a fork in the path.
It was another student, I assumed, a tall boy with pale skin and an unruly lock of dark hair falling over his forehead. He stood still, a stack of books held loosely in the crook of one arm, head bent low as he typed on a phone with his other hand. Even with his face in shadow I could see the high ridges of his cheekbones and the square cut of his jaw.
Dammit, was everyone here perfect looking? Was this a school or a freaking beauty pageant?
The guy didn’t look up as I approached, but before I had a chance to pass him and catch up with the tour group I heard the pelting of feet on pavement behind me. I jerked my head up just in time to see another guy—blond this time, but still disgustingly attractive—come flying up the path toward me. He ducked around me, casting a grin in my direction as he sailed past, then collided at full speed with the dark-haired guy in front of me.
With a grunt, the dark-haired guy went sprawling. A sound of alarm escaped from me as his books flew from his hands to scatter on the pavement, and his phone landed with a splintering sound that made me wince. What was that about? The blond guy had clearly seen him there; he’d been running straight at him and hadn’t even bothered to dodge to the side.
Straightening and brushing off his clothes, the blond guy looked down and said, “Oh, sorry. Didn’t see you there,” in what was probably the fakest voice I’d ever heard. Then he glanced over at me, winked, and continued down the path, at a walk this time, hands in his pockets.
I looked at the dark-haired guy, half expecting him to charge after the blond and beat him to a pulp, or at least yell or do something, but he simply bent to gather his belongings.
I stood there, my limbs frozen. What had just happened? Clearly the two knew each other. Was the blond guy a bully? But that didn’t make sense—the dark-haired guy was bigger than him, with clearly defined muscles filling his long-sleeved t-shirt. Not that I was noticing that. Not that I noticed the way his jeans stretched tight across his thighs as he kneeled on the asphalt, pulling together the loose pages that had flown out of the books he’d been carrying.
Oh, shit.
Realizing I was standing there like a jackass, I hurried over, then crouched at his side, picking up his phone and turning it over. A spiderweb of cracks splintered the screen. Damn. That phone looked like it was worth a fortune. Though if he was here he could probably afford it.
The guy hadn’t looked up when I’d joined him, but when I held out the phone he paused and glanced over, meeting my eyes. The flurry of words I had at the ready—Are you okay? What was that? Why didn’t you do anything?—all died on my lips.
His eyes were green, clear as glass, and bottomless under heavy brows, and the expression he wore was blank, yet uncomfortably intense at the same time.
My words evaporated, and suddenly he felt too close, too big, his presence like a carefully contained thundercloud—calm and controlled, but with a kind of restless energy that spoke of devastation if it was ever unleashed.
When he reached out a hand toward me, I felt myself recoil, but he only raised an eyebrow before taking the ruined phone out of my hand.
Jesus Camilla, get your shit together.
I looked away and hurriedly gathered the last of the books into a stack for him, then rose to my feet as he did the same. I tried not to notice the flex of his shoulders as he bent and brushed the dirt from his jeans.
When he straightened, I thrust the books out to him, and as he took them out of my hands I blurted, “Are you okay?”
He didn’t answer, just met my eyes again, and the moment stretched.
Once more I felt that claustrophobic sensation of being overwhelmed by his presence, like he was looming over me even though he was an arm’s length away. I took a step back, then another, then turned and hurried down the path.
I didn’t look back, even when I thought I heard the soft sound of a chuckle chasing after me.
* * *
