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Four years.
Graduate.
NBA.
End game.
Ross—he’s not big on the four-year part of the plan, but Dad’s adamant on it and in a way, so am I. A pro-athlete can only maintain the physical demands for so long. Besides, one injury could end it all and then what?
I catch the keys Dad throws at my chest.
“You need to drive me back to my car.”
“What? You ain’t worried about ruining your street cred by being seen in this?” I joke.
“Boy,” he mocks, pulling open the passenger door. “Being seen with you ruined my street cred a long time ago.”
TWO
ava
The corridors of school are deserted, first period already in progress. Through thin walls and solid doors, teachers speak loudly, authoritative tones used to impart their knowledge and wisdom on the students in front of them.
St. Luke’s Academy is the most prestigious school within a fifty-mile radius, and I’m lucky to be here—just ask the faculty.
I descend the main staircase, past the words etched into the mahogany above the doorway: Vincit qui se vincit. Translation: He conquers who conquers himself.
Basically: master yourself, and then master the world around you. What’s written between the lines, though, is this: St. Luke’s will mold you to perfection, then throw you out into the real world and hope you know what the hell you’re doing.
On the ground floor, I look left, look right. It’s the same down here as it was above: deserted. The air conditioner above me whirs to life, blowing chills across my skin. Posters and flyers flap at the edges. The largest one spans across an entire wall, from one classroom door to another. Wildcats! Wildcats! Wildcats! There’s a significant divide in this school, with only two segments: jocks and academics.
My stepbrother fell into the jock category.
Two years ago, so did I.
Kind of.
Now, I don’t fit in either. I’m a loner, floating on the outskirts, discarded and unseen.
Invisible… until I’m not.
The long, narrow, empty hall stretches in front of me. Even with the air conditioning creating goosebumps on my flesh, making the hairs on my arms rise, sweat builds on my neck, at my hairline. I hold my psychology book to my chest and keep my head lowered. One step. Two. The walls seem to close in, but there’s no exit in sight. I stop just outside the classroom door and freeze. I pray for an escape while I will myself not to press my ear against the heavy timber and listen in. A short breath in, out. I ball the note in my hand: a message from the school’s psychologist excusing me from my tardiness with words so articulate, I struggle to understand them even though they’re written about me. It’s as if she tries to hide the truth that everyone already knows. It should just say: Be nice. Y’all know what she’s been through.
I take one more deep, calming breath before I press my shoulder to the door and start to push, but the door gives way, and I’m falling forward, my shoes squeaking against the marble floor as I try to brace myself.
“Miss Diaz,” Mr. McCallister booms, his hand on my arm to help keep me upright. Heat forms in my cheeks as I quickly hand him the note. Around me: silence. Not a single word, not even a whisper. Mr. McCallister doesn’t bother reading the note; he simply places it on his desk and motions to the classroom. “Please swiftly find a seat so we can continue.”
My phone vibrates in the hidden pocket of my school skirt.
Ignore it.
But I can’t. I start to reach for it at the same time Mr. McCallister clears his throat. “Now, Miss Diaz.”
I swallow my nerves and glance up through my lashes. I can feel every set of eyes on me, but I refuse to meet them.
It’s a miracle my feet move at all, and they lead me to the only empty seat left in the room.
I drop my bag by the desk and climb into the chair, the lump in my throat the size of the random basketball by my feet.
