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“I— But I didn’t—”
“But if any of you do choose to repeat that allegation knowing it’s a lie,” Adonis said, sweeping a hard glare over the auditorium. “I will take that as your choice to violate the honor code, which has clear statements against bullying and slander. Any questions?”
“No, Professor Anthony,” they muttered.
“Will we have this issue again?”
“No, Professor Anthony.”
“Excellent. Then, let’s begin.”
I sunk back in my seat. The hot retort that bubbled up for Iris faded off my tongue, and tears rose in its place. Adonis said he had my back. That he would discover what he could about the T.O.D. Club and shut it down, but him saying it and then actually watching him shut down the whole class and put Iris in her place was another thing entirely.
I didn’t want to think of Winter. My mind went there all the same. She didn’t have any of this. There was no Professor Anthony threatening to invoke the honor code if they didn’t shut up with their rumors and lies. There was no Victor wielding his power as a Wilson to deliver the only punishment these bastards understood—dragging her bullies’ status lower than a Dreg’s.
She didn’t even have the Rogues. They could have done so much more for her. They wanted to, but Winter said no for reasons I might never know. It’s been hard for me, and I’m not alone. Winter was, and I finally understood how much.
My sister was so very alone.
“—no writing assignment this week.”
I wiped my eyes, trying to pull myself out of my thoughts.
“This is a difficult time for you all,” Professor Anthony said. He leaned on his desk, legs crossed at the ankles. “A time that leads to reflection. I’d like us to do that today in a literary capacity. What is great literature? Is it stories that redefine or create a genre? Is it simply a tale that invokes connection? Something that we’ve felt or experienced put to words in a way we can’t?
“I want you to think—truly think about what separates good writing and great writing?” He checked his watch. “I’ll give you ten minutes. Choose your book, your series, your poem, your essay, and then tell us why.”
Silence fell, broken only by the faint scritch-scritch-scritch of pens and pencils. I sat—unmoving and staring at a blank page.
“Time,” Professor Anthony called. “All right. Who’d like to go first?”
Dozens of hands went up.
“Mr. Westbrook.”
“I chose The Inheritance Cycle by Christopher Paolini,” replied one of Victor’s rugby buddies.
Snickers broke out.
“Enough,” Adonis said, bringing it to an abrupt stop. For all that he had less than ten years on me, Professor Anthony was commanding. He stood there in his simple button-up shirt and khakis, radiating a confidence that most people never got in their lifetime.
Sexy.
I jerked in my seat, startled by the sudden, random thought. No. No, no, no. Do not go there, Sinclair. I’ve got one confusing relationship with a Wilson brother. I don’t need another.
“Why that series?” he asked.
“I didn’t read fantasy books. Too long. I didn’t think any story could be interesting enough to read for five hundred pages, but then I picked up that first book and that was it,” he said. “I’ve devoured dozens of fantasy books since then. It’s my favorite genre.
“The last four years have been studying, tests, homework, and rugby practice. All to get in Regalia U. The pressure was intense, but kicking back with some Game of Thrones—that’s when I turned my brain off and got to chill. That’s great literature to me,” he said, snapping his fingers. “It’s when you’re stressed as all hell and nothing else works to get you out of your head like that one great book or author.”
“Interesting,” Adonis said. He moved to the board and wrote takes you out of your head/reality on the board. “Anyone agree?”
Nearly every hand went up, including mine. We all knew what it was like to be stuck in hard or stressful times. Anything that could distract us from the pain for even a moment was amazing. No wonder drugs were so popular.
Professor Anthony went around the room, asking everyone what they thought made great literature. I expected he was coming to me after Victor spoke, though my hand wasn’t up.
“Miss Sinclair,” he said. “What’s your pick?”
I flicked up from my still blank page. “A Series of Unfortunate Events by Daniel Handler.”
He hummed. “I haven’t read it but I know the series. What about it makes it great?”
“It’s not,” I said, voice flat. “Not in any of the ways we’ve talked about. But I chose it because it taught me my most valuable lesson at a young age.
“We don’t all get a happy ending.”
Chapter Four
Wilder waited for me outside my last class of the morning. My brows popped at the sight of him.
Wilder left his tight tees and jeans at home. In their place was a black suit—just as fitted and hugging him in all the right places. The guy would be more handsome than he had a right to be in a used trash bag with empty tissue boxes for shoes. Put him in a suit and the girl walking next to me literally walked into a wall—gaping at him.
