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PROLOGUE
XANDER
Is there such a thing as a thin line between love and hate?
I was eight years old when I first met Clark Farmer. From the day he appeared in my life, I swore we’d become bitter rivals until the day we died. I was determined to live my life far from his, but fate had a different path for us. And do you know what I think about fate? She’s a fucking bitch. Or did she really know what she was doing? That’s the question. And it will only be answered in this story.
1
XANDER
Third grade
It rains on our first day of school, and at recess, our teacher takes us to the gymnasium. “Okay, kids,” Mrs. Reardon instructs. “We’re going to play Red Light, Green Light. Clarkston, since you were the first in class today, why don’t you start us off.”
“It’s Clark, Mrs. Reardon,” he corrects her, but I could care less what his name is. In my eight-year-old brain, I may not have known the F-word, but the age-appropriate equivalent went through my head, knowing I’d be the first in class from that day forward. It isn’t fair; I didn’t realize we’d get a reward. Without knowledge, I clench my fists tight at my sides, and Clark has to see frustration as he mouths, you’re going down. I’m already mad, seeing only red, but his slight form and belittlement only ramp up the need to win. Planting my feet wide, I wait for further instructions from our teacher.
“Now, the rest of you can line up. I’ll send you back to the starting line if you don’t stop when Clark says red light.” I was on the imaginary line already after she picked the new kid. I’m ready and bide my time as the rest of the class is slow. Don’t they realize I have a game to win? I liked Mrs. Reardon when I first met her this morning. Now, she’s my enemy. She and that stupid Clark Farmer. What a ridiculous name.
I’m confident I’ll win. I’m the fastest, and I’ll prove it to the early bird with the big grin, thinking he’s perfect.
Waiting for Mrs. Reardon to tell us when to begin, I lean forward, ready to sprint. I’ll get this jerk if it’s the last thing I do.
“Green light,” Clark announces, and I’m quick, but I’ve played the game enough and know I have to slow down so I don’t get sent back to the starting line. “Red light!” he shouts, not even five seconds later.
“Micah, Jennifer, and Derek head back to start,” Mrs. Reardon says. I grin, knowing his eyes are locked on mine. He knows I’m coming after him.
“Green light.” I slow because I know the jerk will call red light soon. There’s a glint in his eyes that, even in my short life, I know he has plans toruin my plans.
Sure enough, he yells, “Red light!” I slow and stop at his command.
“Jake and Barret need to return to the starting line,” Mrs. Reardon calls.
“Mrs. Reardon, that boy right there was moving after I called red light.” He points right at me, pursing his lips together. He’s gotten my silent message, and I’ve gotten his message, too.
“This kid has a name,” I call out, and our eyes connect again. I know right then—he and I will never be friends. And the little jerk. He’s trying to get me moved back to the start. If I didn’t officially hate him, I do now.
“I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t see him. But that’s okay. It’s just a fun game.”
It’s not fun. Mrs. Reardon will get the message sometime this year. Clark has declared war on me.
His eyes connect with mine again. In them, we both read each other’s thoughts. It’s not simply a game. We have to beat the other. “Red light,” he calls, attempting to fool us, but I don’t break my stillness as he deceives half of the class.
Bring it on, you big fat jerk, I think to myself.
“Green light.”
I display my attack pose by placing my shoulders back, chest out, and chin high. Taking four long steps, I proceed slowly, confident he’ll call red light soon. I’m three feet from him when he shrieks red light again.
“Jennifer and Derek, please return to the starting line.”
“Mrs. Reardon, he’s moving,” Clark complains again, pointing my way, and I smile wide, knowing he’s feeling the heat.
“Sorry, dear, I didn’t see Xander moving.”
He shouts red light again and tricks everyone but me. He continues with the ploy a few times until Mrs. Reardon tells him he has to finish the game, giving another person a turn. I knew I was going to like Mrs. Reardon after all. When I finally tag him, with his last attempt to fool me foiled, he turns my way. “I’ll always be first, like today, no matter how hard you try.”
And in my eight-year-old swagger, I say the same thing I’d thought this whole time. “Bring it on.”
