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One
What’s worse than the guy you almost killed actually dying? The guy you almost killed coming back and giving a threateningI know what you didspeech in front of your entire homeroom class.
Well, technically,Ididn’t almost kill him; it was my fifteen-year-old sister, Gia, who slammed the vase into his head, leaving him unconscious and bleeding out all over a motel carpet, but that doesn’t matter, because Gia and I are always in it together.
“What’s up, assholes?” Brandon announces from the front of the room after his grand entrance. “You miss me?” His eyes land on mine, and his tone changes when he says, “Because I’ve missed you.”
I shiver as we stare at each other. A mixture of emotions runs through me with the realization that he’s alive and well. On the one hand, Gia, Jason, and I won’t be investigated for killing him, but on the other,he’s alive.
“You were only suspended for a week, dumbass!” one of his friends jokingly calls out. “Next time stay away longer to give us more time to miss you!”
His other friends hoot and holler as Brandon throws them a cocky grin. “Is that any way to talk to your football captain and a future pro quarterback?” he says, his large, muscular body taking up the entire aisle as he strides down it to secure his friend in a playful headlock.
I know his words weren’t directed to the class. They were directed at me because he knows exactly what happened Friday night, and if I know anything about Brandon, it’s that he’spissed, his pride is wounded, and he’s out for revenge.
Someone taps my shoulder, and I drag my eyes away from the rowdy scene. Warren gestures to Brandon with his head. “He’s always so dramatic. Why does he think he’s God’s gift to man?”
From the front of the room, Mr. Lewis tries to settle the classroom, but Brandon and his friends are dogpiling and wrestling with each other, and the rest of the class has erupted into their own small conversations.
“Let’s see,” I say, counting on my fingers. “He’s popular, the quarterback, tall, very large and muscular, brags about how many people he can tackle, gets really good grades without trying so he’s smart, has a lot of interest from college scouts, I guess is conventionally good-looking if you can look past the wholehe’s a disgusting asshole who forces himself on girlsthing, and . . . did I mention thehe’s very largething?”
I know my friends briefed Warren about what happened between me and Brandon at his house before we were suspended, when he forced himself on me and then started rumors about me the next day at school, but we’ve never discussed it. We don’t have that kind of friendship.
Warren and I keep it light and fun.
Warren frowns, considering my words. “You think he’s more popular than me?”
I laugh at his joke even though he kind of means it.
“No one’s more popular than you.” I’ll still never know why Warren bothers talking to me rather than to his other friends. I’m a nobody, the new kid.
“Good, that’s good.” Warren nods, leaning back in his seat and sending me a crooked smile. “You know I have a pathological need to be liked by everyone.”
“Hence why you throw a party, like, every weekend.”
I smile back at him, letting him momentarily distract me from the fact thatholy shit, Brandon’s here.
“No.” Warren points at me. “That is my intense hatred of being alone.”
Before I can unpack any truth behind our banter, Mr. Lewis finally gets the class under control, getting the football players to release each other. The mood changes instantly as Brandon locks eyes with me and slowly prowls to his seat—the empty one right in front of me—like he’s savoring thinking of new ways to inflict pain and torture.
I have to tilt my neck back all the way to look at him when he stops right in front of me.
How much does he know? What does he remember?
What did he tell everyone when he woke up? Does he know the story we made up about what happened to him?
“Siena,” he greets me coolly.
“Brandon,” I say, matching his tone.
He throws a leg over his chair to sit backward in it, crossing his arms over its back and leaning toward me casually. In this position, he’s practically leaning over me, so close that I can see the brown flecks in his green eyes, the dark circles on his skin under them, the healed scar through his left eyebrow.
Mr. Lewis calls out to him, but Brandon doesn’t care, doesn’t even bother turning around in his seat to pretend to care.
“I had an interesting weekend,” Brandon starts, eyes scanning my face as I school my features into neutral disinterest.
“Is that so?”
