Hartley.
Hartley brought me here right before I passed out. I dimly remember her ordering me to move my ass and then climbing an unholy number of steps.
But if I slept on the sofa, where did she sleep? This place doesn’t have another bedroom, and the sofa’s not big enough for two. She would’ve had to literally sleep on top of me, and given her aversion to me, I’m guessing she slept on the floor.
Crap.
I drag a hand through my hair. No, I’m not going to feel guilty about this. I never asked for her help, and I certainly didn’t ask to sleep on her couch even if I did need a place to crash last night.
I find my shoes and my sweatshirt on the table. Inside my sweatshirt is about three grand, which means she found my money and didn’t take a dime. She should’ve taken a finder’s fee.
I peel off a few bills and leave them on the table. Under my shoes there’s a note with a key taped to it.
“Lock up and put the key in this envelope and stick it in the mailbox downstairs.”
I tap the note against my chin. This girl is a mystery. Her parents live in an expensive mansion. Her dad is a big-shot prosecutor. Hartley, meanwhile, lives in the worst part of Bayview, where the walls are so thin I can hear the music her downstairs neighbor is playing, and yet she attends the best school in the state. What the heck is up with that?
I figured my senior year was going to be boring as hell. Ella spends most of her time talking to Reed on the phone, texting Reed, or visiting him up at State on the weekends. The twins are busy with their lives. Gideon’s at college, and when he does come home, he only wants to chill with Savannah.
I’m the odd man out and have been my whole life. Before Gid left home, it was the oldest two and the youngest two, with me futzing around in the middle.
Mom said that this showed my individualism and self-sufficiency. I could always find something to do. I didn’t need my brothers. Plus, I made friends easier than any of them. I had dozens of friends. My contact list was full of them.
Yet…I didn’t call even one person on that list last night. Instead, I tried to get on my bike and ride home like some dumb asshole whose brain is smaller than his ballsack.
I leave Hartley’s apartment and lock up, but I pocket the key instead of sliding it into the envelope. Practice is in thirty minutes, which means I’m going to be late. So much for setting a precedent with yesterday’s early arrival.
My cellphone shows a bunch of texts from Ella.
Where r u?
Callum looking 4 u
Shit. At this rate, I’m never going to get in the air again. I really need to work on my decision-making skills in the future.
I covered 4 u. Told him u left already
I walk toward the stairs. The alley next to Hartley’s house smells like cat poop and dog piss and—well, it pretty much reeks like every bad animal smell you can think of. It’s brutal.
I text back, Thanks 4 covering 4 me. OMW
* * *
Everyone’s still in the locker room by the time I arrive. Practice this morning consists of drills, clubbing and running, bull rushing, and combo bag drills. My legs feel like jelly at the end of it.
Now that Bran Mathis is heading up the offense, Coach is no longer taking it easy on us. I think he’d given up once our QB situation got so dismal, and didn’t want to risk injuring any of his remaining players for what was bound to be a write-off season. Now, all bets are off.
Pash throws me a water bottle and then chugs his own. “Damn, I’m out of shape,” he gasps. “I did too much drinking and smoking this summer.”
“Same.” I guzzle the bottle, toss it aside, and throw myself back on the grass.
Pash collapses beside me. We both lie there staring up at the cloudless sky.
Bran, looking fresh as a daisy despite the grueling practice, saunters past and chuckles at us. “You guys need to hit the gym more. I feel great.”
I weakly manage to lift one hand—so I can give him the finger. “You only feel great because you’re straight-edge.”
He laughs harder. “Is that an insult? Cuz, seems to me, being straight-edge means I’m not the one dry-heaving on the turf.”
This time Pash joins me in flipping Bran the bird.
Eventually, we’re able to haul our asses off the field and into the locker room, where I take a quick shower. I transfer Hartley’s apartment key from my jeans to my uniform trousers, then head over to the admin office.
Mrs. Goldstein is there. Her wiry, tinted-blue curls halo above her small round face. Pink glasses are perched on the end of her nose.
I prop an elbow on the counter. “Mrs. G, you look fine today.”
She sighs. “What do you want, Mr. Royal?”
Ignoring her obvious impatience, I tap the top of her monitor. “I stopped in because there’s a mistake in my class schedule. I went to first period and apparently I’m not in that class anymore. Some kid named Wright transferred in, and when he did that he took my spot.”
The drawn-on eyebrows above her glasses crash together. “That’s highly unusual.”
AKA I’m full of shit. Which I am.
But I go all in on the lie. “I know, right? All I can say is, Mr. Walsh was like, ‘You’re not in this class anymore, Royal.’ And I was like, ‘What? That’s insane. How could this Wright person just take my spot?’ And he goes, ‘Well, why don’t you go to the office and ask.’ And—”
“All right!” she cuts in, visibly exasperated. “Just stop talking. Let me have a look.”
I hide a grin. “Thanks, Mrs. G. I really think the Wright kid is in the wrong class.”
I wink after making my terrible pun. Mrs. G likes it, though. She presses her thin lips together to keep from laughing.
“Let’s see what we can do.” She types a few things on her keyboard.
I twist toward the monitor to watch what she’s doing—she’s just pulled up a record labeled Wright, H. Pushing her spectacles up to the bridge of her nose, she starts to read the schedule.
Smooth operator that I am, I lean over the counter and quickly tap the print screen button.
“Mr. Royal,” she yelps, jumping out of her seat.
But she’s not fast enough for me. I vault over the counter with one hand and land right in front of the printer.
“Thanks for printing this.” Beaming at her, I snatch up the paper and jog around the end of the desk.
She grabs for me. “I didn’t print it for you. Easton Royal, you get back here!”
“Your perfume smells great, Mrs. G,” I call over my shoulder.
Outside the admin office, I look at the printout. There’s not one overlap, except for last period. In fact, most of Wright, H’s classes are at opposite sides of the building as mine.
That’s going to change after today.
I take the stairs two at a time. The lecture has already started by the time I breeze into Hartley’s first period class. All the chairs next to her are taken. She’s surrounded by a bunch of potted plants—the kids that suck up all the oxygen because of their self-importance. I walk over to one I know and don’t like much.