With a throbbing nose. At least it’s not bleeding.
I hear some quiet laughing, but nothing like I’d expect. Back at my old school, the room would’ve erupted. I guess there’s something to be said for the self-control of Wallingford cadets.
A hand comes down to eye level, so I reach up to grab it as I search the floor. What in the hell did I trip over? There’s nothing on the ground. It’s just the polished speckled gray tile all around me.
When I’m back on my feet, I see who offered the helping hand: Jernigan.
And he’s smiling now.
Of course he is.
It all makes sense. I didn’t trip. I was tripped. That’s my punishment for … for what? Batting well? He wanted me to get a base hit. You think he’d be happy I got a couple doubles. Apparently, in Jernigan’s world, I was supposed to do just good enough so we didn’t lose but not so good the other cadets would give me an award. Obviously, I’ll never win with him.
“Careful there, cadet,” he says with a pleased grin. “I’d hate to see you mess up your pretty face.”
“Yeah, right,” I scoff, yanking my hand away. “Too bad we don’t have a grand dickhead of the universe award,” I mutter under my breath as I grab the plaque from him.
“I heard that,” he says, still smiling. “Five laps tomorrow.”
I really, really should’ve ignored Paige and gone back to my room earlier. I could be lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, not dealing with Jernigan’s shit during personal time. With a shake of my head and sigh, I head back to my table, where Paige, Leah, and Noah congratulate me.
They all ignore my epic face-plant, which I guess is nice. Much nicer than Jernigan anyway. As everyone else moves on to the other awards, I continue to watch him. He’s clearly forgotten about me as he hands out more plaques with a genuine smile and pat on the back, especially when Jones gets MVP. Obviously, his issue is with me. The feeling is mutual. The only problem is, I can’t dish it right back without getting laps or push-ups or him embarrassing me in front of everyone else. It’s totally unfair. He can do whatever he wants, yet the moment I try to stand up for myself, he gets to make my life miserable?
I don’t know anyone in their right mind who would think this is okay.
Yet here I am, thanks to my lawyer. He seems to think this is exactly what I need. What I need is to be at home watching a movie with Lora, then having a late night of video games with Gordy and Nate. And sleeping in until noon on Sunday. And spending the rest of the day on the beach.
But none of those things is going to happen anytime soon.
This is my life now.
CHAPTER 5
LOGAN
Four days down, two hundred fifty-three to go. The one silver lining is sixty-nine of those days are on weekends. On weekends, reveille isn’t until seven.
God, I think, shaking my head, now I’m starting to sound like them. It’s not reveille. It’s the damn bugle alarm clock. I will never call it reveille.
At least we get an extra hour of sleep on weekends. And, after PT and mandated study hall, we have most of the rest of the day to do whatever we want. The majority of junior and senior students leave campus, but I haven’t earned that right yet. Apparently I need a month of good behavior before off-campus privileges will even be considered.
I kick a pinecone off the path to the computer lab and stuff my hands into the pockets of my wool jacket, trying to ward off the chill. As I reach up to yank my beanie lower while cursing my current lack of hair, something hard collides with the back of my head, causing my teeth to rattle.
A football bounces on the ground next to my feet.
“Jesus, man,” I say to myself as I lean down to retrieve the ball. Jernigan stands across the quad with his hands outstretched.
“Sorry!” he yells, though he doesn’t seem at all apologetic.
I throw the ball in his direction. It’s not a perfect spiral, but it does head straight for his face, which lifts my mood a little. Unfortunately, he easily catches it before it can cause any damage. Of course he does. I’m sure he’s the kind of guy who automatically excels at any sport, even if he’s never played it before. If we suddenly got a cricket team here, he’d probably be not only the captain but also the star player. Rugby? Same thing. God, I hate him.
He and his friends continue toward the parking lot, so I turn around and walk in the direction of the computer lab, where I can get Wi-Fi. I blow out a breath, complete with a white puff that makes me realize how freaking cold it really is. Like, it-could-snow cold. Being from southeastern Virginia, close to the beach, snow’s something I’m lucky to see maybe once every couple of years, which is more than enough. And that’s usually in January or February, not late September. I wonder if they’d cancel classes here if it did snow. Back home, school would be out for a week with a couple of inches, but I’m sure they’re better prepared for it here. In fact, I’m sure there’s not much that could alter Wallingford’s perfectly designed schedule.
I pull my jacket closer, then hear a very welcome sound: the bing-bing-bing tone indicating I have a new text. That’s another perk of weekends—we get our phones back.
I pull it out of my pocket and glance at the screen, excited to see who from home is writing me.
It’s Lora. I start to text back, then realize I need to hear her voice after the last few days. I dial the number and wait for her to answer.
“Logan! Tell me your lawyer changed his mind and you’re coming home.”
I shake my head and let out a half laugh, half huff. “I wish.”
“I’ve been texting you all week. Why have you been ignoring me?”
“I wasn’t. I only got them a little while ago. We don’t have access to our phones during the week.”
“What?” Her confusion is clear, and I imagine her eyebrows drawn into a furrow above her pale gray eyes.
“This place is basically one step down from juvie.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“You need to get out of there.”
“I can’t. My lawyer thinks he can get a plea bargain if I stay here until graduation. He said it’s my best hope of staying out of prison.”
She’s silent for a moment, then says, “This sucks.”
“No kidding,” I reply. I’m innocent but could end up in prison. Had I realized how bad it could be, I might’ve put a little more thought into my decisions the night of the accident.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I never expected them to—”
“It’s fine,” I reply, cutting her off. What’s done is done. There’s no changing anything now. All we can do is hope for the best at this point.
“Thank you—again—for what you’re doing. It … it means a lot to me,” she says with what almost sounds like a sniffle, but I know it can’t be. She’s never been the overly emotional type of girlfriend. I’ve never seen her cry, not even at sappy movies. I used to like it because we always avoided the typical girlfriend-boyfriend drama. We were always steady and strong. But, for some reason, it’d be nice to see her equally pissed at life right now. I mean, it is her fault I’m here.