On Sunday, I refuse to get out of bed. I’m perfectly happy with my decision to stew in my own misery, listening to some seriously vile scream-core while staring blankly up at the ceiling, when something absolutely insane happens.
Elodie fucking Stillwater waltzes into my room like she owns the goddamn place.
I sit up in my bed, glowering at her. “What the fuck are you doing?” I snarl.
She folds her arms across her chest. “I came in here to ask you the exact same thing.”
She’s small. Like, pocket-sized. Her hair used to be blonde, but it’s brown now, nearly black, and hangs in twin braids down to her waist. She’s wearing one of Wren’s old t-shirts—a ratty, washed out grey thing that comes down to her knees, almost hiding the fact that she’s wearing shorts.
I throw myself back onto the pillows. “Get the fuck out.”
She does not get the fuck out. She sighs dramatically and crosses the room, opening up the wall of blinds, letting in a bath of brilliant sunlight.
“Agghh! What the fuck, Stillwater? Get out of my fucking room, before I put you out.”
She pulls a face at me, kicking at a pile of clothes I’ve left in a heap on the floor as she crosses to the other bank of windows and opens those blinds, too. Then, she snaps off the stereo, killing the music, and turns to glower at me. “This isn’t my house—”
“Fucking straight it isn’t!”
“—so I can’t tell you what to do. Wren and Dash don’t seem bothered by your bullshit, but I’ve had enough al-fucking-ready. What the hell is wrong with you?”
I throw an arm across my face, blocking out the sunlight. “How about you mind your business and go suck Jacobi’s dick or something?”
Stillwater still doesn’t leave. The pernicious little pest. She comes closer, moving to stand at the foot of the bed. “I’m not leaving until you tell me. Presley’s been completely shut down for weeks now. She won’t tell me what’s wrong, but I know that she’s told you for some reason.”
“She hasn’t told me shit.”
“So, there is something wrong with her, then?” she asks sharply.
Fuck this. Seriously. Fuck this. I rip the covers back and sit up, glaring at her. “Look. If your friend doesn’t wanna fucking talk to you about something, then that’s your problem. And hers. Not mine. Now, please. I’ll ask nicely. Vacate my bedroom as quickly as humanly possible, before I lose my fucking mind.”
She looks me dead in the eye and says, “No.”
“Oh my god! WREN! COME AND GET YOUR FUCKING GIRLFRIEND!”
“He’s not here.”
“Then why are you? Are you just randomly loitering around the house now? What the fuck?”
Elodie shakes her head, ignoring me. “I see you, y’know. I know that this is all for show.”
“The hell are you talking about?” I swear to everything holy, if she doesn’t get the hell out of my room in the next three seconds, I’m going to drag her out by her fucking pigtails.
“You shut everyone out. You build up high walls to keep people away, but you can’t fool me. You want to be close to people.”
“I have no idea what I’ve ever done to give you the impression that I want to be this close to you, but I’d like to clarify right now by telling you that I definitely, categorically, do not.”
“If you didn’t want to be close to people, you wouldn’t live here in this house. You’d have your own place. Or your own room at the academy. You wouldn’t have chosen to live specifically with Dash and Wren. You wouldn’t drive them everywhere. You wouldn’t be so bent out of shape because they got girlfriends. You wouldn’t be so pissed that you’re not all going to the same college—”
“There’s still time for them to see sense and stick to the original plan,” I say icily.
“See.” Elodie throws up her hands. “My point exactly. You want connection with people. It’s important to you. You just don’t know how to handle it.”
“Your argument’s fucking stupid. Dash and Wren are my brothers. Of course I wanna be around them. I just don’t wanna be around their girlfriends.”
“Because you’re worried that Carrie and I are gonna take them away from you.”
I let out a frustrated groan, hurling back the bedsheets the rest of the way. I’m wearing nothing but a pair of boxers; I usually sleep naked, so Stillwater’s lucky I’m even wearing those. She does a commendable job of maintaining eye contact as I stalk toward her around the bed. With what little patience I have left, I turn her as gently as I can manage and shove her toward the door.
“I could just put you on your ass again, y’know,” she gripes. She probably could, too. The little terror is frighteningly good at Krav Maga.
“Go for your life. But do me a favor and knock me the fuck out this time. Put me out of my misery. At least that way I won’t have to listen to you spout this inane bullshit.”
She spins on me in the doorway, stabbing me in the chest with a painted black fingernail. “We’re not gonna take them away from you, Pax. If you weren’t being such a stubborn butthead, you’d see that. And if you could stop being so scared for five seconds and just talk to me, you might realize that you like me, and that we can be friends, too.”
I can feel the scathing laughter bubbling up the back of my throat. I tamp it down, holding it back, though I let the sour smirk forming on my face have full rein. “I’m done making friends with silly Wolf Hall girls, Elodie. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m working on developing a severe case of tinnitus. Have a wonderful day.” I slam the door closed in her face. I lock it this time.
40
PRES
* * *
“What if no one comes?”
Dad stands in front of the mirror, frowning at his reflection. He’s wearing a brand-new black tailored shirt and a pair of new black jeans that he bought in Boston four days ago. The white sneakers (also brand new) contrast with his all-black outfit. I warned him not to wear them—they’re way too cool for him—telling him to go for a pair of black leather dress shoes instead, but he rejected my unsolicited advice out of hand. And he was right to. He’s my father. I always assume he should wear old man clothes to match his old man state of mind, but the truth is that he’s not that old at all.
He can still pull off this kind of wardrobe. He looks great, and I tell him so. “And you’ve got nothing to worry about. People are gonna come. Everyone’s been talking about this place opening for weeks. Even some of the faculty have been asking about it. And all of my friends are coming. It’s gonna be a massive hit.”
Dad pulls a doubtful face at himself in the mirror. “Don’t get me wrong, sweetheart. I’m incredibly grateful that you’ve asked all of your friends to come, but a sea of rowdy eighteen-year-olds isn’t really the crowd I was hoping for on my opening night.”
I scowl at him, spinning him around so I can unfasten the top button of his shirt; he looks like he can hardly breathe. “Why? You hate money or something?” I ask sarcastically. “One of those rowdy eighteen-year-olds coming here tonight will probably have more disposable income that five of the local families. You shouldn’t be so quick to turn up your nose.”