From up in the bleachers I have a better view of the gym. The cheerleaders are along the end, cheering and shaking their shiny pom poms. Afton is in the middle, more super model than cheerleader. Down the row I see Aubrey, and then Sydney and Fiona. I recognize Elana with the dance team, their lithe bodies in motion with the music being played by the marching band. There’s a Devil mascot, some poor shirtless student, painted red with a head covering mask, roaming up and down the sidelines, working the crowd into a frenzy. He waves a flag adorned with a grinning Devils face. In the chaos, I keep an eye out for familiar blond hair, but even though I see a few of the other lacrosse boys, I can’t find Bass in the crowd. I pull out my phone and text him, hoping that he’ll see my message and come find me. If not, I make a plan to hide out here until things clear out at halftime and make my escape.
Preston Prep is up by four when the buzzer blares through the gym and the players jog off the court. I’m about to make a break for it when the game announcer’s deep voice comes over the speakers: Don’t leave your seats now! One lucky winner will get a chance to play for a big cash prize! But, first, let’s give it up for the Dancing Divas!
A deep tempo fills the gym, techno music bouncing off the walls, and the cheer and dance squads rush to center court, falling into line. I drop back down, feeling like I should watch Afton and the other girls I’ve become friendly with. Some guy near the court shouts, “Afton! I love you!” as they stand in position. She doesn’t flinch at the attention, but I notice her eyes dart down the court. I follow her gaze, and see the Devil mascot’s return, flag raised in the air. The girls on the floor begin their routine, while the Devil strides across the court. That’s when I notice he’s not alone. Seven other masked devils swarm the gym floor. None of them are shirtless, some are clearly girls. When the crowd sees them, the energy in the room amplifies. The guy next to me says, “Fuck, you see that?” to the person next to him.
“What?” his friend asks, searching the court.
“The main Devil’s flag. It’s not the Preston Prep logo. It’s the Devil logo, like from homecoming.”
I look at the flag and realize it doesn’t have the smirking devil on the front anymore. It’s a circle with a pitchfork in the middle. I’ve seen that symbol before. Once on Georgia’s back, and of course, on Sebastian’s chest.
Leaning over, I say, “What does that mean? It’s a Devils logo?”
He gives me a weird look but nods at the court. “Secret Society bullshit. I don’t know if it’s real or just a bunch of kids trying to claim it, but I think it’s hilarious.”
Just then, the lights go down. Way down. In their place is a hot, red glow, the noises of the crowd swelling in excitement. For a moment, I wonder if I’ve fallen asleep in the photo lab and this is all just a very weird dream.
The seven Devils position themselves on the floor beneath the student section. Each has a bundle in their hands. Someone screams, “T-shirts! Up here! I want one!” Because no one can resist a shitty, free T-shirt, not even rich kids with unlimited access, the crowd gets even more worked up. All of this goes on while the squads finish their routine. The main, shirtless Devil hands the flag to one of the other masked Devils and picks up a cordless microphone. He jogs to the center of the court, passing cheerleaders and dance members with confused, wary expressions on their faces. He comes to a stop near Afton. I don’t know the girl well but the expression on her face isn’t one of confusion. If anything, she looks amused, and definitely not surprised. There’s something in the Devil’s swagger, the confident walk that sends a tingle up my spine. It only intensifies when he lifts the microphone to his mouth and shouts, “Hail to the Devils!”
“Hail to the Devils,” the cheerleaders, dance team, and half the crowd repeats on cue. I look around, glaring at the look my neighbor gives me. Sorry that I’m new here and didn’t get the memo on crazy chants, asshole.
“Hail to the Devils!” he shouts again. The microphone has a modulator, making the voice unidentifiable. Once again, the crowd cries back. “We’ve come to give one lucky student a gift from the underworld. Who wants a shot?” Once again, the crowd roars in approval. The Devil paces back and forth, peering up the bleachers to say, “If you get a shirt, hold onto it until it’s time to reveal them all at once!” The crowd rumbles with excitement and the masked devils start running up and down the bleachers, tossing shirts to people. The main devil strides off the court, a bundle tucked under his own arm. My eyes are glued to him, and even though he’s wearing a mask, I get the strong feeling he’s aware of me. The guy next to me stands, waving his arms to get picked. “Over here! Hail to the Devils! Over here!”
I sink down into my seat, hoping no one thinks we’re together, and keep an eye on the main mascot as he climbs the bleachers, two steps at a time. A moment later, he stops directly at my row. I stare at his red, painted abs.
“Yesssss!” my neighbor shouts, pumping his fist in the air, then leans across me to grab the shirt. “Hand it over.”
“Not you, dumbass,” the Devil says, blocking him with a solid thrust of his hand. “Her.”
“Me?” I say, completely confused.
“Her?” the guy says incredulously, then tosses his hands in the air. “Damn it, I never win anything.” He slumps in his seat, defeated.
Behind the mask, dark blue eyes bore into mine. I swallow. “Um, can I pass?”
“No.” He shoves the shirt in my hand and vanishes back into the crowd and down the steps.
A moment later, the Devil joins the others back on the court and Afton hands him the microphone. He puts it to his mouth and shouts, “Can we get a drumroll?” The drum section, led by Ben, obliges the Devil’s demand and a loud drumroll reverberates through the high-ceilinged room. The cheerleaders shake their pom poms and the dance team wiggles their spirit fingers. The whole room is abuzz, transfixed on the Devil below. “Everyone stand up and unroll your shirts!”
The guy next to me nudges me with his elbow. “Well?” he demands, looking way too excited. “Open it, open it!”
I narrow my eyes at him but stand, pulling at the ribbon holding the shirt in a tight roll. The T-shirt unfurls and reveals a smirking devil on the front. I hold it up, like everyone else forced to participate in this charade, showing it to the gym. I feel a hand on my elbow and glance down, yanking my arm away.
“Look at the back,” the guy says, nodding at the shirt in my hands.
I hold it up and see that, on the back, it says in bold font, “You’ve been marked by the Devils.”
“She’s got it!” the guy screams, jumping up next to me. “Sugar Voss has been marked by the Devils!” He sounds as excited as if he were the one to get it.
I stare at the guy, wondering how he knows my name, but then realize I’m the new girl. Everyone probably knows my name. It doesn’t matter. The whole place goes a little crazy, and the next thing I know, I’m walking down to the center court, feeling annoyed and weirdly suspicious about the whole thing.
Afton meets me in the middle and hands me an envelope. “Congratulations, Sugar,” she says, giving me a wink. Before I can say anything, the buzzer blares, announcing the start of the second half, and I’m shuffled off the court with everyone else. I try to locate the main Devil, but the crowd is too thick and the band’s too loud, and then Georgia’s smiling face appears.