Unfortunately, that’s not how life works. Just figures that I’d finally find a guy who wants me, a guy I want back, and I’m not allowed to even be around him. I try to steal another glance, but this time, he’s not watching me. His gaze is trained across the room, face set into that sharp stillness. He’s got one hand on his backpack and he’s already halfway out of the chair. I turn to see what he’s looking at. Not ‘what’, but ‘who’.
Dean Dewey.
I glance at my brother, who has also noticed what’s going on. “Dude,” he says to Reyn, “let me say something to him. We can deal with this.”
“My problem,” Reyn says with a shrug and, a blink later, has already eased himself into a group of passing students.
“Is everything okay here?” Dean Dewey says, eyeing the empty chair. A water bottle sits on the table, half-full. It’s not the first time Dewey has scared Reyn off. It’s like they’re hoping to catch him in the act, just to have something to pin on him. Maybe Jerry and Dewey are trading notes or something.
“Everything’s fine,” Emory says, speaking for the group. Afton gives him a smile. Tyson focuses on his lunch. I feel the hot spike of anger building in my chest, but swallow it back until the Dean, and his penetrative eyes, leaves.
“We need to fix this,” I say to Emory, fed up. “It’s not fair that he can’t sit with his friends.”
“He can sit with his friends,” Carlton says. “Just not when you’re around.”
The words sting like a slap, even though I know Carlton didn’t mean for them to. “You’re right. Reyn should sit here, and I—” I look around, deciding, “I’ll go somewhere else to eat from now on.”
“What?” Emory grabs my arm before I can stand. “No way. That is not how we’re handling this shit. You’re my sister. He’s my best friend. There has to be a solution.” He sighs. “I’ll talk to Mom and Dad, maybe they can do something.”
I nod but wait a few minutes before leaving the cafeteria anyway, explaining that I just don’t have an appetite anymore. It’s not a lie. I search the hallways, but can’t find Reyn. I fire off a few texts:
Where are you?
Are you okay?
I’m sorry.
Finally, just before the bell rings, my phone buzzes.
I’m fine. See you at the meeting tonight.
I know better than to press, and there’s nothing I can do about it right now, anyway. Every time something like this comes up, Reyn tends to fall into some silent, blank space that I can’t seem to reach. I’m just hoping that someday he’ll let me help him the way he’s helped me. I know there’s a lot of pressure on him with Jerry and Dewey always following him around, not to mention his dad and the combined expectations of Preston’s football program heavy on his shoulders. He’s finally found acceptance with me and it’s a secret wrapped in another secret.
All of that is still on my mind when we meet in the bunker that night. When I take my seat in the circle, he’s already there, sweaty and flushed from practice. His face is still set into that eerie stillness from earlier, jaw sharply clenched.
“We’re halfway through the rituals,” Emory says, holding the black book in his hands. “And we’ve had advance notice by the Devil ‘Powers that Be’ that there’s an endowment fundraising dinner at the club to kick off homecoming. Plan on being there.”
Reyn speaks up, voice flat. “Might be a problem, considering I’m not allowed on club property anymore.”
Afton’s eyebrows shoot up and Sebastian gives a deep little laugh. For once, no one looks at me.
“Don’t worry about that,” Emory says. “We’ll figure it out.”
“Any news on the next ritual?” Tyson asks.
“Yes,” my brother says, holding up a piece of black cardstock. He flips it around so we can see the silver handwriting. “Our next challenge is getting into the Preston Alumni House and leaving the Devil’s mark inside somewhere.”
“We’re doing another break-in?” Georgia asks, eyes darting around.
“Not exactly.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the key that is identical to the one we all have. “These keys open a lot of doors at Preston. The Alumni house is one of them.”
He goes on to explain the specifics. The Devils mark—the D with the pitchfork—needs to be stamped somewhere discreetly in the house. Apparently, this was done for years before it fell out of tradition. “Like