who’s used to measuring other dudes up. McAllister’s the ride-or-die type. I’ve seen you two since Preston House. The guy looks at you like you’re the sun. Holding your chair out for you? Always touching you beneath the table? Eyes glued to you every time you’re in the same room? Jesus Christ. If that’s not a sign of a boy who’s whipped…”
I watch him, feeling alarmed. “If you noticed all that—”
“Then your girl Sydney probably has, too.” He shrugs loosely. “And we both know she’s the jealous and vindictive type. Let me guess, she’s had it bad for McAllister since school started? Mad at you for blowing her off for the Devils? Are two and two making four yet?”
That information hits almost harder than the gossip about Reyn. Is Sydney saying all this to hurt me? On purpose? Sure, she’s been fishing around for information lately and admitted to tracking me on the ChattySnap app, but the thought of her deliberately making me feel like this stuns me.
Sebastian takes the handkerchief from me and tucks it, dirty and wet, in his back pocket. “If I were you, I wouldn’t worry about Reyn getting side action. I would worry about the atomic bomb that’s going to go off when your brother finds out. That’s going to be a kick in the ‘nads.”
I nod.
“And V?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re a Devil now. You don’t have to hang out with shit-stirrers like Sydney anymore. You’ve got us.” He tosses his arm around my shoulder like a protective cloak and leads me back into the hall. He’s right. I don’t need Sydney the way I used to. I’m starting to worry that she’s not going to let me go so easily, though.
Although I’ve been a student for three years at Preston Prep, this is the first time I’ve actually been truly aware of Homecoming. Before, it was always a buzz around the edges. Something bright and shiny that tried, and failed, to break through the stony-haze of drugs. Nothing—not the hand-painted banners, or the elaborate and cheesy HOCO proposals happening all over campus—ever penetrated the fortified armor I numbed my mind with.
But not this year.
This year, I’m clean. This year, I’m involved. This year, I’ve got the Devils. And yeah, this year, I’ve got Reynolds McAllister, who, at almost all times, has his eye on me like one of those shiny objects he can’t help but steal.
He promised, my mind keeps repeating like a mantra, never Sydney. I don’t have any reason not to trust him.
It almost makes up for the fact he doesn’t ask me to the dance. He can’t, I know that. Because of Emory. Because of Headmaster Collins. Because of the final initiation. The Homecoming dance is held at the same time as the Alumni fundraiser. The deck is stacked against us. Always has been, probably always will be.
“Well,” I hear Sydney say, three lockers away, “I haven’t decided what I’m going to do about the dance yet. Reggie asked me—via text.” I hear the disdain in her voice. Lazy move, Reggie. “Andrew left a poster on my desk in French.” Better, but not quite up to Sydney’s flair. “But I’m really holding out for someone else to ask me, you know? Someone I really like.”
I glance down the bank of lockers as she says it and our eyes meet. Hers are hard and hold none of the warmth for me they used to. I still don’t know how she can be so angry at me. Because I’ve been busy? Because I have my own life now? There are a dozen reasons, but what I’ve noticed most is that cutting her out of my life has been a blessing more than anything else. Maybe Emory’s been right all these years.
The locker door closes, and I see Fiona’s profile. That’s who Syd’s around all the time now. Fiona’s younger and obviously enthralled by Syd’s dramatic life.
“There’s still a few days,” Fiona says. “He’s pretty notorious for being impulsive, right? Maybe he’ll ask you last minute.”
“We’ll see. I’m not sure school dances are his scene.” Sydney grins wolfishly. “I’d be more than willing to ditch it for other activities.”
As hard as I try not to think about it, an image of Reyn and Sydney together pops in my head. In it, they’re at the dance, in his car, in that parking lot, making out, touching. My throat constricts and my palms suddenly feel clammy. Maybe Heston wasn’t so far off-base about me having a masochistic streak, because