I remove the memory card before leaving the camera in the office where Mr. Lee told me to, adding a note that I’d have my article written up by Monday. A weird feeling passes over me as I head back outside, the quad quieter than before. I close my eyes and inhale the late summer air. So, this must be what independence feels like—warmth and silence and calm—no questions or eyes or wild internal calculation as to how to justify what I’m doing. I’m still reveling in this as I approach the darkened area near the bell tower, the whole area shaded by the thick branches of ancient oaks.
I know all about the Devil’s tower, particularly the rumors surrounding the Stairway to Hell. It’s a stupid and cheesy name for a hookup spot, but the Devils love tradition, especially if it sets them apart from the rest of the student body. Obviously, I’ve never been up there—the thought alone makes me snort a laugh—but Sydney says that there’s a beam across the top where the Devils carve their initials, adding slash marks underneath for each of their conquests. It’s not the only way the Devils claim the girls they’re with. There’s also the Devil’s Marks—strategically-placed hickies under girls’ ears. There’s also some very specific rumors about ‘tests’. With Emory in the group, I’ve done my best to completely avoid that winding path of gossip. The less I know about my brother’s sex life, the better.
As I walk across the soft grass, I suddenly realize I’m not the only person in this part of the quad. Someone else is lurking around the base of the tower. I wait, feeling nervous about being out here alone. Now, all those absurd warnings my mother gave me about the buddy system come rushing back. What am I doing out here, all by myself? This is the perfect time and place to get snatched!
I stumble over a thick tree root, my lame leg faltering. I press my back against the trunk and wait. Whoever it is can’t be hanging around long. What are they doing, anyway?
That’s when I see the blue light of a phone cast over their face. My stomach clenches at the sight of Reynolds, leaning lazily against the stonework of the tower. His hair’s wet and his eyes are blank, fixed to the screen of his phone. There’s something wary in the way he holds himself, hand pushed tight into the pocket of his low-slung jeans, shoulders curling inward.
I wonder what he’s doing there, but just as quickly as I ask the question, I know the answer. I’m not surprised that he’s already found someone here to hook up with. I’ve been here for years and no guy has ever expressed the slightest interest in me, but him? I’ve overheard enough bathroom conversations and whispered classroom discussions to know that Sydney and I aren’t the only ones who have noticed that Reynolds is good-looking. Any number of Preston girls would be willing to bear a Devil’s mark from him.
What does surprise me is the sudden boulder of disappointment that crashes into the pit of my stomach.
I instantly cringe away from it, heart twisting, because I refuse—refuse—to find where those breadcrumbs lead me. Even if I were jealous—and even if that night had never happened—it’d be laughable. Embarrassing. Pathetic. Wanting Reynolds is something my thirteen-year-old self would do, because that person was young and stupid and hopelessly naive. The person I am now feels physically sick at the thought of it.
I wait another few minutes before I leave, not wanting to run into him. He lingers around the door, and for a second I think maybe he’s getting stood up. But that idea is heartily squashed when the door finally opens. It’s hard to make anything out except a shadowy figure standing in the doorway, but Reynolds bumps fists with whoever it is. He vanishes into the bell tower a moment later.
I realize my heart is racing as the door closes behind him. I take a deep breath before walking as quickly as I can back toward the stadium parking lot.
One thing nags at me as I reach my parents.
Guys don’t bump fists with a girl.
Who the heck was Reyn meeting?
I wait until it’s late, house quiet and still, to flip through the photos on the memory card slowly, taking in every face, each moment, as if I’m not looking for one photo in