up a pinecone to chuck in his direction. Predictably, it misses, Emory having clearly sucked all of the throwing talent from our particular end of the gene pool. The yard is wet, coated in slippery dew. I throw another pinecone, which lands close enough to both alarm and piss the cat off. He gives me a surly, betrayed look, as if to say ‘I’m trying to feed you, woman!’
Having done this song and dance before, I know from experience that, half the time, the chipmunks are still alive—just stunned into submission—which means if I can grab the cat, I can probably save the pitiful creature. I pick up one more pinecone and throw it. This one skitters across the driveway, producing a long hissing sound that scares Firefly enough to drop the chipmunk.
Once it’s out of his mouth, that sucker dashes away.
Knew it.
“You’re welcome,” I mutter to its wake, working now to lunge for the cat before he can go after it.
I corner him behind an azalea, clutching the cat to my chest. Despite the loss of his prey, Firefly still deigns to bless me with an affectionate headbutt to my chin. “Yeah, yeah, you’re a fierce predator,” I pant, still catching my breath. That’s about when I hear the sound of an approaching vehicle, unable to do much more than blink before the driveway is awash in a flood of headlights. My brother’s truck—and I would recognize the bass from his sound system anywhere—comes to a slow stop.
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I freeze, trying to decide what to do. Run? I physically can’t do that—not well, at any rate. He’s sure to hear my shuffle-limp across the driveway. I could just step out, admit I was out here with the cat. My mind runs through all the questions that will lead to; why were you in the kitchen, is something wrong, why aren’t you asleep, do I need to tell Mom and Dad? It wouldn’t even be a threat. It’d be concern. I realize it’s stupid—insane, even—how ridiculously overbearing my family has become. But it’s true, nevertheless. Getting up for a popsicle could land me back in twice-a-week therapy.
That’s what leads me to option three: hide.
With the cat clutched to my pounding chest, I stay hidden behind the thick azalea and wait for my brother to head into the house. His door opens and shuts. Then... opens again? The second set of footsteps is what makes me realize he’s not alone.
I close my eyes against the tide of horror.
“So what do you think?” Emory says, voice low but echoing in the silence of the driveway.
It takes Reynolds a long moment to answer. When he does, his voice is low and reluctant. “Collins made it pretty clear at my meeting that this kind of stuff is off limits.”
“Well, that’s what those assholes get for trying to shut down a long-standing tradition,” my brother says.
There’s a shuffling sound. The jingle of keys. Firefly twitches. “Come on, be straight with me,” Reynolds says. “Is this just you being pissed that you couldn’t be leader of the Devils this year? Because I’ve seen the way these people act around you, Em. You don’t need it.”
Emory scoffs. “Dude, fuck what the Devils used to be. The way Hamilton and the guys before him ran shit? It was petty posturing. This is how we reclaim it, don’t you see? We’d be putting our own mark on Preston Prep, ushering in a new era for...” A thread of significance deepens Emory’s voice, “for the people we leave behind.”
Reynolds makes a soft scoff. “So that’s what this is about.”
“I’m not like Hamilton Bates,” Emory says. “He left and never looked back, but I don’t have that luxury. I know the Devils were stupid, okay? But I also know this school, and I know what the student body is like. Preston needs a group of upperclassmen—the right group of upperclassmen—to lead them. Because if they don’t, someone else will, and those people won’t be like us. It might be a bullshit power structure, but that’s still what it is—structure.”
“What it is,” Reynolds says, “is full-on secret society shit.”
“Which makes it infinitely cooler!” I dare a peek through the dense limbs and see Emory holding something in his hands. It looks like a book. “It’s all here. Every ritual. Every tradition. The way it was always meant to be. This—” I see Emory hold up the book, “—is legacy. Don’t you want to be known here for something other than...” Emory