The hallway is empty. I’m ten minutes late because I’m running on no sleep, two cups of coffee, and anxiety. And there are cameras around, but he’s the football captain, so he can get away with murder. Probably literally.
I don’t move to pick up the scattered textbooks that fell when he ambushed me.
“Sure it’s a good idea for you to skip classes? You’re not the sharpest tool in the shed as it is.” I feign disinterest and nonchalance, but I’m not feeling it anymore. I’m so drained, I’m surprised I’m still standing.
“Too funny, Followhill. I wonder…” He gets in my face, tilting his head with a manic smile on his lips. “Would you still be so funny when I show you what I have?”
He raises his arm, and it’s my little black book. My mouth goes dry. I’m going to faint. Shit. Via really did it this time.
I plaster my back to the lockers and try to breathe, but the oxygen doesn’t hit my lungs. I think I’m having a panic attack. A real one.
“You look a little pale, Queen Daria. Where are your minions to bronze your face back into fake perfection?” He laughs boisterously.
“What do you want?” I grit out. I already know whatever it is, I’m going to give it to him. No one can get their hands on my diary. The prospect of people knowing what I did to my classmates or with Principal Prichard is paralyzing, but the real kicker is Mel. If she finds out I killed both her dream and Via’s, I will lose her forever.
I would lose my everything.
Gus taps his chin, tilting his head skyward, my journal still held high in the air above his head. I glare at it, willing for it to fly across the narrow space between us into my hand like in a Harry Potter book.
“Let’s see. What do I want? Oh, I know! I want for Las Juntas to throw the play-off game and give me what I deserve—a victory.”
To that, I actually laugh. It’s a hysterical laugh, but it bubbles from my throat all the same. I drag a hand over my collarbone and neck, wiping away cold sweat.
“Shouldn’t you be asking for something I can actually give you?”
“You’re fucking the captain. It’s in the journal. Surely, you have power over him.”
I wince. “It happened once, and he doesn’t care about me.” It’s a brutal admission, but he has to know I can’t make this happen.
He rolls his eyes at me. “Popped your cherry, huh? Lucky bastard. Anyway, you asked for the price, and I gave it to you. It’s your problem now. Not mine.”
“I can’t do that,” I croak. I’m losing grip of my indifference. My mask is falling. I can’t give him what I don’t have. “He’ll never do anything for me. He’s with Adriana.”
“For all I care, threaten to tell Adriana he’s been fucking you all along to make him do it. Whatever it takes to make his team shitty come Friday. Otherwise…” He waves my journal around as if it doesn’t harbor all my secrets and insecurities and vulnerability. As if the Hulk doesn’t live there. “This shit is going to be printed out—every single page of it—into thousands of copies and stuck on every single locker and inch of the bathroom, art room, lab, and locker rooms. I’ll post it on every social media site, and I’ll make sure you can never escape it, no matter how fucking far you go. And don’t even try to pull the parents’ angle, Followhill, because the entire school would kill you for ruining the state championship for us.”
He turns around and stalks down the empty hall. I chase him, choking on my own saliva. I’m too stunned to produce tears. My life as I know it is about to be over. I trip over my own legs, grasping his backpack so I don’t hit the ground. He turns around sharply, growling.
“Hands off, Followhill.”
“You can’t do this to me.” My knees hit the floor. How fitting. From this angle, I can finally see the view for what it is. All my mistakes, the people I chose to affiliate myself with—the jocks, the fakers, the popular kids—are ricocheting back at me. Gus holds my future—my reputation—between his sausage fingers.
“Please,” I say, stripping off my remaining pride. “I beg you. I will do anything else. Tell me what to do. I can’t get to Penn. No one can get to Penn.”