for?” I ask quietly, thinking of Mom and Dad and how disappointed they’d be. In Wyatt, yeah, but also in me for letting this happen.
“Until the hearing. Colleges have courts now. How funny is that? And then I’ll most likely be expelled, the lady told me. Unacceptable, she said.”
“I can’t believe you put yourself in this mess,” I whisper, tears stinging my eyes. I blink them back. I feel myself on the verge of exploding at him.
He just looks at me sadly, not even angry. “I’m sorry, sis. I know I’ve let you down. I never meant to.”
I sigh. My anger defuses when he doesn’t snap at me like I expect him to. He makes a sniffing noise and I know he’s trying hard not to cry. “What the heck am I going to do now?”
“So you still want to be in college?”
He flinches. “Why would you ask me that?”
“The parties, the drugs, missing class …”
“That’s fair,” he murmurs, his hands worrying at each other. “But yeah, of course, I still wanna be in college. I love math. I know I messed up. And I’m scared of what will happen to me if I don’t have college to focus on.”
I lift my arm, gesturing at him. From the little dining area behind us, I can hear the click-click of Quinny and Zora’s spoons in their bowls of cereal. I ignore them and hug my brother close to me, thinking of a way to get us out of this mess.
Then it occurs to me.
I need a rich asshole who probably has connections—or the money to buy them, at least—to the university. Fortunately, I know where to find one of those.
And the rich asshole I have in mind? He just happens to need something from me.
I have to get through another shift at work before I can take any sort of serious action. It’s a personal kind of hell today, because all I can think about is Wyatt and his situation with the college. And Angelo, and how I’m hopefully going to be seeing him soon. I think about calling him as we go from hair straightener malfunction—singed arm hairs, ambulance transport definitely not required—to an old man who fell four hours ago and just made it to the phone, ambulance definitely required. But I don’t want Ricky to hear the call, so I text instead.
Need to speak with you, playboy.
He doesn’t text back for two hours, but then, finally: Where are the xoxos? No more love?
I respond right away, not caring about seeming needy: This is serious. I get off work at five.
Quicker this time: Swing by my place at six. But don’t make a habit of making demands of me. This is a one-time deal and I expect a reward.
Ha. Ha. I text. Your reward is me being there, asshole. And here: xoxo. Happy now?
He sends me a winky face and I have to stop myself from tossing my phone at the dashboard, because I really do hate that emoji. Despite everything, I’ve got a smile on my face.
But then I remember how terrified Wyatt looked before I left, skulking off to the bedroom. He’s acting like being kicked out of college means he has to throw himself into a life of partying, like it’s not a choice but an obligation.
Maybe it is, for him. Maybe that’s how an addict’s mind works.
Once my shift is over I grab my spare clothes from the locker, take a quick shower, and then head over to Angelo’s place. It’s half past six by the time I get there, thanks to New York traffic. I go into the building, reach the executive elevator at the back, and a man in a suit lets me up. As I ride to the top of the building, I try to think of how to let him know I want to accept the deal. I wonder if I’m clutching at straws here. Just because he’s rich and owns nightclubs, it doesn’t mean he can get rid of Wyatt’s problem. But money can buy a lot in this town. I just have to bank on that.
I walk down the frankly intimidating hallway—past more Roman-style sculptures and landscape paintings—and knock on the door. On the other side, I hear opera music playing quietly. Angelo opens up, wearing just his shirt and suit pants, slippers on his feet, and a glass of whiskey in his hand. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing his tensed forearms.