Havoc at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #1) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,116

he turns away and heads inside.

And I … I get ready to return to the gates of hell.

Neither my mother nor the Thing are home when Aaron drops Heather and me off at the house, so I make the best of it by getting my sister's lunch ready for tomorrow and laying out our outfits.

In the morning, I wake up early and bundle Heather into warm clothes. Fall is in full-swing, and the air is crisp, a layer of frost teasing the pumpkins on our neighbor's lawn. They do fun things like that, the people who rent the other half of this duplex. They go to the pumpkin patch and carve jack-o’-lanterns, rake up piles of leaves and dive into them. They make fall seem fun. For me, it's just another season I have to survive.

Prescott High is in usual form, a fight breaking out between Stacey Langford's girls and some of Billie and Kali's friends. Good. They've been walking around like they own the place. I feel like Stacey's being smart, throwing her towel in with the winning side. Havoc won't forget that.

During English, I listen to Mr. Darkwood drone on and on, my attention focused on the back of Kali's head as she plays with her phone under her desk. She wasn't involved in the fight this morning. Neither was Billie. Instead, they let their friends fight Stacey's girls for them. Pathetic.

I turn my attention back to the half-finished poem in front of me. It's a haiku this time, because Mr. Darkwood doesn't like originality or experimentation. He prefers neat, clean, and formulaic.

She cannot have you

Not when I have yet to taste

Passion on your lips

Still no good. Lazy writing. I scribble it all out and start over.

Bad girls like bad boys

Sometimes they even love them

Not understanding their truth

Utter horseshit.

I turn the poem in anyway, dreading lunch as soon as I see the look on Hael's face in the hall. He's tight, angry, cagey. When he sits by us in the cafeteria, he may as well be in another universe. And Victor … Fuck. The way he looks at me makes it feel like my skin is splitting, like I'm crawling out of a cocoon with fragile, wet wings.

As soon as class is over, I bolt. I've biked or walked home by myself for years. I don't need to be babysat every single day. On my way out, I spot Callum heading down the sidewalk in the opposite direction, his black bag slung over one shoulder. Where it is he always disappears to, I don't know.

But I'm curious.

I check my phone. I have several hours until Heather gets home, so I change my direction and start off after him. He surprises me by skipping the bus station and walking all the way past Main Street with its shops and restaurants, an area that used to be deadly to traverse at night but that's slowly been improving as hipster millennials snatch up all the cheap houses on our side of the tracks.

He keeps going, disappearing into the bottom floor of a large industrial building near the warehouse district. I pause outside to read the letters on the glass. Southside Dreams Dance Company.

Huh.

I try the door and find it unlocked, moving down a red-painted hallway with various dance troupes featured in framed photos on either side. Once I get to the end, there's a sign that points toward a locker room and another that says Studios. I follow that one, ending up in another hallway with glass windows on either side. Studio A and B are empty, but when I get to Studio C, I find a single dancer, stretching his leg on the barre across from the window.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

My mouth drops open as I find Callum in black leggings, black ballet slippers, and a loose tank that shows off all of his ink. He stretches for a while, unhurried, unconcerned, and then moves over to turn on a stereo. I can't hear the music from out here, but I find myself glued to the glass, fingertips pressed against the cool surface as Cal starts to dance.

What the hell am I looking at right now? I wonder as he does a series of impressive spins, and then balances on one foot, lifting the other leg up so high that I imagine he could touch the back of his head with his toes if he wanted. Callum Park … is a ballerina?!

Only men aren’t called ballerinas, are they? But I know