Havoc at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #1) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,133

we need the SUV for. Maybe Aaron just doesn’t want his van involved in a confrontation?

There are three types of parties in Springfield: Fuller High parties, Prescott parties, and Oak Valley Prep parties. Prescott students wouldn’t be caught dead at an Oak Valley Prep party; it’s social suicide. Seeing fellow students kowtow to money just isn’t our thing in the southside. But we will (and often do) crash Fuller High parties, if only to see the looks on those preppy faces. Security is lighter than at an Oak Valley party, and the Fuller kids don’t look at us like some sort of social project or bad girl/bad boy trophy to tease their parents with. They just don’t want us there which, of course, makes us want to be there more.

But there’s nothing like a Prescott party, and everybody knows it. If an Oak Valley Prep student or a Fuller High student knows when and where a Prescott party is taking place, they will get there by any means necessary. As long as they don’t act like they’re better than us, we let them stay.

So tonight, the pre-Halloween bash that’s being held in the old Prescott High building—the condemned one that’s just ten blocks down from our actual school—is going to be lit.

The Charters and the Ensbrooks, including Billie and Kali, they’ll all be there.

I see the cars start to line the curb several blocks away from our actual destination, and my heart leaps in my throat. This isn’t like what we did to Principal Vaughn, out in the middle of nowhere with nobody to see. Here, everyone will see. Students from all three schools will be in attendance.

Hael slows the SUV down, and the boys all focus their attention out the window, like they’re looking for something.

“That it?” Vic asks, pointing out the window at a blue car with white stripes down the hood.

“That’s it,” Hael says softly, his voice drenched in melancholy as he puts the Navigator into reverse. “A fully restored 1970 El Camino SS. This hurts my heart. You know that, right? You know that?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Vic says with a sideways smirk. “Get out Bernadette.”

“Okay …” I start, climbing out with Vic, Aaron, Oscar, and Callum. Cal closes the door behind us and waves Hael off. He revs the Navigator’s engine a few times, and then hits the gas. At the last second, he spins the wheel and smashes the big, black SUV into the much smaller El Camino. There’s a screech of metal on metal as the smaller car flips over and skids across the pavement. Hael pushes it into the chain-link fence, and then backs up again, the smell of burnt rubber singeing the air.

“The ’72 Datsun 240Z?” he calls out the window, and Oscar nods. “Fuck my life. I’m going to classic car hell for this.” Hael puts the Navigator in drive again and rams a small brown car parked just two vehicles up from the El Camino, sending it flying into the side of an abandoned brick building. It crumples like a piece of aluminum foil, and I cringe.

“Mitch’s car,” Vic tells me, pointing at the El Camino. “Kyler’s car.” He nods in the direction of the Datsun, and then flips a middle finger at a hideous salmon-colored Ford down the block. “Kali’s car.”

It’s a shitbox that’s worth maybe a tenth of what the other cars were, but I get great pleasure from watching Hael destroy it with the stolen SUV. He hits it so hard that the windshield explodes, and my racing pulse rachets up a notch.

Anybody with a car has status at Prescott High; even a rolling trash heap like Kali’s Thunderbird is coveted. That’s it, by the way. The only three cars owned by their entire crew.

Hael climbs out of the Navigator, leaving it parked where it is, the grill all up Kali’s car’s ass.

“Disconnected the Bluetooth,” Hael tells Cal, tossing his phone over. “Let’s go check out this party, shall we?”

His swagger is back as he turns around and we take off up the street. There are a couple students here and there, gaping at us, but they know better than to get involved. We pass through the open front gates of the old Prescott High. It’s so packed with asbestos and lead paint, we’ll probably get cancer just walking in the doors. But it’s sort of a thing at Prescott not to care about shit that may or may not happen sometime in the future. We