She jumps at the sound of my seat squeaking on the floor, but visibly clenches tight, pitching forward.
The whole class is like that.
I still get all these wild, nagging impulses to reach for her hair. I’ve spent the last couple weeks playing with it in class, even having halfway learned to do a braid while Elana looked on, snickering at how lumpy and twisted it looked.
My knee bounces throughout the lecture, and I wish I could just get all these hard parts over with. Seeing each other in classes, the halls, pretending like we aren’t both being singed from the inside out.
Sugar begins packing her bag long before the bell rings, and when it does, she’s out of her seat like a bolt of lightning, not even waiting for the other girls at the door. I take my time, listlessly shoving my shit into my bag and sliding from my chair.
Reyn doesn’t even wait around for me.
The rest of the week goes like that. I go to class, people glare at me, Sugar avoids me, I eat lunch with the lacrosse team, I go back to my dorm and get drunk until three in the morning, when I finally manage to nod off to sleep, only to wake four hours later and do it all over again.
On Friday, I’m on my way to lunch, cutting through the Arts wing, when I pass the weekly art exhibit. The twins are adjusting a piece on the display, bickering and huffing like they always do. I slow my roll, because let’s face it, it’s been a hard few days, and getting a little love from my biggest fans would help a lot. I stop to inspect the photo being hung—a closed eye covered in glittery eyeshadow and thick, rainbow-colored eyelashes.
“It needs to go up on the right,” Micha says, hands on his hips. Michaela shifts the frame up and down. “Nope, too high. Now it’s too low.” He throws his hands up. “I’ll just do it myself.”
“I can adjust a frame,” Michaela snipes, rolling her eyes at her brother.
The move forces her to look over his head, locking eyes with me. I give her a grin, expecting a smile in return, maybe a little blushing, but instead I get a hard glare.
“I think it looks great,” I try, digging my hands into my pockets. “Who took this? Michaela?”
The twins exchange a knowing look, then turn back to the frame.
“Do you need any help?” I reluctantly ask.
“No, we’re all good,” Micha says, waving his hand at me dismissively.
Awkwardly, I reply, “Okay, cool. Well, I think the photo looks great—whoever took it.” Neither of them look at me, and I think maybe for the first time in my life, I’ve been rejected by a freshman. That didn’t even happen to me when I was a freshman.
Ouch.
“Well, good luck with the exhibit. I know you guys worked hard on it.”
“Mmhmm,” Michaela says, using her thumb to adjust the picture again.
Clearly not getting anything out of those two, I start to walk off.
But then Micha calls, “Hey!”
I turn. “Yeah?”
“I thought you were different from your brother,” he says, lips pressed into a tight line, “but I guess I was wrong.”
Double ouch.
I continue on my way, letting the insult settle around my shoulders. I never thought I was like Heston. The idea was laughable. But the school, the Devils, even the twins all think I’m a manipulative asshole who’ll do anything to get in a girl’s pants and then break her heart.
Maybe I’m a better actor than I thought.
Resigned to another night of getting shitfaced alone in my room, I enter the dining hall and grab a tray. I pretend I don’t feel the laser beams on my back as I carry it across the room and sit with the other guys on the lacrosse team. I keep acting like the food I’m shoveling in my mouth doesn’t taste like ash, and the wise-cracking jokes I share with the guys aren’t a cover-up for the fact I feel like shit.
And I know Sugar’s not feeling great. Every time I manage a passing glance in the hallways, in Dr. Ross’s class, I can clearly see she looks like hell. It’s not just the purple smudges under her eyes or the fact I haven’t seen her smile in days. It’s in her hunched, defeated shoulders, and the way she sits with an empty