The vultures would claim it had been an accident. They’d be believed because they were Wickwood’s finest. Well-bred andrich, white teeth and perfect hair, their family names moneyed and sleek and attached to politicians and lawyers and CEOs.
Whereas Thomas fit none of those criteria, and he didn’t have the sense not to hit someone and be expelled before first period.
Andrew cupped his hands around his mouth. “THOMAS.”
Dozens of heads turned.
Only one mattered.
Thomas’s whole body tilted toward the sound, as if even amid the crush, his name from Andrew’s lips would always be heard. He shot one last furious look at the vultures and then burrowed through the masses to arrive breathless at Andrew’s side.
A second stretched between them, long enough for Andrew’s anxiety to beat like moths behind his ribs. Everything had gone wrong already with Dove vanished and Thomas late. After all, friendship lasted forever until it didn’t. Months apart could change someone. Stretch bonds. Break them—
“Are you okay?” Thomas said.
Andrew hesitated before nodding, because this wasn’t their normal greeting. But then Thomas launched into him, and the way he crushed his arms around Andrew’s shoulders said everything.
It only lasted a second. Then Thomas pushed away and thumped Andrew’s shoulder, his smile a blazing star. “There’s nothing of you. Didn’t you eat this summer?”
“Isn’t that what grandmas say?” Andrew let a wry smile play on his lips, and it didn’t fade when Thomas shoved him.
“It’s what people who are hungry and projecting say. I’mstarving.” He snatched for Andrew’s satchel and hooked it overhis shoulder. “Can’t believe they don’t feed us breakfast first day back. Come on, we’ll dump your stuff before assembly starts. How was summer? Hell?”
“Always. How was…” Andrew hesitated, doing a precautionary sweep over Thomas. To be sure he was whole.
To be sure he was real.
Everything looked the same—auburn hair and sharp jaw and face like someone had upturned a whole jar of freckles on him. He was at least a head shorter than most boys his age, and he wore his uniform like he’d been in a fight—white shirt scrubby and untucked, tie a mangled noose at his throat. No blazer. No vest. Ink-stained fingers and paint smudged under his jawline—
No, not paint, a scab. Andrew resisted the urge to reach out and rest his thumb over the shape of it.
“I, for one,” Thomas said, “want to punch Bryce Kane and his crew, but that’s not new.”
“Was that sketchbook—”
“Not much in it. Forget about it.” Thomas scooped a page off the ground and stuffed it into his pocket. “Do you need anything? Do you need me to… I don’t know. I just—” He scrubbed at his hair and tilted his head toward Andrew.
He shouldn’t be fussing like this. He hadn’t even asked why Dove was in a mood or why they’d arrived late. He hadn’t even launched into a proper rant about Bryce Kane and his vultures, Thomas’s personal nemeses, who he antagonized as much as he got picked on. Instead he seemed jittery, as if he’d had too many coffees and couldn’t quite keep eye contact.
“I’m okay,” Andrew said, but he didn’t addWhy wouldn’t I be?
“After everything last year…” Thomas winced, then shook himself a little.
“What about you?” Andrew said. “You survived? But your phone… Did your parents, um…”
Thomas stiffened, his whole body tucking into itself. He messed with one of his sleeves before jamming his hands into his pockets. “I don’t want to talk about them,” he muttered, and forcibly took off into the crowd.
He was always cagey about his parents, but this was something else.
Andrew hefted his suitcase and followed. He had to trust they’d settle back into their normal rhythms, but it worried him in a real and deep way how Thomas wore armor when talking about his family. No one looked at the students of Wickwood, with its extravagant tuition fees and high test score demands, and questioned what kind of people their parents were.
He caught up to Thomas and they took the stairs in sync. Two steps at a time. Knuckles brushing as they reached the top.
Andrew looked down on reflex, not sure if the touch had been an accident. That was when he saw Thomas’s sleeve—the one he’d tried to hide before.
It could be paint. Thomas was nothing if not a chronic mess of untucked corners and spills and mussed hair and artwork staining his cuffs.
But this stain was the red of spilled wine. Splotchy, as if it had been scrubbed with a paper towel.
