The woman sitting at reception could have been taken out of one of the fashion magazines Mom likes to keep in her office for show. This area is the most modern place in the entire school, with the ridiculously sleek black leather couch only parents are allowed to sit on. There’s a disgusting amount of art all around the room and a giant ball-shaped sculpture in the center, all donated by someone’s family. Bribery is my guess.
In my pocket, I flip the lid to my lighter open and closed, feeling the six sides of the object. I’m itching to see the blue flame shift to copper in my hands.
Following the hallway to the side of the reception area, I pass one of the two entrance doors into the headmaster’s room. Then I’m in front of the student access door I should have come through to begin with. This particular area of the school is straight out of the 1980s, completely opposite to the reception, with worn wooden floors, yellow-tinted windows, and one too many different patternsaround the place; floral curtains, maroon paisley cushions, and a green chevron vase that reaches my sternum.
It’s where Blaze had so excitedly agreed to be the worst tour guide known to mankind—the kleptomaniac couldn’t even figure out how to exit the building when the door was right in front of us. She’s going places; far just isn’t one of them.
The same woman from the last time I was here sits behind her desk, typing with a single finger. Spiderwebs crease her leathered skin, making her look as ancient as the structure most of this school is made out of.
“Who is it?” I say while approaching her desk.
“Pardon me?” Administrative grandma’s tone is just as sour as her face. The deep divots of her wrinkles leave her with a permanent frown.
I give her a blank look. “I have a call.”
None of us are meant to have cell phones here, but it’s safe to say that at least 90 percent of the students do. Myself included—a privilege earned by my father’sgenerousdonation to the Science Department.
Her loose skin moves as she gives me a mocking once-over. “Use your words.”
I turn to walk away but only make it as far as the door before I hear her sigh. “You’ve got ten minutes.” I glance over my shoulder at her as she gestures toward the phone on the wall, the spiral cord long since lost its bounce.
The only reason I’ve made it this far is because I’d rather make my ears bleed for a couple minutes listening to my father than be stuck in solitary where anything could happen.
“I only need two,” I mutter and begrudgingly whip the phone offthe receiver. “What?”
“Hello to you too, Kohen.”
Irritation slices up my spine at the sound of his voice.
Fucking Kiervan.
The lighter digs into my palm so hard I’d be surprised if it doesn’t bruise. “What do you want?” I gripe.
“Can’t a man talk to his little brother?”
“Yes, but not you.”
“You wound me. What would you do without me?”
“A lot more.”
“Please.” He chuckles. “Give me a break with that attitude. I took the spotlight while you ran away at night to ruin your life. Dad would know about everything you get up to if it weren't for me.” Kiervan uses the same taunting tone every time we speak. He wants a “thank you” he’ll never get from me. “The type of people you associate with. Specifically,a personyou associate with.” Kiervan tacks on the last part and receives the exact reaction he hoped for.
“What the fuck do you want?” I bark into the phone, fighting the urge to whip out the lighter. Whoever had the gift of foresight must have anticipated people like me because half this place is fucking fireproof.
“Language,” the administrator hisses, but I don’t pay her any mind.
“If you’ve got nothing better to do than talk shit, I suggest you never call this place again,” I hiss into the receiver.
“So hostile, baby bro. Aren’t they teaching you manners over there? Maybe I should suggest to Dad that he send you to the military. If you don’t come back trained, then hopefully you’ll come back in a coffin. Then you’d finally be doing something good for this family.”
I slip my hand into my pocket to flick the cap open and roll my finger over the wheel. The urge to see the flames or slam my fists into something tangible snakes beneath my chest and winds its way around my lungs.
I can’t do either of those two things when the son of a bitch guard is watching me. “Let’s add Dad to the call, and he can hear about your extracurricular activities,” I say.
“Don’t throw threats when there’s a bigger one around.” Kiervan sighs, and it only pisses me off more. “I guess that’s why they have me to think and for you to stay out of the way.”
“No, you pay other people to think for you.” My brother’s intelligence isn’t about understanding and implementing theory; his talent for manipulation is where he shines.
