“Good…” His eyes drift down to Scotty, next to me, now fast asleep. “Wanna go somewhere to talk?” He says this with a smirk.
I start to get up, surprised by how painful it is to do so.
An image flashes suddenly in my mind: someone pushing me down, me falling hard, crying, screaming for help—
“I’d love to talk,” I say as his arms slip around my waist, brushing over the bruises on my hip…
There’s a sharp pang in my head, the memory jolting my nervous system out of whack. I take a shaky breath and smooth down my school skirt, feeling a little sick. I don’t bother replying to Scotty’s message. I got the answer I was looking for: He’s not Aces.
Jamie taps my arm, his smile and eyes wide. “You’re thinking too hard. I can literally hear your brain cells screamingHelp… there’s only two of us left!”
I roll my eyes. “My brain cells can manage,” I reply in a whisper. Jamie quirks an eyebrow up with anif you’re surelook, then turns back and continues defacing the instructions sheet we were given. He scrawls numbers and symbols all over it, like he usually does to pass time. I sometimes wonder how Jamie and I are in AP classes together—he literally never pays attention.
I tap his arm and he looks at me again.
“You forgot one of your passwords at my house the other day,” I say, staring at his thick black marker pen.
He looks confused. “My password?”
“Yeah, the 1717 one.”
His grin fades into a subtler expression. “Ah,thatpassword. I don’t need it anymore,” he says.
“How can you not need a password anymore?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Needed it, then didn’t.”
I nod, not pressing further. Jamie is random like that sometimes. He goes back to writing on the page.
My head still throbs, so I try to focus on something else, hoping the pain subsides. My gaze drifts past Jamie, landing on Belle, sitting at one of the tables nearby. Her hair is falling over the side of her face while her chin rests on her manicured hand, face flushed. I notice she’s gripping the pencil so hard her knuckles are white.
I’d ask her if she’s okay, but we aren’t friends.
And so, I don’t.
I imagine her blond hair matted in red, blood dripping all over her uniform and forming a puddle on the ground.
Then I blink, and the image disappears.
13
DEVON
Friday
We need to talk—Dre
Daniel, the weird quarterback in my music class who’s taken a sudden interest in speaking to me, had the courtesy to show me the Aces text when I got to class this morning, before asking me what my “street name” is.
So I think I can guess why Dre messaged me. He wanted me to stay out of Aces’s mouth, yet for some reason I’m basicallyallAces seems to talk about. I want to find out who is behind this, so I can ask them how they know so much and why they won’t leave me alone. It must be someone I accidentally pissed off.
My heart is thumping so hard I hear it in my ears as I walk toward Dre’s apartment. My school shirt is drenched and clinging to me, despite the chill of the afternoon air.
I grew up here. Right here, with the rest of these boys. We went to the same elementary school. We witnessed things no kid should see, like snitches getting stabbed and shot, fathers being handcuffed and taken away. We went to middle school together too, until oneday an older guy, Malik, decided to beat me so hard after school that I had to drop out.
I remember everyone joining in—even the boys I thought were my friends.
They were shouting slurs, laughing as I screamed and bled.
