Nothing he ever told me was true. I was stupid not to haverealized that sooner, blinded by the idea that someone could actually love a person like me.
Maybe what I thought was Jamie’s love was never love at all.
They say love and hate are the same, just at different ends of the blade.
I hesitate, before drawing up the list of suspects in my mind and adding Jamie’s name to the spot beneath Ruby’s.
15
DEVON
Monday
Home, lately, has been the highlight of my day.
Before Aces, I used to avoid it as much as I could. Despite how much I love my ma and my brothers, I wanted to avoid the reminders of all the bad that happened within those four walls, from my dad leaving, to my ma struggling, to having to live and sleep in the box I share with my brothers, constantly wishing for an out.
But now I run to the bad for comfort.
I walk out of the school, along the polished streets and past perfect homes, until I reach the unpolished parts of town, where I can’t afford to look down anymore.
I cross the road and put my hood up, not wanting the boys in front of Dre’s place to see me again. A lot of the pain and bruising from Friday has subsided. My eye still kills, but I can manage—plus I’ve been somewhat high on the pain meds Ma got from work. They numb everything.
Everything but Dre.
They can’t distract or make me unlive Dre breaking up with me. It doesn’t feel like we broke up—it feels like I’ve been banished. Likewe can’t be friends anymore. I don’t even need to kiss him or love him if he doesn’t want me to; I just need to be his friend. But even that’s not an option.
The pain meds can’t stop me from caring about what people are saying in school either. What Aces will say next about me, and what it might do to my future.
A figure passes me, and I look up to see a familiar shaved head, pink skin, and a green backpack.
“Jack?” I say loudly, but he ignores me and crosses the street. I watch him fist-bump one of Dre’s boys, putting his backpack down as he leans against the car parked in front with them. I’d messaged him, asked if he wanted to walk home together. He didn’t reply.
Jack never wanted to associate with them when I did, and now he does.
My phone beeps.
Want to hang out?—T
I haven’t heard from Terrell since Friday night, when he asked if I was okay.
I look at Jack, who’s taken a joint from one of the guys now, his eyes crinkled from laughing too hard at a joke one of them must have told. He turns, focusing on me. I pause, rooted to the ground as a chilling smile creeps onto his face, joint hanging from his lips. I think back to the message about him doing drugs and hanging out with Dre’s boys, and how little Jack seemed to care. Maybe… it wasn’thimAces wanted to get a reaction out of.
What more does Aces want from me? I don’t get it. They’ve successfully pushed away my only two friends, outed me at school, and made me lose the only way I could get some extra money for Ma.And for what? Surely there’s nothing else left? I’m just going to keep my head down, concentrate on my music, and get the hell out of here.
I pull my focus away from Jack’s face, texting Terrell back.Sure, I’m on my way.
I have a good memory. People, places, things. That’s why I do well on exams. I got a really high score on my SATs, which I don’t think proves whether or not I’m smart, just that I can remember a lot of basic shit, like how to get to Terrell’s place. But apparently not the important things, likewhoTerrell is. And when I kissed him.
His house is white, with a bright-red door and63, large, at the top.
It has a white picket fence, but some of it has fallen over, and each panel is cracked and chipped.
There’s a creak of hinges, followed by the slam of wood. I look up and Terrell is there—huge smile, circular eyeglasses, and medium dreads pulled back.
“You look tired,” he tells me as I walk in, and we go down his short hallway—wallpaper dark green, carpeted floors black—and straight into his living room. I didn’t really get a good look at Terrell’s place when I came here a few days ago. First thing I notice are the shelves, brown wood, filled with well-worn books and magazines. There’s a bulky, old TV in the center, placed on top of a DVD player with DVDs cramming the little shelf space beneath.
“School’s tiring,” I say, still scanning the room.
