I shrug even though I know why I was so sure. Every year since sophomore year—freshmen can’t be prefects—I’ve been Head Prefect. It’s not luck, it’s science. I deserve it, no matter what anyone says.
I get straight As, and I’m the president of debate club, Young Medics, and model UN. I can speak four languages, five if you count English, and I’m going to Yale for pre-med, or at least that’s the plan. There’s no one else who makes more sense for the role of Senior Head Prefect than I do—and there’s no one else who’s worked harder for it.
Head Prefect is the icing on the cake. It tells universities like Yale that I care about Niveus—which I do—and that I’m a leader—which I am. I’m more than qualified for Head Prefect. Even though I know I shouldn’t care, it annoys me that when girls know what they want and how they’re going to get it, they’re seen as cocky. But guys who know what they want? They’re confident or strong. The reason I should be Head Prefect is because I’ve earned it, and Jamie out of everyone should know that.
I know he probably didn’t mean it that way, though, so I brush off his comment as we head out of the crowded hallway. As I’ve come to expect over the past three years, the sea of blue parts; people move aside as we pass through, drinking in our faces, clothes, and hair. Ialways opt for a simple look: today it’s black thigh-high socks, a velvet Dolce & Gabbana jacket, and suede Jimmy Choo pumps. The more it looks like you didn’t try, the better. I place my hand in my blazer pocket, feeling the badge again, the one thing to show for all my achievements.Everything I’ve overcome.
I feel this energy coursing through me, excitement bubbling inside. I’m not sure what it is—maybe it’s finally being a senior, or maybe it is me beingcocky—but something tells me that this year will be different from the others.
That this year will finally be the year everything falls into place; the year that will make all the blood, sweat, and tears worthwhile.
3
DEVON
Monday
One of the only silver linings of being at Niveus is getting to miss some of my classes to work on my Juilliard audition piece.
Ever since I mentioned the possibility of applying to Juilliard, Mr. Taylor has helped “fix” the problem of my attendance. Going to the best colleges is something of a priority for us Niveus students, and so it’s not all that unusual to see upperclassmen miss classes for extra lessons in their chosen majors.
Like now. After first period ended, Mr. Taylor let me move to one of the smaller practice rooms. I’m meant to be in my fourth-period math class, but instead I’m here poking random notes out of the keyboard. I swivel in my chair, reaching for more blank music sheets from the cabinet behind me, but when I tug the drawer, it doesn’t give. I let out a sigh and drag myself out of the chair. I keep a large stack of music sheets in my locker for times when I need to scribble down ideas for new melodies.
I sprint down the steps and through the doors that lead to the hallway where my locker is, stopping short when the students there pauseto stare at me. All of them. Some smile with teeth and others look at me with calculating glares. As if they know me. People usually look right through me, like my body is covered by some invisibility cloak. It’s weird that they aren’t in class, not that I can judge or anything, seeing as I’m not in class either.
I edge toward my locker, feeling a little confused and disoriented.
“Is that the guy?” someone whispers. I turn back to find some of their gazes still fixed on me.
I try to focus on entering my combination, and not the sound of someone gasping, or what feel like judgmental stares digging into my back.
1… 8… 6—I start, but a tap on my shoulder interrupts me, and I drop my hand. I’m met by Mindy Lion, a girl in my music class who I speak to sometimes, whose long purple hair and bright purple lipstick are impossible to ignore, whether you want to or not.
“Hey, Devon… Are you okay?” she asks, face filled with pity—which is really weird, because one, I don’t suffer from resting bitch face, so I assume I look fine, and two, Mindy and I are acquaintances at most.
“Yeah, you?” I ask, because apparently we care about each other like that now.
“Yeah, of course. I just wanted to come over, because I know how hard it must be with the picture circulating and everything.”
“What picture?”
Her mouth drops open.
“You haven’t seen it?” she asks.
I shake my head, trying to look unbothered. I glance up; the people behind Mindy are blatantly rubbernecking at us now.
“What picture?” I repeat, my voice breaking a little. It’s like mybody knows before my mind that whatever she’s talking about, it’s not good.
Mindy fumbles around in her bright red designer bag and pulls her phone out, tapping, then presenting the screen to me.
I blink, looking at her phone closely. It’s a picture of two guys. I glance back up at her, because what has this got to do with me? But then a weird thought pulls my eyes back down to the picture. It’s not just two guys, it’s two familiar figures—one with a bruised neck, and the other, a face I know all too well. I see it every day in the mirror. They are in a room, their lips locked.
My stomach flips and jerks out of my body, heartbeat stopping altogether.
Oh my fucking god.
4
