Three
CADE
I already hate this fucker.
Dad says I'm a bloodhound. And yeah, I'll admit, I have an uncanny ability to sniff out people’s true intentions. When I was six or seven, I clocked a teenage volunteer at carpool for taking too much interest in a girl from my class, so I called him out for being a creep, which may have incited the entire horde of antsy students to chant “PED-O, PED-O,” landing my ass in the principal's office. BUT, the girl told her mom that he'd been trying to get her to come home with him, meaning I wasright. (Obviously.) I expected Dad to be furious, but surprisingly, all he said was,“Never second-guess your intuition, Cade. It’s a gift.”
His words stuck with me and ever since, I've honed that gift into a powerful skill. It's certainly helped me suss out who is worthy of my time. Girls, guys— anyone in between, for that matter— are all fair game if they pass my perceptive “screening.”
But my current stance has nothing to do with who I find attractive andeverythingto do with who I find deplorable.
This dude?
Absolutelyreeksof bad vibes.
Which no one seems to notice— as usual.
It’s not one thing in particular I can pinpoint.It's a conglomerate of deceptive mannerisms, carefully chosen words, and calculated emotive responses that converge into a meticulously crafted persona.
I tilt my head, squinting at Sinclair as he effortlessly steers the conversation back to himself. Men like him love to peacock, flashing their fancy titles with faux modesty; this bastard has Dad and Sebastian eating out of the palms of his ‘righteous’ hands.
“... would just need to complete the community service credits in order to qualify for the scholarship. St. Gemma’s Church hosts Bible camp the week before school starts, where most kids volunteer to get it out of the way,” explains Chief Jesus Freak.
Dad nods enthusiastically, glancing at my stepbrother, who looks ready to bust a nut. Dude has fucking stars in his eyes like this Preacher of Bullshit is promising to save his soul from eternal damnation.
Vomit.
“You both have the GPAs for it,” Dad adds unhelpfully, elbowing Sebastian as he grins at me over his shoulder. “Not to mention you kids could sleep in since Kingsbury is right around the corner.”
I cross my arms and bite my tongue. In any other instance, I’d throw a colossal fit about attending some exclusive private school for juniorandsenior year, but Kingsbury’s art program is light-years better than Fort Manor High’s and their college acceptance rate is over 90 percent. If I have to slum it with some snobby rich bitches to secure a place in one of my top four choices, I’ll fucking do it.
Doesn’t mean I want to suck up to Pastor Sinclair, who also happens to be Kingsbury's principal.(Shocker.)A badge of Holy Honor clearly isn't enough to stroke his ego; he has to lord over a bunch of teenagers to really get his rocks off.
Chest puffed and agenda secured, Sinclair goes into a spiel on how to complete enrollment, then exchanges phone numbers with Dad beforefinallyescorting himself out.
The second he's gone, my lungs remember how to fullyexpand. Except the air has been tainted with the vile fumes of incense, which worm their way into my brain and crack open a sealed vault, allowing a faint whisper to seep out.
You can't hide from the devout— they're all-seeing.
My fingers shake with the urge to light up. Thank fuck Sebastian the Snitch and the cashier didn't catch me swiping two packs of cigs from the checkout counter earlier because I might need both to get my shit together.
As Dad heads upstairs to help Candace unpack, I spin on my heel and book it out the back slider. My sneakers barely touch the deck when I hear heavy footsteps following close behind.
Here we fucking go. Rolling my eyes to the cloudless sky, now more orange than blue, I bring a cigarette to my lips.
“You were surprisingly quiet,” Sebastian huffs.
I flick the lighter over the end. Inhale. Hope Mr. Goody Two-Shoes gets the hint and goes back inside.
He doesn’t.
“That’s a disgusting habit.”
Sighing out a stream of smoke, I turn to face my stepbrother.
He gawks at me as if I'm chowing down on a cockroach. From our brief interactions over the last six months, he’s acted like any other southern golden boy, boasting quiet entitlement, an astounding moral superiority complex and plenty of cliche conservative values.
But I’m not fooled.
