Page 85 of Anarchy at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 4)
Shit.
Fuck, shit, motherfucker, shit.
Vic gets up from his spot at the table, taking his tray and dumping his trash on the way out. The fact that he even cares to do that, considering our now complete control of the school, shocks me to my core.
It also makes me get up and go after him.
“And there she goes,” Hael says, but somewhat like he’s relieved.
I push out of the sticker and Sharpie covered doors, letting them swing behind me as I speed-walk to keep up with Victor.
“You want the ring back, too?” I snap, which just makes him laugh. But he can’t hide his feelings for me anymore than I can for him. If we could both put up permanent shields against one another, we might just do it. We’d always love each other, but this … vulnerability? It hurts.
“Keep the ring, Bernie,” he tells me, sliding a smoke between his lips. He smokes when he’s nervous. I told you. I fucking told you. “You know it’s the right move.”
I do, too, and damn him for making me admit that shit.
“It is,” I say, “but I hate you for even being able to recognize that, through the blindness of your love for me.” It’s delivered deadpan, but every word is true. Victor knows it, so he doesn’t smile or laugh it off. He just looks at me.
“This isn’t the end of the world, okay? I’m not surprised she’s offering something like this. I always assumed she would.”
I look back at him, and for the briefest of seconds, I can’t decide if he’d commit hara-kiri right here in the hallway if I dared ask … or if he’s been using me all along. Victor Channing is terrible, right? He’s tall and strong, but he can also be stony at times. He kept me here, when he could’ve set me free, and we both fucking know it.
“Goddamn it, I love you,” I breathe, closing my eyes and putting the heel of my hand to my head. I hear him chuckle, but he doesn’t move toward me right now. He knows that if he does, we’ll both explode. This school is full of fucking creosote, so that might not be a good idea right now. The entire thing would go up in flames. “Get to class, Channing.”
“Same to you, Blackbird,” he retorts, as if we barely know each other. As if we aren’t soul mates, tied to the same rock and willing to drown together, just so we don’t have to be separated.
When I open my eyes, Victor is gone but Ms. Keating is standing at the end of the hall in a mustard yellow suit jacket with short sleeves, a black t-shirt, and sneakers. Her arm is still in a sling, and she has scars on her face, but she looks much more like herself now.
The Thing’s influence is fading, I realize, wetting my lips. My lipstick tastes like hate and regret or, if you wanted to be specific, you might say blackberries and vanilla. It’s the color of lividity on a dead body. I know that because I’ve seen it firsthand.
“Bernadette,” Ms. Keating says, walking slowly toward me, her sneakers squeaking across the floors. They’re much cleaner than you’d think, those floors, since they have to be mopped so often. Piss, vomit, cum, spit … blood. You name it, it’s on the floor of Prescott High.
I hate it here; I can’t wait to be done. I wish I’d been done months ago, but I’m going to enjoy the rest of my ride out of here. It’s the only way I’ll be able to move on knowing that I took advantage of every, single second.
I smile.
“Ms. Keating, you’re looking better.” My smile is so fake it hurts my mouth, so I drop it into the abyss opening up beneath my feet. Kali Rose-Kennedy is dead. Everything I asked for is coming true the way it’s supposed to and yet, I’m in deeper shit than ever. I’m dancing with the sons of rival gang leaders in dark clubs with throbbing music and flashing lights. “Is Sara Young asking for me again? Or is it Constantine this time?”
The vice principal shakes her head slightly, her own smile much less fake than my own.
“Nothing like that. I was just wondering if I could have you alone for a minute?”
I nod and follow her down the hallway to her office. Once we’re inside with the door closed, I curl my fingers around the back of one of her chairs but refuse to sit down. If I do, I’ll fidget, and she’ll wonder why. Can’t tell her I’m acting like a little bitch over something that means nothing while acting blasé as fuck about the things that really do, like that last night with Kali.
“How are you handling everything?” Ms. Keating asks, but her question is so vague that I could pretty much answer for anything happening in my life, talk freely about it without her ever knowing what it was.
