Chapter 5

Knox Heights High School is a consolidated school, meaning it's made up of students and teachers from multiple districts. While Rowville itself has an elementary school (a literal house on the prairie), the older kids—unless homeschooled—have no other choice than to travel for an hour each way.

My brother, Harley, had he lived long enough, would have graduated with four hundred of his peers.

Four hundred is more than double the entire student body at Knox Heights.

The school itself has seen better days, which is to be expected. The classrooms still use chalk on blackboards, and the classes are a mix of whoever wants to learn similar subjects, regardless of grade level. There's no proper structure, no timetable, no actual system to keep it all from falling apart, and yet… for the most part, it works. It's almost as if the students use a homeschool-style curriculum, but they all merge at one central location to do it, and that location has classrooms and teachers and kids and—let's not forget the most important aspect—sports.

I've been at the school for a week now, and even though there are a lot of obvious differences between my old school and new, one thing remains the same: the cliques.

The jocks and the cheerleaders, the stoners and the loners, the freaks and the geeks, and everything in between. I didn't belong to a single clique at my old school, so I didn't expect to suddenly find my place at Knox, and I was okay with that. But, on my first day, I was in the cafeteria with a tray full of food in my hands, looking around the room for a place to sit, when a girl behind me tapped my shoulder. She was a skinny blonde with freckles spread evenly across her face, and she spoke, but so quietly I couldn't hear the actual words until she cleared her throat and repeated, "You're new, right?"

I nodded.

"You can sit with me and Sammy… if you want."

I bit my lip. Almost smiled. "Okay."

She introduced herself to me as Jeannie and then led me to a table where another girl, Sammy, was munching on carrot sticks while reading, and even though she had headphones on, she looked up when we approached and offered a smile. Dark brown hair pulled up in a high ponytail, Sammy didn't speak, but she welcomed me by moving her bag off the table so I could put my tray down. As soon as Jeannie sat down, she slipped on her headphones too, and began watching something on her phone. The next day, I sat with them again. And again, they occupied themselves without including me, which was fine by me. On the third day, I brought out my own headphones, plugged into nothing, and pulled out some homework I should've done the night before. It was only then that Sammy finally looked up from her book and asked what I was working on. "Econ," I told her, and she nodded, told me she took it last year and that she still had her notes if I ever got stuck. I thanked her. She nodded again, and then she put her book down, packed her headphones away, and a second later, Jeannie did the same. Sammy leaned forward, her elbows on the table between us, and, eyes narrowed, she asked, dead serious, "You're escaping a maze. There are three doors in front of you. The first door leads to a pit of lava. The second door leads to a room filled with deadly gas, and the third door leads to a tiger that hasn't eaten in three months. Which door do you choose?"

"Third door," I answered, not skipping a beat.

"Why?" Jeannie asked, looking between us.

"The tiger hasn't eaten in three months. It's already dead."

From there, they stopped wearing their headphones, and thus, I guess, we somehow became our own clique? I don't know. But over the next couple of days, I learned that Sammy and Jeannie are cousins and live in a family compound halfway between Knox Heights and Rowville. They detest most kids around here, because they come from Newton, an affluent town about ten minutes away in the opposite direction.

Sammy is the leader, or at the least, the more outspoken and confident one. Jeannie speaks only when she has something important to say, and when she does speak, it's so quiet I really have to strain to hear her. Sammy, on the other hand, has no problems leading the conversation. She likes to gossip, which is fine and completely understandable given the lack of other things to do, and as long as the gossip isn't about me, then I'll sit and listen in. Besides, it's not as if I know who they're gossiping about, anyway.

The three things I was initially concerned about haven't happened yet, but that doesn't mean I've let my guard down.

The winner of Me vs. Life is yet to be determined.

I tell Dad all this while he washes down his truck, and I pretend as though I'm helping. He wasn't supposed to be home until Sunday morning, but he finished his job early and was there to surprise me when I got off the bus earlier. It's Friday afternoon now, and that means we have the entire weekend together. Mom is… somewhere else. We barely see each other now that school started. Some days I come home and she's asleep in her room; other days I come home and it feels as though she hasn't been there at all.

"Shame your new friends don't live around here. They could save you catching the bus," Dad says.

I shrug. "It's fine."

Dad finishes pressure-washing the wheel well, then turns to me. "Just give me a few more months, Low. Hopefully, I'll have enough saved up by then to get you a car."

"You already bought me a car," I remind him, slapping a wet rag on the headlight.

"Yeah, but we had to sell it."

"Doesn't take away from the fact that you bought me a car, Dad. And not every girl is that lucky." I throw the rag at his head, but he catches it in time. "I don't need you to buy me two. Besides, I got a job!"

"Already?" he asks, surprised.

Nodding, I answer, "At that skating rink. First shift is Wednesday night. I'll be working Wednesday and Friday nights, and then Sunday days."

Dad hoses down a wheel for a few seconds before switching it off again. "I'll be gone by Wednesday," he says. "And your mom will be at work. How are you going to get home?"

I point at the bike leaning against the side of the house. "I have transport."

He stares at the bike, lost in his own thoughts, and then he goes back to washing. I grab another rag from a bucket and slap it against the grill. When Dad stops spraying, I stop slapping. He says, "Have you seen that basketball kid again?"

By basketball kid, he means Jace. And unless he's been blind to the multiple shrines around town, Dad should know his name. And yes, I have seen him. It would be hard not to.

If I thought the town of Rowville worshipped number twelve, it was nothing compared to the hallways of Knox Heights High. Life-size posters of him hang in the hallways. Girls whisper his name when he passes, and guys chant his name when he's not even around.

And, as strange as it sounds, the familiarity of that level of reverence for a single athlete is almost comforting to me. I was used to it. All I had to do was replace Jace with my brother, and it felt like home.

Kind of.

The difference between Jace and Harley is that Jace has no idea the fandom that follows him. Either that, or he just doesn't care.

"I see him around school, but we don't talk." Jace doesn't look at me. Doesn't even acknowledge my existence. It's a good thing, I suppose. If he doesn't think about me, then maybe he'll forget about what my mother did to him. I know he hasn't told anyone—yet—because I would've heard it from Sammy by now.

I contemplated telling Dad about my brief run-in with Jace when he called to check how my first day of school was, but I wasn't sure how Dad would react. Sometimes he's all "suck it up, princess," and other times, he acts as if he'll take an axe to someone for sneezing in my direction.

Regardless, I ride on the side of the road now. Jace passes me every morning, like clockwork. He never waves. Never smiles. Never even slows down. Maybe he thinks I'm as crazy as my mother…

"You know," Dad says, and then he pauses, clearly hesitating. "Your mom is just… she's…"

"It's okay," I assure, "we don't need to talk about it."

"Yeah, but maybe I should go over there and apologize to him."

I roll my eyes, even though he can't see me. "Don't you ever get sick of apologizing for her? Or to her?"

"She's my wife, Low," Dad says, "And she's your mother, and she lost?—"

"I lost him too," I cut in. "And I know you understand that, but it would be nice if she recognized that too."

Dad sighs, scratching at his beard. Then he jerks his head, motioning over my shoulder. "You got company."

"What?" I turn swiftly and immediately lose my breath. Jace is here, walking toward us with his hands in his pockets, dressed in what I've worked out is his usual attire—black basketball shorts and black wrinkled shirt. If I hadn't known that Jace was some amazing baller everyone seemed to adore, and I was to judge him based on his appearance alone, I would've bet all my money on the loner, stoner, gamer boy. It doesn't help his cause that every time I've seen him outside of class, he's usually on his own, focused on some handheld game thing. Even at school, he doesn't hang around the rest of the jocks, doesn't sit at their table, doesn't really interact with them at all. The boy is an enigma—and I haven't quite decided if I care enough to want to solve the mystery that surrounds him.

"Hey…" he says, stopping a few feet away from me. It's as close as he's ever been, at least that I can appreciate, and he's so tall, so built, and he actually looks at me this time, asking, "Can we talk?"

"Um…" I look between him and my dad, confused. "What about?"

His gaze shifts, and he subtly motions to my dad. "It's kind of… awkward."

Yeah… no. "Whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of my dad," I tell him, standing taller.

"I really don't think you want that."

It almost sounds like a threat, but the guy doesn't even know me, so how bad could it be? It's not as if I've done anything to be ashamed of, and the things that I have done, my dad already knows about. "Go ahead."

Jace shifts from one foot to the other, contemplating. Finally, his shoulders drop and, shaking his head, he mutters, "There are rumors you screwed your brother's assistant coach back in Dallas. He was, like, forty or something? I don't know. Don't care. But now all the boys at school think you're easy, and they have a bet going on who can bag you first. There's a cash pool. Different tiers, different prizes. It goes tits, blowjob, sex." He shrugs. "Just thought you should know."

Life: 1, Me: 0.

I look over at my dad, unsure of what to expect. His face gives nothing away, but at least he hasn't reached for the gun he keeps in his truck. "Told you I should've homeschooled," I deadpan.

Dad sighs. "Yeah, but then you'd never leave the house, and you need to socialize."

"Like a new puppy?"

Dad ignores my smartass comment and focuses on Jace. "Are you going to do anything about it?" Dad asks.

"Dad," I scoff. "It's really not his problem."

"They're his friends," Dad retorts.

Jace shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. "They're really not."

Dad looks from him to me, and I look from Dad to him, and Jace looks at the ground, the sky, anywhere but at me. This lasts for five long seconds until, surprisingly, Jace is the one to break the silence. "Have you guys seen my basketball?"

Dad laughs once, almost in shock. "Nope." He peers over at me. "You seen it, Low?"

"No," I lie, but swear, the way Jace looks at me—his eyes narrowed, head tilted slightly… it's as if he sees right through my bullshit.

Without another word, Jace turns on his heels and walks away.

Dad waits all of two heartbeats before mumbling, "Weird kid."

I release a long, drawn-out breath and shake my head. Say nothing. Because I don't think there's anything weird about Jace. He could've kept ignoring my existence like he's done since I moved in, but he didn't. He made the effort, walked his ass over here, and dropped a horribly awkward truth in order to what? Protect me?

Yeah… there's nothing weird about Jace Rivera.

If anything, there's something honorable about him.