Chapter 3

Dylan

“You will sweat in this house…”

I open my eyes, drawing in a lungful of morning air. Warm breath still tickles my ear, my T-shirt clings to my body and the words drift up, up, up, and through the billowing curtains.

It sounded so real. I touch under my ear, my skin just slightly damp as the ceiling comes into view above me.

But I can’t move. I don’t want to. I close my eyes again, thoughts sailing in and floating out just as quickly.

It’s morning…

There’s light…

A breeze blows through the room…

Did I leave the window open last night?

The world tilts behind my eyes, and my heart flutters a little, feeling like I’m on a roller coaster. Just for a second.

Hunter’s in Weston. That’s how he knew I was traded here. He was on the docks or something, watching.

That’s who was blowing up Farrow’s phone last night in the truck. Hunter saw me taken as a hostage, and either he didn’t like it, or he told Farrow where to house me. Or both. It didn’t seem like this house was the plan until they found out it was me coming, and it definitely sounded like Hunter didn’t want me here.

I feel a smile pull at the corners of my mouth, my eyes still closed.

You’re not alone in that house.

What did he mean?

Will something happen to me?

Will they try to lock me in a trunk and push me over the side of the bridge, just like what everyone believes happened to the other Pirate girl who came here?

Will they feed me drinks and see what I do? Maybe post it online?

Will they get me to do something that gets me arrested? Will I have to run and hide in Carnival Tower?

I open my eyes, watching the shadows of the leaves on the tree outside dance across the ceiling.

Will I resist all of it or happily ask for more of some of it?

Will the nights be long? Will my bed always be this warm?

Will I scream?

Will they scare me?

You will sweat in this house…

My T-shirt grazes the sensitive flesh on my chest, and the points of my breasts harden. I close my eyes again and arch my back off the bed, drawing in another lungful of air and feeling the muscles in my body burn with the stretch.

My head swims, heat builds down low, and I press my arms close to my body, pushing my breasts together and feeling them chafe against my T-shirt.

You’re not alone in that house.

I brush my fingertips across my stomach as I lay my back on the bed again and then glide my hand down under the sheet.

I am alone.

Sliding inside of my underwear, I just touch. Let my hand wander, trying to imagine if what I’m touching is something someone else might like to feel. Pressing my finger to the hard nub, I lift a knee and push up on the bed, thrusting my back against the mattress as my hair falls in my face. I gasp, feeling his body on mine.

I won’t run. I was ready to grow up a long time ago.

Again. I rub myself and thrust again.

But just then…my phone rings, slicing through my ear, and I pop my eyes open. Shit.

I yank my hand off myself and sit up, but as soon as I do, I freeze.

Hunter sits in the corner chair.

Hunter…

I can’t swallow. The vein in my neck throbs. He was sitting there…

He’s been sitting there this whole time.

I fist the sheet, making sure I’m covered. Oh, no.

He sits there, his expression unreadable but entirely on me. His mother’s green eyes gaze at me, unyielding, as he grips both arms of the cushioned chair.

I knew I didn’t leave the window open last night.

I don’t know how long I stare at him or how long my phone rings, but he eventually tips his chin at my nightstand, telling me to answer it.

It takes a second, but I look over, grabbing my phone off the charger they’d left for me. I notice a ton of notifications that must’ve come in overnight. Texts and missed calls that were delayed. I would’ve seen some of this before I went to sleep.

Mom shows on the screen. I clear my throat, answering, “Morning.”

“Why haven’t I been able to reach you?”

Her voice is too loud for this early. I wince, knowing Hunter can hear her too. “There was a lot of wind here last night, and I don’t think I have Wi-Fi.” I sit up completely and cross my legs, feeling his eyes on me. “I’m surprised you didn’t send out a search party.”

“Well, Mr. Kelly called,” she tells me. “He let us know where you were and assured us that you were in good hands with his family.”

I meet Hunter’s eyes. “Mr. Kelly…” I muse, detecting a shred of mischief in his stare. Or a dare. Whatever it is, it’s quickly gone.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” The October wind breezes in, filling the room with the scent of leaves and chimney smoke from somewhere in the neighborhood. “I’ll be at school during the day, so if my cell isn’t working, they have a landline.”

“Text when you wake up, and text when you go to sleep,” she instructs.

“I know the drill.”

“And send me a pic of your room.”

“I have clean sheets,” I point out.

“Send me a pic,” she orders again in slow, enunciated words.

I love my mom. I’m never left wondering if she cares.

But I’m a little shocked she wasn’t aware she was speaking to a teenager instead of a parent last night when Mr. Kellycalled. It’s not easy, getting something by her.

“Is Dad mad?” I ask.

“Your dad loves you to hell and back.” She pauses, not really answering the question, but that’s okay. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I think doing your own thing for a couple of weeks is exactly what he needs.”

I snort. Not what I need. What he needs…

Yeah. Fair enough.

“Just no drinking, drugs, or unprotected sex,” she goes on, “but if you do those things, just know I’m here if you need me, so call. I won’t be mad.”

“Please stop.”

“I’d rather you were safe and sound...”

“Goodbye!” I snap. “Tell James to stay out of my room.”

“Wait!”

I sigh, stopping.

“Your birthday is Thursday,” she points out. “You mentioned maybe an outdoor movie night?”

Oh, that’s right. I’d forgotten.

I hesitate. I want to do something, but I think I’d like to…not leave captivity between now and the big game. I need these two weeks.

“How about we do it when I get back?” I ask. “I don’t need cake on my birthday. Any time, really, is fine.”

She laughs at me. “Are you sure? It doesn’t feel right.”

“It’s fine,” I tell her. “I need this right now. But…I expect really good stuff when I get home.”

“You got it.”

“Talk later.”

“Love you…” she sings as I hang up.

I toss my phone onto the bed and try to raise my eyes, but it takes a moment. I can feel the wetness between my legs, and embarrassment rises to my cheeks.

Finally, I look up, the air between us growing so thick it hurts to breathe. God, he’s changed. I was too shocked to find him here at first to take inventory, but it’s surreal to be in the same room with him—alone—after more than a year. He looks like a stranger.

And yet, I can’t really say what’s different. Blond hair like his dad mixed in with strands of his mom’s light brown. Cropped close in the back, a little longer on top as it messily grazes his temples. Green eyes like grass, sun-kissed cheeks, and the collar of his gray T-shirt stretched out a little to show that his collarbone is just as tan as his neck. He’s spent a lot of time outside without his shirt this past summer.

And while he and Kade are both the same age, Hunter seems older than him now. Maybe it’s the clothes. He wears jeans and a collarless black leather jacket. Not the usual hoodie he used to wear, or that his brother still wears, because Kade loves being an athlete.

Or maybe it’s the eyes. I don’t like the way he’s looking at me, and I used to. I fight the urge to shrink.

“If you’re not leaving, then I want a few things understood,” he says.

I tense.

“We’re not family here. We’re not friends.” His tone is resolute. “Leave me alone and don’t interfere.”

My nostrils flare.

I’m just supposed to pretend like we’re not in some class together, or not talk to him at lunch?

“You will not speak to Kade about me,” he orders next. “Where I go, what I do, or who I talk to, is none of his business.”

He doesn’t trust me now?

“And you’re on your own,” he tells me. “I’m not going to hold your hand here.”

I swallow hard, clenching my sheet in my hands as I watch him rise and head for my bedroom door.

I don’t believe this. What the hell did I do? I…

But I stop.

No.

I don’t care about this anymore. If they don’t want to explain why they both pulled away from me, I’m not giving it my attention.

“I missed you,” is all I say.

It’s all I want him to know before we’re never alone together again.

But he just stops at the door and laughs. Turning his mean eyes on me, he asks, “Why?”

I go still.

He doesn’t give me time to reply. Swinging open the door, he’s gone quickly, his footfalls fading down the stairs until I hear the front door slam shut.

It takes a moment to steady myself. I’ll stay away from him. Fine. No problem.

He better not think I came here to be with him as a motive in the first place. I came here to be on my own anyway.

Checking the time, I see it’s just after six. I whip off the sheet and climb out of bed, dialing Aro as I head into the bathroom. Before I start the shower, though, I check the shelf for clean towels.

There are two. Brilliant. I think I saw a washer and dryer just off the kitchen, in the mudroom by the back door. I’ll have to go to school today in the same clothes I came in, but I can wash them tonight.

The line picks up. “Are you okay?” Aro says, almost sounding like an accusation.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

I hear her sigh, muttering, “Seriously…”

I reach into the shower, turning on the water and running my hand under the ice-cold spray. After a few moments, the water doesn’t get warm, so I leave it running and walk back to the bedroom. I better have hot water.

“Why couldn’t I get a call out last night?” I ask her.

“They probably put out a signal jammer.”

I exhale a laugh, closing the window. “Christ. They’re…a lot, aren’t they?”

But she chastises me instead. “Dylan, you shouldn’t have gone there.”

“And I’m tired of everyone telling me what I should and shouldn’t do,” I reply. “Can you just be the one person I don’t have to hear it from?”

“Listen to me—”

“I’m fine.”

“Maybe today—”

“If they were going to hurt me, they would’ve done it last night,” I retort.

“Dylan—”

But I just swing open the closet door. “I’m still in one piece. Not even a scratch.”

“Because they have you for two weeks!” she finally yells into my ear. “They’re not going to swallow you whole the first night.”

I pause, falling silent. Jesus. She really does sound concerned.

Her breath rushes into the phone, and I’m not sure if I should panic, too, because she’s hard to scare. If she’s worried, then maybe I should be.

But I also kind of want to laugh, as well. “Shivers,” I tease.

I take out a shirt from the closet and sniff it, seeing if it’s fresh. The scent of oranges and linen fills my nose, and I hang it back up, sifting through the rest.

“If you’re so worried about me,” I say, “why didn’t you come and get me last night?”

“Because Hawke and I were busy stopping Kade from coming to get you.” She lowers her voice to a mutter. “He makes everything worse.”

Something tightens in my chest. Kade wanted to come and get me? Why?

“What does he care if…”

But I trail off, realization hitting. He was happy to send me off to St. Matthew’s for two weeks, but not to Weston.

When he learned Hunter is here.

He doesn’t want us together. He never did. Not in the same room. Not in the same car. And certainly not alone. I used to think that he was jealous. Possessive. That someone liked me.

But when Hunter left, the distance between Kade and me only grew. I couldn’t make sense out of it.

“If I go back,” I say with a hard breath, “nothing changes.”

Plain and simple. All those self-help gurus telling us to ‘stay where we are if we don’t know where we’re going.’ Blah, blah, blah. Nope. Standing still is based on the belief that what I want will just land in my lap. It won’t. I have to keep moving.

“Are you on Knock Hill?” she asks.

“How’d you know?”

“Number zero-one?”

I stop shuffling hangers. Great. What is she going to tell me that I don’t want to know?

She clears her throat. “If you hear creaks in the attic, it’s a rocking chair tied to a tether,” she tells me. “The other end is tied to the tree between the houses. And then when the wind blows, the chair rocks.”

I race to the window, looking up and spotting the ratty old rope tied to a branch. The other end stretches for the house, disappearing through what I can only assume is the attic window.

I roll my eyes and back away. “Yeah, I heard the creaks. I was too smart for that.”

I knew they were messing with me.

“If you hear any other noises,” she says, “you should leave.”

I laugh under my breath, pulling out a pair of whitewash jeans and a baby tee. “Are these supposed to be her clothes, too?” I muse, putting Aro on speaker and setting the phone down on the desk as I hold up the jeans to my body. “Good thing the ’90s are back in style.”

“Dylan,” she interrupts. “Listen to me.”

“I’m listening.” Damn.

“I’m not much for stories, okay?” she goes on. “And I don’t believe in ghosts. But it’s the last place she slept. And it’s the one house on Knock Hill no one stays in overnight.”

“They don’t seem scared of much.”

“It’s not fear,” she replies. “It’s respect. That house is taken.”

My eyebrows dive for a moment, her words reminiscent of Hunter’s warning.

I inhale a deep breath and square my shoulders. “Bring me some underwear after school, please?”

She’s quiet for a minute, and I know she wants me to come home, but she knows I’ll be angry at myself if I do.

I think the worst thing I have to fear in Weston is free-flowing alcohol. Maybe some misogyny.

Finally, she asks, “You want the fun ones?”

I smile, thinking about the “buy five, get the sixth free” sale on sexy panties we caught before school started this year. “Surprise me,” I tell her and hang up.

No one will see them. I won’t get a boyfriend while I’m here.

But my cheeks warm, picturing Hunter watching me when I didn’t know he was in the room. Thank goodness I didn’t go too far, but he had to know what I was doing underneath the covers. Why didn’t he speak up?

I start to pull the sheet and comforter up the bed, but then I stop.

I’m not at home. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do. I drop the bedding, leaving it mussed, and take off for the bathroom, tying my hair up as I go.

The shower is surprisingly clean, despite the slightly yellowed grout between the tiles and the sheen on the fixtures gone. There’s no mold. No hair. No sprays of blood or guts from murder victims.

And thankfully, the water is warm now.

I rinse off, avoiding the used bar of green and white marbled soap that rests on a ledge at the corner of the shower. Dried suds cake the bottom, and while it doesn’t look like it’s been used recently, it’s been used since the last Pirate girl.

Hitting the knob, I turn off the shower and grab a towel. Drying off, I step out and head quickly back to the bedroom, pulling on my pair of jeans from last night. I only wore them for a few hours, but I skip the underwear, holding out for Aro to bring clean ones later today.

Donning my bra, I choose a dark gray “D.A.R.E. to keep kids off drugs” T-shirt from the closet and pull it on. I brush my hair, pull it up into a high ponytail, and slip my arms into my Pirate varsity jacket. I want them all to know that I have no intention of going unnoticed.

I slip my phone inside my jacket and yank open the desk drawers, scanning for school supplies. There’s not much. A tattered green Mead notebook, a pen with no cap, two well-used pencils, wrappers from what looks like a roll of SweeTARTS, and an old flip phone. I take it and open it up, seeing it’s dead. I toss it back in the drawer, feeling the residue it left on my fingertips as I rub them together. I hold my hand up to my nose and inhale the scent of fire and smoke. Hmm.

I snatch up the notebook, pen, and pencils and start to leave, but then I stop.

You’re not alone in that house.

I hop up on the bed, peering up at the vent in the ceiling.

But I don’t notice anything. No light streaming in from a window in the attic above or a glint from a camera lens. Stepping off, I inspect every corner, searching for hidden lenses in between books on the shelves and looking for peep holes in the walls.

There’s nothing.

I commit the room to memory, taking note of how the charging cord hangs over the nightstand drawer, and how the closet door is closed, so I might be able to detect any changes if someone comes in while I’m at school.

I close the bedroom door and jog downstairs, but as soon as I step into the kitchen, I see it’s full of men.

I halt.

Calvin Calderon and Farrow Kelly stand next to the stove, four others spread throughout the kitchen and dining room.

Did they come with Hunter? Were they here the whole time I was in the shower?

I think I recognize all of them, though. All Rebel players. T.C. Wills rests his elbow on the counter, his skin golden and taut over the muscles peeking out of his light gray T-shirt. Luca Tarquin and Anders LaForest sit at the small kitchen table, slouching a little with their long legs taking up all the space.

And I glance behind them, seeing Constin De La Cruz standing at the window. I do a quick inventory, seeing they all have the tattoo.

Except for Constin.

His Green Street mark is etched into his skin, the scar white and pebbled against his dark, tawny skin, because it was knifed into him.

And I believe that was entirely his idea. I immediately turn away from his ice blue eyes.

“Love the jacket,” T.C. taunts.

Farrow steps over, holding out a black, disposable cup of coffee. “Are you ready for school?”

I take the cup, about to nod, but he speaks as they all rise.

“Tomorrow, you’ll ride,” he says, walking past me. “Today, you walk.”

Out they all go, leaving the house and me behind.

“Prepare to be boarded, Pirate,” Constin says.

It’s raining.

Of course, it is.

I climb the soft incline up to the school, a cemetery covered in years of brown leaves sits to my right, and an old Victorian behind a chain-link fence with shutters over the windows to my left.

A stream of water runs down my nose and over my lip, the raindrops light but constant.

I walk. I don’t run.

Lifting my chin, I head through the parking lot as cars race past, swinging into empty spots. Students loiter between old trucks and rusty sedans, a group of three guys jumping out of an ancient Bronco that reminds me of the one in my mom’s pictures from high school. It’s even white like hers was.

People turn to watch me as I pass on my way to the front doors, and I half-expect to get hit with a tomato or a bag of dog poop, but the worst that happens is the staring. Everyone’s quiet.

Farrow stands at the top of the cement stairs, leaning on the ledge and surrounded again by Calvin, Luca, T.C., Anders, and Constin. The overhang of the roof high above shields them from the rain.

I try to breeze past, but they all turn, surrounding me as T.C. opens the door for us. Farrow pulls up to my right, and everyone else follows. I’m not sure if they think I’ll run, or if they just want attention by making a spectacle, but I don’t avoid any gazes this time. I lock eyes with a young woman hanging on her locker, and then her friend who leans against the wall, hugging her notebook and chewing gum. Then I slide my gaze to a guy sucking on a Tootsie Pop. He smiles, twirling his tongue around the candy.

I glance to Farrow, unfazed. “Is Hunter on the football team?”

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

I spot a sign on the wall, directing me to the Front Office. It’s the same way we’re going, so I stay with them.

“Why don’t you have him in tow like the rest of these guys?” I ask.

But he simply replies. “Hunter makes his own rules, wouldn’t you say?”

“And you allow that?”

We stop in front of the office doors, and I see two receptionists through the windows.

“You don’t really know him, do you?” Farrow asks instead.

I slide my hands into the pockets of my jacket, trying to make my glare feel more stern than angry. I don’t know him? I’ve spent more time with him than anyone.

“You promised me keys,” I tell Farrow, changing the subject.

The corner of his mouth quirks in a smile, because he can see he touched a nerve. Reaching into his pocket, he comes in close, staring down, and drops keys into the palm of my hand.

“And the bike?” I question.

His grin widens as he and his friends back away. “Later,” he says, leaving me. “We’ll find you at lunch.”

They walk away, disappearing through a set of double doors on the other side of the hall and into a courtyard. I only see rain pummeling a picnic table before the doors close again.

Turning, I whip open the office door, turning my phone on silent before I step up to the desk.

“Morning,” I tell the receptionist, taking in her jeans and T-shirt. A lanyard filled with keys sits around her neck. “I’m Dylan Trent. Your Shelburne Falls Exchange Student for the next two weeks.”

She glances up, giving me a close-lipped smile as she pulls a pair of dirty sneakers from somewhere under the counter and holds them out. I look behind me to see a girl standing next to the chairs. She darts her eyes from the receptionist to me and then drops her gaze, quickly pushing her hair behind her ear as she grabs the shoes. The ankles of her jeans are soaked three-inches high, and her feet are red from the cold in her pink flipflops.

I flash my eyes back up to her and then quickly turn away.

She leaves.

“Codi!” the receptions calls after her.

I watch as the red-haired woman, whose ID card on her lanyard says Michelle Something, tosses the student a white ball that looks like rolled-up socks. I don’t turn to watch the girl catch them.

The door opens, students’ voices pour in from the hallway, and then it closes again, leaving us alone.

“Do you have the permission slip?” the lady asks me.

I pause, taking a minute to remember the form Farrow had me sign last night. I pat the back pocket of my jeans, feeling the folded paper I’d tucked away last night.

Digging it out, I unfold it and hand it to her, my heart skipping a beat, because my school knows what my parents’ signatures look like. Almost as quickly as they know my cousin Hawke’s mom’s signature, because her signature is an autograph and people pay attention to that.

But…the receptionist only glances at it before setting it aside.

I relax.

“Now,” she says, handing me one sheet after another, “as is customary, your assignments at your home school will be excused, but you are required to do your work here, except for anything due after your last day.”

Sounds fair.

“Here’s your schedule.” She slides a paper over to me.

I don’t think I’ve gotten a hard copy of my schedule in high school ever. But I suppose I won’t have an account in whatever software system they use for their students to keep track of their records and grades digitally.

“Your locker assignment is at the top,” she tells me.

I scan the schedule first, making sure everything is comparable to what I’m taking now. English 4, TASK which I assume is a study period. Intro to Economics instead of Pre-calculus—sweet. Government and the Constitution instead of Eastern World Heritage—which will be easy, because I took Government last year. And Forensic Science which I don’t need, because I’ve already completed the minimum science requirement for graduation. I open my mouth to tell her, but I paused too long and she’s talking again.

“You have a complimentary lunch allowance,” she tells me. “When you go through the cafeteria, just tell them your name.”

Which is nice for a school that can’t even afford the arts.

She pushes another paper at me. “Can you please check this information? Make sure it’s correct?”

I drop my eyes, reading over all of my personal details—address, phone number, emergency contact, parents, my allergy to shellfish…Jesus. “How did…”

But I stop speaking when she answers her phone. It makes sense to think Hunter gave them all of this info, but I don’t think he did. Farrow Kelly called my mom last night. Maybe she told him.

The receptionist hangs up the phone, and I read her name tag as she makes her way back over to me. Michelle Howard.

“Did a student from St. Matthew’s volunteer, Ms. Howard?”

She smiles, but her eyebrows pinch together sympathetically. “They usually don’t.”

Right. I told Kade they were stuck up.

It might be nice not to be the only hostage, but it’s not like I would’ve had a friend in a St. Matthew’s student, either.

“First bell rings in five minutes,” she announces. “I wouldn’t wander too far…alone.”

The last comes out under her breath, amusement playing in her eyes but still a little serious too.

I push through the door and head into the hallway, students milling around. I look at the paper she gave me and then follow the numbers on the lockers.

Why did Hunter come here? There was logic in him transferring to St. Matthew’s, even if I knew he only did it to get away from Shelburne Falls.

St. Matthew’s is a superior school. It’s a pipeline to Northwestern, Notre Dame, and the University of Chicago, any of which Hunter could easily get into. His grades were always exceptional.

But Weston is a wolf’s den. Like literally, the Rebel symbol is a wolf. I’ve never met a person who went to school here who actually went on to college. It’s simply a recruiting station for the Green Street gang.

These people can’t challenge Hunter. Thank God Aro got out.

I spot my locker—number two-sixteen—and realize I don’t have anything to put in it yet. I press my hand to the cold black steel and check the time on my phone.

My dad hasn’t called or texted.

Of course, I haven’t reached out to him, either, but he’s the dad. My mom undoubtedly told him she spoke to me, and that I’m fine, but still.

Kade hasn’t texted, either.

A guy drifts behind me slowly, and I hear laughter down the hall. The exaggerated feeling that everyone’s attention is on me sits on the back of my neck.

Noticing a stairwell ahead, I dive through the doorway and escape down the steps.

I can leave whenever I want.

I have no friends here.

But no one wants me to be at home, either.

I’m here by choice. I can leave anytime.

Homemade posters decorate the walls as I descend to the ground floor, clever little slogans like, “Your town. Your field. Our Game.” and “The only protection we bring to the Falls is a condom. Go hard, Rebels!” painted in blue and black block letters. I snort, unable to stop the laughter. That last one’s pretty clever, but damn, I can’t believe the principal allowed it. Ours wouldn’t.

Jack-o’-lanterns and witches adorn advertisements for the homecoming dance, and a cork board hangs on the wall at the bottom of the stairs, pictures of St. Matthew’s and Shelburne Falls players pinned with rusty nails.

Not thumbtacks.

Nails.

To their faces.

In the center of the board, it reads “Sniff, sniff, sniff. Smell the privilege.”

I find Kade’s picture, but only because of the number on his jersey. There’s one nail in his face, several in his chest.

I keep walking. No one is down here, though. Any laughter, looks, or whispers fade away as I stroll down the hall and pass an art room, a few offices, and a kitchen with about eight stoves. But then I stop, peering through an open door, seeing classic cars in a high-ceilinged garage with their hoods up and racks of parts, tools, and motor oil along the walls.

I start to smile. An auto shop.

One of the large, red bay doors is raised, letting daylight spill in, and I see a ’90s stereo with a dual tape deck and CD changer on the worktable against the far wall.

Paint splatters everything, and dirty work cloths lay over toolboxes, discarded car seats, and the old Army green metal desk in the corner.

I walk in, not seeing any teachers or students yet, and draw in the smells that are as home to me as my mom’s perfume. Dank, dark, musky. Dirty oil and leather seats and… I inhale deep. And tires.

That smell feels like a blanket. My dad always smells like that.

I move for the Mustang, but a round of laughter goes off to my right, and I glance over. One guy, then another, passes in my line of sight in the adjoining room, both of them shirtless. Someone I can’t see flips on music, and a cover of “Don’t Fear the Reaper” starts blasting.

Hunter drifts by, and I step back, behind the door I just came through, shielding myself.

He lays down on a bench, his feet on the floor and one leg on each side, and reaches back to grab a bar. His chest rises and falls with every heavy breath as he pumps the weights up and down, and all of my muscles burn. I haven’t seen him without a shirt in a long time. The curves and cuts of his arms are more pronounced, and his stomach flexes as he lifts the bar, the ridges in his abs deeper and more toned. I take hold of the door handle and arch my neck to the side, seeing the chain-link fence surrounding their small workout area in the center of the room. “The Cage,” I murmur.

I’ve heard of it. My fingers curl, feeling myself clutch the chain-link.

Other machine sounds—a treadmill, for sure—hit my ears, but I can hardly see anything from here. It’s where they keep the expensive equipment to lock it up.

Ringing blasts overhead, and I pop my head up. “Shit.”

The bell.

I turn around, dash into the hallway, and jog back up the stairs. Being late to my first class is an entrance, and I don’t want to make an entrance. I race into the hallway, looking at my schedule to see what room I should be in.

Two-oh-two.

Following the room numbers, I speed-walk through the school, a few students still lingering in the hallways. I yank open the door to the classroom and rush inside, all of the students stopping and looking up.

The teacher pauses at the whiteboard, and I do a double take at how his chest fills out his blue Oxford that’s tucked into fitted khakis, and the brown leather belt around his waist. I think there are students in the Falls who’d love for him to be teaching over there instead. Even if he is my dad’s age.

After just a moment, he offers a tight smile, brushes his thick, brown hair back over the top of his head, and walks to his desk, checking his laptop. “Dylan Trent, right?”

I glance at the students again, only seeing about twelve.

“Yes,” I finally reply. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Have a seat.”

He holds out his hand, directing me to an empty one in front, next to Mace. I slide into the desk, taking out the notebook and pen I found this morning.

“I hear you volunteered,” the teacher asks.

Mr. Bastien, I think the schedule listed his name as when I looked.

“Shouldn’t I have?” I tease.

“As long as you plan on doing the work, I think you’ll be fine.”

Quiet chuckles go off around the room, and I don’t think I will be fine, even if I do all the work.

The person behind me leans in, their whisper hitting my ear. “I like your jacket,” he says.

People keep saying that.

I slide my fists in my pockets, holding it tight to my body.

The teacher moves around his desk, an uncapped marker still between his fingers, and a piece of paper in the other.

“The Weston-Shelburne Falls-St. Matthew’s rivalry is actually a good example of what we’ve been talking about in class,” he tells me. “The role of ideology in conflict. How belief systems, propaganda, religion, symbols, flags, colors…can organize and mobilize mass groups of people under the guise of pride.”

“Guise?” I repeat.

As if loyalty is meaningless.

I shouldn’t be offended. He’s insulting his own students with that assessment too.

“Think about it,” he goes on, half-sitting on the edge of his desk. “If you were born here, would you have any stake in being a Pirate?”

“No, you’re right.” I nod, taking the pen and grinding it between my fingers. “Most Christians are Christian because that’s what they were raised to be. Most Americans are loyal to America because this is where they were born. I’m a Pirate because…”

“Because…” he presses.

I remain silent. I’m not the only student in this class. Someone else can participate.

“Because of your roots,” a young woman replies off to my left, near the windows. “Your parents, your friends, your history…”

With the pen, I trace the figure eight that was already etched onto my notebook cover.

“You don’t question it,” she goes on, “because something to believe in gives you an identity. It feels good to stand for something. To wear a label and say ‘this is who I am,’ oblivious to the fact that you are only who you were ever taught to be.”

I turn the eight that someone else drew from blue to black, burrowing into the cardboard cover deeper and deeper.

“How easy it was for them to shape you to drive what your daddy drives,” she tells me, digging in, “and vote for your uncle’s politics as soon as you turn eighteen.”

“Isn’t it the same here?” the teacher asks us. “The colors, the rivalry, the pranks?”

“So, what if it is?” the guy behind me replies. “At least we’re aware of it.”

I pinch the pen tightly.

“And it’s fun,” someone else adds. “It kills time.”

The corner of my mouth lifts just slightly.

Mace looks to Mr. Bastien, chiming in, “You know my grandma would be pissed that you’re calling religion propaganda.”

She holds a Hydro Flask and hands it to the girl on her other side. I wonder if the teacher can smell the rum in it. I do.

Mr. Bastien gets up and goes back behind his desk. “Your grandmother can talk to me about that over spaghetti dinner this weekend.”

“She invited you again?” Mace whines. “No…”

But Mr. Bastien moves on. “So, what do you think?” he asks the class. “Refer to the examples we discussed last week. Rosie the Riveter, Uncle Sam, Triumph of the Will…a lot of which was commanded with the task of grooming youth to think a certain way. To work for the state in some capacity.”

“Yeah, a hundred years ago…” a guy argues.

“Social media then!” the teacher interjects.

“Oh, here we go…” another student grumbles.

“Like the radio, like the television…” Bastien lists off, “…the Internet connects the world, but it does it almost instantaneously, the massive amount of influence—”

They continue on, but their words and assumptions keep spinning in my head.

…drive what your daddy drives and vote for your uncle’s politics…

As if they’re better.

Why do people do that? Why do they think they’re the only ones with deep thoughts or awareness, like the rest of us aren’t really awake? No one is truly human until we know them, are they?

I suddenly interject, “It’s not, actually.”

Whatever conversation was still happening immediately dies, and I look up, meeting the teacher’s gaze.

He stands behind his desk. “What’s not what?” he asks, confused.

“It’s not the same here.” I clear my throat, answering his question from earlier. “It’s not the same here as it is in the Falls. You’re actually more loyal to being Rebels than we are to being Pirates.”

“Damn straight,” the guy behind me growls in a low voice.

I wet my lips, holding the teacher’s eyes. “I enjoy being a Pirate. But when I go off to college, I’ll enjoy being an Eagle or a Spartan or a Buccaneer for four years there, too. And next, maybe I’ll be a New Yorker or a Jeep enthusiast or a Green Bay Packers fan.” I don’t blink. “You’ll always be Rebels, because there is nothing else.”

Time seems to stop as no one utters a breath or says a word. My heart beats faster. Bubbles pop under my skin, and a light sweat breaks out on my neck, but I don’t bid the words back.

I know exactly what I said.

I knew before I said it.

There’s something satisfying about…about being the one who ends a conversation.

I watch Mr. Bastien’s gaze sharpen to a knife without shifting a hair. “Jared Trent,” he says under his breath, looking back down at his paper. “The apple didn’t fall far, did it?”

A very small smile I didn’t know I was wearing fades away.

“Take out your copies of Cockney Reds,” the teacher calls out and gives us his back as he continues writing on the board.

People shift around, ruffling papers, and I don’t meet the eyes of those at my sides as I feel their glares.

The whisper hits my ear again, and this time I can almost feel his lips. “I love your jacket.”