Chapter 10

Ten

Josh

I don’t know what the hell is wrong with this prick, but I’m not going to be his ride to school.

I grab his wrist and jerk his hand away from the passenger door handle.It gives me a twisted kick of satisfaction—that shocked look on his face.

“Whoa, Mills.Forget to eat your Wheaties?"

My heart pounds so hard that I can feel the heat in my face. "You're not getting in my car, dickface."

"Until?"

"Until?" I make a sound like a laugh. "You are never getting in my car. I heard you talking to my mom as I came down the stairs and sorry that your car's not registered like it should have been. The time to do that was last week, so it sounds like your problem."

Ezra’s pretty face is careful. "No one told me."

I drag air into my lungs, my eyes lingering on the straps of his black backpack. Fucking bastard doesn’t even have a normal backpack. I grit my teeth and wave at his car. "Go, Masters."

"Oh, so I'm Masters now?" He lifts a brow. Out here in the driveway in the morning light, I can confirm that he looks like a different person than he did a few weeks ago—bulked up, tanned, and showered, in a fitted black T-shirt and the gray shorts my mother bought him.

I give him a scoff. "You're no one."

A mean smile’s twisting my lips as I slide into the driver’s seat. I put the key in the ignition, and he moves into my line of sight. He’s standing right in front of my car—because of course he fucking is.

I crack the window just enough so he can hear me say, “You want another black eye, dickface?"

He steps toward the window. "I won't talk to you."

I'm clenching my jaw so tightly it aches. That's when I hear my mother's voice call, "Joshua?"

Through the passenger’s side window, I see her waving from the porch, and I know how this will end.Dammit.

I crack my window slightly more. "Get in thebackseat, dickface."

I'm surprised when he does. He sets his backpack beside him, rolls his window down, and waves at my mom, and she waves back at the two of us like we’re the fucking Brady Bunch . A little while ago, she took a picture of us both in the kitchen, as if we're real brothers. Ezra’s got a shiner, so he told my mom and Carl that he rolled off the bed last night and hit his face on the nightstand.

"You're a fuck," I say as I pull out of the driveway.

"I know."

I'm so surprised by his agreement that my eyes fly to the rearview mirror. Ezra lifts his brows. He must be in a rush to show me what a fuck he is, because as I'm processing that exchange, I hear a click-like sound and glance back again to find him lighting up a cigarette.

"Are you fucking kidding me? "

He waves the damn thing at me. "It's not lit. Yet." As I roll through the four-way stop at Broad and Franklin, he lights it. He cracks his window, and he starts to smoke his cigarette in my car.

I make it through one more stop sign before my temper surges. I swerve onto the road that leads down to the little league fields and slam my foot on the brakes at the first field.

"GET OUT."

He's got his hand out the window. For a second, I wish I could roll it up.

"You heard me. Get the fuck out of my car!"

When he doesn't move, just lifts a brow, I yank the keys from the ignition, march around to his side of the car, and throw his damn door open.

Ezra steps out slowly, like he just had the idea to get some fresh air. Like it’s a long drive, and he’s getting out to stretch his legs. I watch in dismay as he takes another drag of his cigarette, then flicks it to the ground and steps on it.

"Is this about last night?" His right hand flexes at his side. "You wanna fight it out? You get the first shot." He smirks slightly, with his bruised eye.

God, I want to hit him. I want to hit him again and again, until he’s gasping and he feels like I did last night. I want to smash his face in so he knows he can't fuck with me. So he'll stay out of my sight for the rest of the year.

"C'mon, Mills." He gestures to his cheek. "You're not gonna break it."

His eyelids look heavy, and I realize he's not sneering. He looks tired, almost desolate.

"Go on," he says quietly. "I'm ready."

In my mind, I do it. I can feel the pop of pain to my knuckles and the rush of perverse satisfaction. I can see him wobble on his long legs. Me, hitting my new stepbrother right before school .

"Fuck you, Ezra." I walk to the driver's side and get in, drumming my hand on the wheel until he gets into the backseat.

For the remainder of the ride, there's silence in the car. I crack both of the back windows to air the space out, and Ezra says nothing.Thankfully, it's only a few minutes.

Our two-story, red brick high school is set back off the road that leads down to the new ball parks, right by the bluff. There’s a nursing home across the street from Fairplay High, and behind that and across a field, the middle school.

The Fairplay High School parking lot is bustling even though we're early. It reminds me of the traffic in an anthill—all the little cars, some moving in a line but others breaking away, snatching up the better parking spots the way an ant goes for a crumb. I find a spot on the second row, reserved for seniors.

I don't want to see Ezra’s smirking face, so after I kill the ignition, I grab my denim blue backpack and step out, walking with long strides toward the narrow swatch of grass that runs along the left side of the main school building. I don't even bother locking the car door. Let him do it. If he doesn't, let some fucker steal my iPhone charger and a bunch of Wendy’s napkins.

I have to cut across a breezeway that adjoins the main building to the agriculture science wing. Then I'm in the patch of grass that leads to the walkway beside the arts wing. Music, art, choral, and band are housed here in this add-on.

One knock on the exterior door of the band room, and another kid—Alonzo—lets me into the big, open space, which always smells like gum and carpet. It doesn't take me long to grab the sheet music I need to practice my drum parts in my mind during my new classes. I should have played a lot more at home in the last few weeks, but I knew that prick would comment on it, so I've avoided practicing at the house unless he's gone.

I arrive in homeroom early. No one's in here except Landry—Simmons, I think her last name is—and Robby Hartford. I unzip my backpack, pull my schedule out, and refresh. I'm in homeroom for forty-five minutes, which will mostly be spent studying. After that, it’s first period government and civics with Mr. Lavers. Second period is calculus, followed by junior and senior lunch. Then I’ve got AP British lit, physics with Eeyore-ish Dr. Bumble, yearbook with Ms. Cern, and gym and band.

Not a bad schedule.

I look at my sheet music until my homeroom teacher, Mr. Burns from calculus, steps into the room, followed by a spurt of students. Everyone is wearing nicer clothes than normal, acting amped for the first day.

"Let's get up and line the wall,” Mr. Burns says. “When everyone is here, I'll call you out in alphabetized order. This is just a study period. It's easier for me to mark you absent or not if I see you in the same spot daily. Apologizes to A through Es and the Ws through Zs. I'm sure this arrangement must get tiresome."

I gather my stuff up, put it back into my book bag, and stand beside Landry. That's when Ezra walks into the room.

Ezra

I can feel his eyes on my back all through homeroom. I didn't think about it before, but I'm Masters and he's Miller, so this shouldn’t be a surprise.

Quitting all those pills today was not a good idea. By lunchtime, my brain and eyes are tracking half a second behind real time. I feel like I’m withdrawing for real—weird and twitchy, and I can't get full breaths. In the cafeteria, I sit with Brennan, Marcel, Cara, Landry, James, and some other people whose names I can’t remember. When Brennan asks me where Miller is, I shrug.

“Is he supposed to be here?” I manage.

"Sometimes. He could be outside with Jenna—Whatley,” Brennan tells me. “Sometimes they do that."

"Do they date?" asks Landry, who just transferred here last year.

"I don't think so," Cara tells her. "They’re just long-time best friends."

I drape an arm around her shoulders, planning to toy with one of her braids for the benefit of James, who’s a few seats down. Right at that moment, Miller walks by. He's not with Jenna. He's alone, holding a lunch tray.

Brennan whistles then waves at him. Mills holds up a hand but heads the other way.

“Sometimes your bro ditches us for the band dorks.” Brennan chuckles. “I’m just kidding. All of them are my friends.”

Cara leans against me, and I get a long whiff of her girly hair stuff. It makes me feel sick. I try to follow the conversation and eat some of my lunch, but it's a losing battle. I can see Miller out of the corner of my eye, sitting next to some guy with green hair, as I chew a bite of my cold pizza. It sits heavy in my stomach, so I don't have more.

"You must have that high-brow taste in pizza," Cara teases.

"I had a huge breakfast," I lie.

When the lunch bell rings, Miller goes the other way, so I don’t see him as I walk to gym. By that time, I'm so fucked up from my impromptu withdrawal, I can barely get my legs to move as we run laps around the track. My heart's beating way too hard. I try to keep my face neutral so no one can tell, but as I round the corner of the field, I hear a man’s low, "Football? You okay?"

The coach that's overseeing gym today is Hartselle; I think he’s the basketball one.He waves me to him, asks me to remind him of my name, and listens to my bullshit story about hitting my eye on the nightstand .

"Go get some ice from the lunchroom and sit on one of the bleachers till we're back in. I can tell you're off. Got those heavy-looking eyes the way my kids do when they don't feel well."He gives me a kind smile that I don’t deserve.

As I'm walking back toward gym from the lunchroom, everything feels like it's blinking. I don’t like this. I think maybe I should go home, but I remember I don't have a car.

I feel better on the bleachers with the bag of ice. Touching the cold cubes through the Ziplock sorta grounds me.

You can’t go home. You’d get in trouble , I tell myself. You're not gonna lose it at school.

By the time I get to physics, I'm not sure I can believe myself. When I notice Miller in the room, I feel almost relieved. If I pass out or something, at least he knows who to call.

When our teacher steps out of the classroom to make some copies, I rest my head on my desk.

Should have offed yourself last night.

You could still split today.

You could go back to the train bridge. Miller won’t save you this time.

When the teacher is back, I walk to his desk and tell him that I need the restroom. Then I find the nearest exit: a steel door that opens to a large field stretched between the school building and the football stadium out to the right.

I spot a rock that I can wedge between the door and door jam. Then I step into the grass and sink down with my back against the building. I cross my legs and lean my head on the brick wall.

I'm so stupid.

I pull my knees up to my chest and rest my face against my quads. I rub a hand into my hair, trying to feel normal.

I don’t.

I’m not.

I feel heavy. Even my heartbeat—heavy. Like it would rather stop than keep on going like this.

Josh

I’ve got a bad vibe the second I step into physics. The room is small, with rows of desks in front and short lab counters arranged like a line of Tic Tacs along the back wall. I’m running late because of my new, sticky locker, so most of the room is full, but I spot Ezra right away; he’s on the second-to-front row.

The only seat that’s vacant is back in the room’s rear left corner. I feel his eyes on me as I move toward it. At least I think I do. I stick my middle finger up without raising my arm, just in case I’m right and Ezra’s looking.

I had Dr. Bumble for tenth grade honors chem, so it’s a little weird to hear his soft monotone again as he calls roll. “Masters…Ezra.”

Ezra raises his hand.

After roll call’s over, Bumble realizes he’s missing some papers, so he steps out to make copies. Everybody starts talking at once, and my eyes snap to dickface again. I’m surprised to find the social butterfly with his head down. His right hand is raised to rub his temple like he’s got a headache.

Good .

I rub my own forehead. I don’t really think it’s good. Why am I like this? Always the nice guy. Nice guys finish last. I know they do. That’s why I’m not acting like one. I’m not showing him I’m a marshmallow. But as he folds his arms atop his desk and lays his head down on them, I feel a tight clench of remorse.

Did he deserve to be punched in the eye? Fuck yes. Do I get any joy out of watching him lie on his desk now? Not even a little bit. All the fury I felt this morning when I thought of rolling his hand up in the car window has dissipated. Probably diluted by this long-ass school day.

I can’t help the way my brain works: It’s his first day at a new school, and he had to start with a black eye. I think of how I found him last night—crying on the roof from what seemed like a wicked nightmare. What makes Ezra Masters cry?

His hand sifts through his blond hair, fingers curling slightly, and I wonder if I really hurt him. Shit .

Then Dr. Bumble is back, and while I’m opening my notebook, I guess Ezra gets up. When I lift my gaze again, I see him walking out of the room.

Fuck . What if he has a concussion, and he’s going to the school nurse? What if he exacts revenge by telling his dad?

That’s stupid, Miller .

Shit—I want to know if he’s okay, though.

He doesn’t give a fuck about you, so don’t give one about him.

It’s all useless. When we’re assigned lab partners, Bumble pairs me up with Ezra, and my pulse surges like Pavlov’s dog.

“Helps to study together,” he says in his drawn-out, twangy Southern monotone. Bumble frowns at Ezra’s empty seat.

“Mr. Masters,” he says, with his hand half-raised, as if he wants to point at me but doesn’t have the energy. “He left to use the hall pass, but that was some time ago. Perhaps you might follow and see if he’s become lost?”

I take a second hall pass from Bumble’s desk and set off.

I’m not energized by this, or nervous. I feel nothing, I tell myself. It would make no sense if I felt any way about another Ezra encounter. Especially after what went down last night.

As I walk toward the nearest restroom, I wonder where he went—and what I’ll say when I find him. There’s a part of me that hopes I’ll find him snorting cocaine off the sink’s ledge just so I can hate on him. Because I should—hate on him. The guy’s a menace, snooping through my shit and always ribbing me, calling me Millsy. The way he grabbed me last night—that was beyond fucked up.

Something’s wrong with him, I think. I mean…I know .

I’m pretty curious to see what the fucker’s up to when I push open the bathroom door, so I’m surprised to find the place is empty. Maybe he did get lost. More likely, dumbass stepped outside to smoke.

If I can’t find him soon, I’m going back to class. I pull open the door of the bathroom stall, where some guy on the toilet mutters, “Fuck.” Then I turn around toward physics.

Let him skip. It’s not my job to go find him.

As I walk, I think about last night. Again. I think about his eyes on mine as his hand closed around me. Always with the sneering attitude, but his eyes—they burned into mine.

I wonder if he’s gay, or bi. I know I shouldn’t care, but how can I not, after what happened? How can I not wonder? It’s okay, as long as I don’t want him. And I don’t. I don’t want anything to do with Ezra.

I stop walking as my eyes latch onto an “EXIT” door on my right. It’s cracked open with a rock wedged in between the door and door jam. As soon as I inhale, catching a whiff of smoke, I know it’s gotta be my wayward stepbro.

A peek outside shows Ezra standing with his back against the brick wall. He’s got a cigarette held to his lips. I watch as his shoulders rise on the inhale .

“That shit stinks.”

He jumps a mile and turns to me with shock on his face. “Jesus, Miller.”

“I don’t look a thing like him.”

I’m surprised when he grins, jutting one eyebrow up. “Millsy with the old-school Mormon pop rock.”

“It’s alternative,” I say of The Killers . They were one of my mom’s favorite bands when I was younger. “Ed Sheeran is pop.”

“Touché.” He blows a stream of smoke and tips his head back against the wall. From where I’m standing, I can see the smudge of blue-purple around his left eye. He looks tired as fuck, the way he’s standing. Like he might slide down the wall.

“Miss out on your beauty sleep, dickface?”

I expect some snap-back—in fact, I want it—but he stares blankly out ahead of him.

I know I’m going to fold before I open my mouth. Always the nice guy, even when it gets me nothing but fucked. I hear myself say, “Karma serve you a shit sandwich?”

His eyes shift to mine, but they’re so vacant, I can’t read them. He looks back at the stadium and takes another long drag without answering.

He shuts his eyes for just a second, holding the smoke in his lungs, then blows another stream out. “You should go back to class.” His jaw tics as he looks down at the cigarette between his fingers.

“Bumble sent me to find you.”

“Tell him you couldn’t.”

I hesitate a second—because that’s me, too. Go the extra, extra mile. I turn away from him so he can’t read that on my face as I go. “Suit yourself.”