Page 73 of The Darkest Note

“You’re leaving Redwood Prep?”

I scowl. What is his obsession with kicking me out of school?

“No, I’ll…” I can’t seem to say ‘be his servant’, “be your assistant until the debt is paid. You happy?”

Dutch grunts.

Finn waves to us. “Now that that’s settled, can we practice for the dance tonight?”

“What dance?” I ask.

“None of your business.” Dutch fishes in his pocket, produces a wallet that looks like the red version of the one I trashed, and hands me a card. “Get us three coffees from the cafeteria.”

“Make mine with foam, please!” Zane adds in his order. The only reason I’m not fuming is because he said please, which shows a politeness that Dutch has not yet revealed to me.

I turn my gaze to Finn. “What about you?”

“Whatever’s fine,” he says, fitting his bass guitar on his head. Sunlight streams behind him, creating a halo around his brown hair.

I turn sharply. “And you?”

Dutch still looks unnerved. “Extra sugar.”

I’m surprised. I thought he’d take his coffee as black as his soul. “Sure.”

“Give her a card to get in the practice room,” Zane suggests.

Dutch stiffens.

I try to hide my smile.

“Not going to happen,” Dutch mumbles. “I’ll go with her to the cafe.”

“We need to practice before first bell,” Finn reminds him.

“Fine.” Dutch takes out another card. “Bring it right back in the exact condition.”

“I’ll think about it,” I mumble.

He leans in close and I swear his jaw tightens. “Don’t test me today, Brahms.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I snarl back.

His eyes drag down to my lips and a flicker of confusion is in his expression. After it passes, he seems even more pissed off than before.

I snatch the card from him and wave it around. “I’ll be right back.”

On my way to the cafeteria, I inspect the practice room card and then take pictures of it. There’s a guy in my neighborhood who makes fake IDs. Something tells me he’d be able to make a fake pass too.

Standing Dutch up on Saturday wasn’t enough. I want him toknowthat the pain that’s been inflicted is coming from me.

As I’m walking, someone steps into my way. I bounce against a bony shoulder and glance up.

Christa’s in my path, glaring at me. She’s in her full cheerleader regalia today, complete with short, flouncy skirt and a tubed top.

“Can I help you?” I ask, not bothering to hide my disdain. I haven’t forgotten what she did during music class.

Her eyes drop to my hand and she pounces forward. “What’s that?”