Page 41 of Burn Bright

He smiles. “Anyway, Charlie was a dick—as you put it—to his teachers. My dad was in parent-teacher conferences all the time, and then he told Charlie something had to change. That he wasn’t being challenged, and he needed to skip some grades.”

He has an above-average father. Not that I ever questioned it.

Don’t want them. Don’t crave them. I’ve gone this long without dreaming of another set of parents replacing my own. My dad, he’s not all bad. I don’t want to shade the man in a dark light. My parents are just different than the iconic Rose Calloway and Connor Cobalt.

Mention of Charlie reminds me of last night. Ben talked to me on the phone. “Just because.” I’ve never had someone call me out of the blue to simply chat.

He asked me what I was doing. I’d been listening to Paramore while painting my toenails deep red and reading some of my O-Chem textbook. I’d just rented it from the on-campus bookstore.

“What are you doing, Cobalt boy?” I replied after describing my uneventful night. “Bathing in the tears of your enemies?”

He laughed. Just remembering his vibrant laugh sends an electric current down my body. “I’m sure Eliot showers with the tears of his foes every night.” After a pause, he ended up saying, “I survived the move-in.”

“Were you afraid you weren’t going to?” I asked, capping the polish.

“There was a chance. I’m pretty sure Charlie has wanted to make my heart bleed since birth. I guess it’s a good thing I gave you half.” His voice was teasing, and I could feel my lips inching upward. The smile didn’t take hold though.

“So the rumors are true then?” I wondered with a frown. “You and Charlie don’t get along?”

I don’t live under a rock. I’ve heard that Charlie clashes with Ben. Tabloids haven’t caught them verbally laying into each other the way they’ve captured fights between Charlie Cobalt and Maximoff Hale, Ben’s older cousin, so I figuredmaybeit’s all fake to line the pockets of a phony friend who dished to the media.

“Those are unfortunately true, yeah,” Ben confirmed on the phone.

It panged my heart then, and hearing him describe Charlie pangs my heart now.

I hold his gaze in the lecture hall. “Charlie needed to skip some grades,” I repeat what he just said. “The brother you have beef with?” I ask under my breath so no one can hear.

Ben nods. “The one and only Charlie Keating Cobalt.”

Shit. “Sucks to say, Cobalt boy, but I now have more in common with your nemesis than you.” My chest tightens at the words, and I don’t know why.

“What do you mean?” he frowns.

“I skipped fifth grade,” I tell him. “Guidance counselor realized the same thing your dad realized about Charlie. Told me I needed to hike it over to sixth and stop being an asshole to the educators who were just trying to do their jobs.”

He slips the pen back behind his ear, but I can’t read the expression on his face anymore. “Good. I’m glad someone was looking out for you.” He says it in a way that definitely targets my parents—and the sad thing is, I can’t really defend them. Other than admitting they were busy. Distracted. A nasty divorce will do that.

We go quieter as the room fills up with more and more bodies. A white girl and her friend with dark brown skin strategically pick seats right in front of Ben’s chair. They pretendto take selfies with each other, but it’s clear he’s caught in the frame. He turns the ballcap around, dips it low over his eyes, and slumps down.

Seeing him use it as a shield from attention, I’m even happier I returned it.

Students pull out laptops and tablets for notetaking, and I check the time on my phone. We still have ten minutes to go. Nausea returns. Science courses are far easier, in my eyes. They have specific answers. True or false. Multiple choice.

Essays are too subjective, and based on experience, the teacher weighs them more favorably to whoever they like. It’s a popularity contest, and when it comes to those, I’m a big loser.

Ben pulls out a tablet from his bookbag, and I give him a look. “Why’d you need a pen?” I ask him, staring at my cheap ballpoint he placed on his desk. I stole it from the waiting room of an ED.

“So I could do this.” He picks it up and then twirls it between his fingers like he’s mastered the finger baton.

It’s moments like these that I remember…he is a jock. A popular, hotjock. And I’m stupid enough to find his pen baton routine charming.

Something gnaws at me, and I have to ask. “So whyjustBen?” I wonder. “Why not something Shakespeare related?”

“Because,” Ben says, slipping the pen back behind his ear. “My parents love Shakespeare, but they love my Uncle Loren more. They let him name me.”

Oh, that’s sweet…but also diabolical. If I had a kid, I wouldn’t trust a single soul to name them for me.

It’s also strange hearing him sayUncle Loren, when I know full well that he’s referring totheLoren Hale, the husband totheLily Calloway.