Page 5

S EVEN O’CLOCK FALLS RIGHT IN the middle of the study-hour block, but as I learn by Thursday night, no one really cares where you are in the evenings if you’re on campus and your homework’s getting done at some point. By ten minutes to, my homework is long complete, and I’m wearing the closest thing to a cheerleader outfit I could find, partly because it’ll annoy the hell out of Salem and partly because it was the best costume choice I could think of for the current mission: encourage Salem to make the team (a thing his parents clearly think of as good). Aaaand if it maybe helps some of the other guys on the team think I’m hot, that’s maybe not the worst thing as far as my new reputation goes.

Sabrina’s door cracks open a few seconds after I knock, and her dark gray eyes look me up and down, taking in my cropped sweater and pleated skirt. “Did you seriously dress up like a slutty cheerleader?”

Sabrina’s wearing a tight black skirt to go with black tights and a black top whose shape I cannot begin to understand. “Did you bring an extra blood bag in case you get thirsty?”

“I’m sure I can find some on the court after a few minutes of Salem going up against the Camden basketball team.” She swipes on a coat of black cherry lip gloss and yanks the door closed behind her. “Why are we doing this again?”

“Because he’s your brother and you love and support him,” I remind her as we head toward the gym.

“So why are you doing this again?”

“Because he’s your brother and I loathe him and want to watch him fall on his ass.”

“Got it.”

Tryouts are already in full swing by the time we arrive, but Salem immediately spots us anyway, his groan audible. Sabrina and I both wave and flash back huge smiles, and I even shake imaginary pom-poms. “I burned incense for luck!” Sabrina calls to him, and watching him attempt to melt into the floor is really gratifying. I’m positive he’s going to accidentally let a basketball go flying out of his fingers and directly toward our faces, but then a guy who must be the coach barks his name and off he goes.

“Why exactly are your parents making him do this?” I ask Sabrina as we make ourselves comfortable in the bleachers with a few other scattered spectators.

“Are they?” She snorts. “Probably trying to make him more social. They tried the same thing on me with the tennis team in junior high.”

“Did it work?”

One of her thin eyebrows arches delicately. “Do you think it worked?”

“I do not.”

“And that is why you are in honors classes.” Suddenly, her eyebrows crash down to earth. “Uh, is it just me, or is Salem not horrifically bad?”

Honestly, I hadn’t really been paying much attention, but now that I am, I’m borderline horrified to see that Salem is… pretty damn good. He ambles around the court like he has nowhere in particular to be, but his ballhandling is surprisingly artful, thanks to those long fingers, and when he gets a clear shot, he’s got some killer aim. Plus, he’s like six foot thirty, so he gets some blocks in by default.

I’d planned to obnoxiously cheer Salem on through every dribble off his foot and wild airball, but as usual, he simply refuses to cooperate. Instead, Sabrina and I watch in stunned silence as Salem makes not one but two NBA-worthy steals, then crushes all the other guys in a free throw competition. “What the fuck?” she whispers, taking the words right out of my mouth. Just the fact of Salem having biceps is confusing and strange.

The only thing making his competence slightly more bearable is that Lucas is also trying out, and Salem is absolutely destroying him.

Finally, the coach blows the whistle and sends them for a water break. As a sweat-drenched Salem chugs an entire Nalgene’s worth in one go, I’m pretty sure he’s smirking at us.

I stomp down the bleachers until I’m sitting a couple of feet away. “Well aren’t you the little jock in hiding?”

He waggles his eyebrows and continues to drink, his gaze flickering over my cheerleading outfit without betraying a single emotion.

“Seriously, Salem, what the fuck?” Sabrina demands. “When did you learn how to shoot like that?”

He finally tears himself away from the water and wipes his face on his shirt. “When Mom and Dad said they’d add two hundred bucks to my car fund if I made the team.”

“Fucker!” Sabrina’s mouth drops open. “God, they’re not even hiding that you’re the favorite.”

“How could anyone possibly hide that I’m the favorite?”

Matt walks up and holds up his hand for a high five, which I’m pretty sure Salem only gives him to drown out Sabrina’s retort. “Way to go, Gray. There’s still one more round of guys, but Coach is already glowing about you.”

Salem just nods, his eyes on the floor, but he’s so obviously beaming on the inside, biting his usual pout so it won’t blossom into a proud smile. It would almost be cute, if it weren’t… Salem.

“So what’s next, brother dear?” Sabrina asks. “Gonna surprise us all with a hot cheerleader girlfriend?”

“Careful,” Matt warns, gesturing toward me. “You don’t wanna make this one jealous.”

God, so predictably annoying. “But… but I thought I was your girlfriend!” I say to Matt with just the right amount of lip wobble. “Are you telling me our love has been in my head this whole time?”

“See? I’m telling you,” Matt says knowingly to Salem. “Trouble.”

Salem rolls his eyes. “Aren’t you late for an unprotected orgy under the bleachers?”

Matt starts to reply, and is immediately cut off by a stunning blonde who bounces right up to him and kisses him full on the mouth. “Matty, you promised to…” She trails off and whispers the rest in his ear, for which I am extremely grateful. Next thing I know, she’s leading him—where else?—under the bleachers.

“Not unprotected!” he calls back. “Never unprotected.”

“Gross,” Salem and Sabrina say simultaneously, but before I can respond, the door flies open and in walks Isabel with three similarly stunning friends. They promptly take up residence in the back row of the bleachers, as if hoping not to draw attention, but there isn’t an eye in the room that isn’t sparing them at least one lingering glance.

Well, other than Salem’s. He’s pretending to be immune, but I’ve already seen him preening in front of Isabel, and when he excuses himself back to the court, he is definitely puffing out his chest a little. I can’t really blame him—they do look like one of those Vanity Fair spreads on Young Hollywood—but I wish he’d just own it.

And then I realize: This is the perfect thing for me to deliver on for our pact. Good grades, making the team, and cleaning up your act are all well and good, but what says “parent pleaser” like a respectable girlfriend?

I shoot glances at Isabel for the next fifteen minutes until I finally catch her eye, then wave, just enough to remind her that she knows me. I’m relieved when recognition does in fact dawn on her angelic face.

I’m going to make this real for Salem, and if it happens that I get myself inducted into the school’s hot-girl clique at the same time, an undeniable cool-girl move, well. That’s just good planning.

I spend half of English on Friday trying to think up how to get my plan in motion at community service tonight, and half of it wanting to take the pen Salem will not stop clicking next to me and jam it through his brain.

“Must you?” I whisper fiercely as he taps his thigh with it in no pattern I can possibly discern. “I’m like three seconds away from luring you down to a cellar with a cask of amontillado myself.”

“Aw, look at you, doing the reading.” Salem uses his makeshift instrument of torture to tap the cover of the Poe anthology we’re studying this month.

“Clearly you did too, if you get the reference,” I point out.

“Touché. I do love me some Gothic literature.”

“A jock and an academic. Why Salem Grayson, you do contain multitudes.”

A faint smile tugs at his mouth—entirely against his will, I’m sure. “So,” I whisper while I have him in a good mood. “What’s with all the nervous pen flicking?”

“Who says I’m nervous?”

“Mr. Grayson? Ms. Riley? Something you’d like to share with the class?”

Salem and I immediately straighten up in our seats as Mrs. Frank draws the entire room’s attention to us. “No, ma’am,” we say simultaneously.

“Good.” She returns to the lesson, and I return to staring Salem down until he sighs.

“Just waiting for the tryout results to be posted, if you must know,” he mutters after a minute.

“I must,” I confirm with a grin. “So you’re really serious about this, huh? I’m so glad I got to see you in action.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“No, seriously. You’re really good, Salem.” Hey, we’re partners in crime, or at least in this pact. I can be generous. “I have literally zero doubt you made the team.”

He doesn’t say anything, just sketches something I can’t see in the margin of his Poe anthology, but the corner of his mouth curves up.

We stay well behaved for the rest of class, but before long I’m just as antsy as Salem to see his standing made official. As soon as the bell rings, I jump out of my seat, expecting Salem to be right behind me. But despite all that pen clicking, he’s taking his sweet time.

“Aren’t you dying to find the list?” I demand.

His face pinches slightly into an inscrutable expression. “It’s not a big deal.”

“What are you talking about? You were just…” I trail off as I realize. “Okay, you can’t act excited about this or whatever. But I can.” Before he can get out a word, I dash into the hallway, where the list has indeed been posted.

Salem Grayson is right at the top.

“Dude!” I double back to find him and give his shoulders an excited squeeze. “You made it. And I think we can both agree this is entirely due to my cheerleading. I’ll have to make it a regular thing.”

“You really do not,” he says dryly, but right now even he can’t suppress the tiny smile playing at his lips.

“We need to celebrate. How do we celebrate?” I lower my voice as we fall into step on our way to the science wing. “If you were still acting on your worst behavior, which of course you are not, how would you celebrate such a win?”

“You wanna get high with me on the roof?” he asks, eyebrow in the air. “Because that’s what my friends and I would do at home.”

“Tempting, but no. I’ve already decided my reign of terror will not include drugs.”

“Your reign of terror? Is that what you’re calling your planned badass phase?”

“You don’t like it?”

We stop in front of my chem class. “I’d say ‘never change,’ but I wouldn’t mean it.”

“Right back atcha.”

Salem starts to continue on, then seems to realize I’m not entering the classroom. “Isn’t this where you have chem?”

“Yeah, I just.” I shudder. “Ugh. My original roomie is in this class, so it’s where the guys are the most annoying. There’s always someone—usually Duncan Barnett—with a Rumson Girl joke the second I walk in, and I need a minute to brace myself so I don’t scratch his eyes out.”

“You’re shitting me.” Salem narrows his eyes, then seems to come to the conclusion I am not, in fact, shitting him. “Come on. I’ll walk you in. He won’t fuck with me.”

“Much as I appreciate the chivalry, I’m pretty sure it’s not gonna stop unless I stop it for myself. I just haven’t figured out how to do that quite yet.” I tip my head to the side, looking up at Salem. “Any ideas, my bad-boy guru?”

“One idea is that you never, ever call me that again.”

“Turns you on, doesn’t it?”

“On second thought, I’m just gonna leave you to the wolves,” says Salem, turning to go.

“No, come on.” I grab Salem by the back of his shirt. “We have a deal.”

He sighs, but relents. “Make him uncomfortable. Guys like him can’t stand it. If you just stay quiet or roll your eyes or whatever you’re doing now, he’s gonna keep doing it. So make him sorry he ever tried. I believe in you, Skeevy. You make me sorry I ever tried every single day.”

Just then, the bell rings, and Salem swears and twists out of my grip to head to class, while I turn in to mine.

“Rumson Girl!” Duncan says right on cue. As one of Archie’s best friends, he’s consistently the most annoying about it, and definitely the guy behind the rumor that I specifically manipulated my way into rooming with the heir to Buchanan Imports. “Is it true you make everyone in the dorm sandwiches every day? Or am I misunderstanding what I’ve heard about you and Rumson sandwiches…”

Uncomfortable. I can definitely do uncomfortable. And I can do it with a big smile on my face, too.

“First of all, if this is you asking for a three-way with me and Hoffman, I’ve already told you a hundred times, absolutely not. If this is you asking for another three-way with me and Archiekins, I already told you, that was a onetime thing. But if you’re just looking for tips, my professional opinion is that you’re beyond help, and no surgeon in the world is going to be able to fix that”—I glance pointedly at his special place—“particular issue.”

“Ha ha,” he retorts, but it’s mostly drowned out by everyone laughing at him. They might be laughing at me, too, but at least I know my face isn’t turning beet red like his is.

Dr. Bock calls everyone to order, which means the end of that, and I take my seat, but not before glancing back at the door. It could just be my imagination, but I swear I catch a glimpse of Salem smirking behind the small window before he disappears.

I try to keep my own smile under control as I pull out my notebook, my eyes on my desk.

I don’t know that it’ll shut Duncan up tomorrow, but it’s nice to have hope.

Pact, 1; rich tools, 0.

The Community Service Club meets by the main parking lot every Friday afternoon, since it’s pretty much always being shuttled to one spot or another. Today it’s the local soup kitchen, and in addition to Isabel and her three stunning friends, the van that takes us there also contains Mrs. Dodd, the faculty advisor; Kayla Alton from my English class; a senior couple who at no point tear their eyes or mouths off each other; two freshman boys who are clearly there to stare at Isabel and Co.; and, as I probably should’ve guessed, Heather, who cheerfully sits down next to me and tells me all about the people I’m going to meet, because of course she did community service all of last year as well.

The van pulls up just as she’s telling me about “Bobby, who’s hilarious and always wears this hat with a frog on it.” At no point has there been an opportune moment to ask her whether she knows her boyfriend is a scumbag. Which means I could be forgiven for letting the entire ride go by without telling her, right?

“Hey! Evie!” A hand lands on my arm, and I’m shaken out of my upset by Isabel McEvoy’s glossy smile. “So glad you made it.”

“Happy to serve my new community,” I reply, acutely aware of both her friends and Heather watching us. “Have you met Heather?”

“Yeah, we—” Heather starts, right as Isabel says, “No, I don’t think so!” She holds out a hand toward Heather, who pastes on a smile as she shakes it. “And this is Jenna, Ashleigh, and Priya.” She turns to me. “Girls, this is Evie.”

They all chorus friendly hellos, and it’s clear Isabel’s mentioned me, which is just… so confusing. They’re all unreasonably and dauntingly gorgeous—Jenna’s a study in contrasts, with pale white skin, dark hair, and otherworldly blue eyes; Ashleigh looks exactly as I imagine Tyra Banks did at sixteen; and Priya’s one of the few South Asian students I’ve seen at Camden, with warm brown skin, strikingly long-lashed dark eyes, and a wide smile that could stop traffic. I don’t know how stunning people somehow seem to get along simply by virtue of being stunning, but I do know I do not fit in with them.

Thankfully, I don’t have time to think about it before we’re ushered inside by the organizer, who introduces herself as Brenda and launches into a speech she clearly gives every visit.

“Welcome to the Pinebrook Community Center’s soup kitchen,” she greets us, pushing the sleeves of her chunky mauve sweater up to her elbows. “How many of you have volunteered at a soup kitchen before?” Heather, Kayla, and Isabel raise their hands. “Great, so you guys are old pros. The most important thing to remember is that these are simply people in need, and they deserve the same respect you’d give anyone else. Smile. Call them ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am.’ A little kindness goes a long way.

“Another thing we take very seriously is hygiene. We’re working with food, so we want to be extra careful.” She hands a cardboard box to Mrs. Dodd. “Your teacher is going to pass around latex gloves. Please take a pair.”

“Do we need to wear hairnets?” asks the female half of the couple that was sucking face in the van.

Brenda smiles. “No, just keep your hair tied back and out of your face and you should be fine,” she replies, looking around at us. Her gaze lands on me, and she frowns. “Except you. You should wear a hairnet.”

Of course.

I do my best to ignore the stupid freshman boys taking pictures of me in my hairnet, and anyway, they mercifully stop when Isabel puts on her own. “If one of mine gets in the food, everyone will know it was me,” she says with a grin, tweaking a strand of her strawberry hair before twisting it all up into an elegant knot.

My heart warms at the solidarity, and while I don’t understand why Isabel is being so nice to me, I do wish Claire could see me and how I’m making real friends. I would’ve traded a hundred Dunkin’ runs and ice-cream-filled sleepovers to have her stick up for me when it counted. And here, a girl I barely even know—a girl who clearly doesn’t need any more friends than the ones she’s already got—is letting herself look like a dork for me.

Well, okay, she doesn’t look remotely like a dork, because it’s just not possible, but. The sentiment is there.

I get assigned to peas and carrots, right next to Heather, who’s charged with distributing corn bread. Not the most exciting offerings, but I try to take my cues from the Nicest Girl in the World and prepare myself to serve every scoop with a smile.

“So how do you know Isabel?” she asks, the smile never leaving her face as she arranges the yellow squares neatly in the shallow rectangular basket. Her tone is casual, but I realize that this has probably been bugging her since I first introduced them. I pretended not to hear, but I caught her saying that she and Isabel have met before, and it makes sense—if they were both on community service last year, they’ve probably done this together already.

Is it wrong that the idea I might’ve somehow stumbled into a slightly higher social stratum than the girl whose boyfriend used me and threw me away feels pretty damn good? Yeah, it’s wrong. But I never get to be this girl. The sister of Sierra Riley never gets to be this girl. I just need, like, three seconds to enjoy it.

“Oh, we met at the club fair. Mutual friend.” And here’s my chance. “Speaking of people we met at the club fair, what’s the deal with you and Lucas? Are you guys, like, a thing?”

Her face lights up. “Yeah, I guess we’re official now. We hung out a lot last year, became really good friends, and then we just kinda started flirting and realized we liked each other. Right before the summer we said we’d see how things were when we got back, and then we talked, like, every day. So right at orientation, he asked me to be his girlfriend, and that was that.”

Cool . I want to hurl everywhere. The fact that he asked her “at orientation,” whether that means shortly before or right after he and I hooked up, is so gross. She seems so convinced of his greatness despite all evidence to the contrary, and it reminds me of, well, me. I deserved so much better, and so does Heather. But I just say, “Cool.”

“Yeah,” she says, her voice growing a little dreamy, making me incredibly sorry I ever opened this line of conversation. “We met at the parents’ luncheon at orientation last year and ended up sitting together. My mom’s from the Midwest, so she was excited to meet his parents. Honestly, it all feels very fated.”

“Cool,” I say again, because I’ve forgotten every other word in my vocabulary.

When she opens her mouth again, I’m already dreading whatever’s about to come out, but thankfully, it’s “Mr. Lambert! So nice to see you again!” I realize the time for food service has come, and the room has filled with hungry people patiently waiting for us to fill their trays with corn bread, chili, and, at the less exciting end of the table, my peas and carrots.

I tear my eyes off of the Nicest Girl in the World and get to work.