Page 8

Chapter Seven

Scarlett

I didn’t share either of my first two classes with Dylan, and yet he’s still all I’ve heard about the entire morning. Most girls are infatuated with him or scared of him. Most guys are threatened by him or resent him, and most of the faculty pity him or assume he’s going to be trouble with a capital T.

I spot him heading down the hall towards the Civics classroom I’m waiting outside with a few friends before third period. He looks irritatingly unfazed by all the attention thrown his way—although, he must have run his hand through his hair at least a few times since the car ride to school, because several wavy locks have fallen out of the bandana, brushing against his prominent cheekbones. He keeps his eyes straight ahead, not hunched over or closing himself off in a physical sense, but there’s an intimidating look about him that warns people off—that makes it obvious he doesn’t want to engage.

As he reaches the classroom door, Trevor Albrecht steps in front of him, flanked by two of his meathead friends. “Hold up, Killer!” he calls, loud enough to attract an audience. Which is probably what he wanted—people witnessing the smack-down he thinks he’s about to deliver, hoping to cement his position among the popular elite. Trevor’s the kind of guy who’s always been on the fringes of the popular crowd, desperately clawing for a full-time position. And there’s a reason he’s never managed to scale that final hurdle—the stunt he’s pulling right now being a perfect example. There’s no foresight, no strategy… just brash, cruel arrogance. I’m not surprised he’s known more for being a dick than for being cool. He goes about everything like a bull in a china shop, leaving a mess of victims in his wake.

“Didn’t think they let serial killers into prep schools,” he drawls, as he and a couple of other guys box Dylan in. They snicker, and Dylan’s jaw clenches.

My new neighbor stares them down, giving away no visual clues of the taunts’ effects, other than the tic in his jaw.

And because Trevor’s an idiot, he takes Dylan’s silence as weakness. “You moving up in the world?” He steps closer. “Scouting out higher-end victims? That what’s going on here?”When that gets no reaction, Trevor forges on. “Or did they just get bored with you at the loony bin they had you locked up in? Decided to let you loose just for fun-sies.”

Dylan’s eyes flash with venom at that one, and everyone standing around goes dead quiet. They’ve all read the stories, heard about the violence-prone, wild and fearless Maytag Kid. Even I'm tense as hell, because even though I may have had advance notice that the newer version of Dylan Braun does not match up to those headlines, I’ve still really only seen him with his family around. He might be entirely different away from them, in a different setting. Around people like Trevor Albrecht and his potato-brained cronies.

Things could get ugly really fast.

But freaking still, Dylan keeps his emotions reined, not rising to the bait. Not backing away or averting his eyes or showing any signs of fear or submission or anything – but he’s also not pushing back, either. There’s some sort of serious internal conflict licking like waves around the edges of his liquid-green irises. The tension radiating off him is hard-core; this restraint is costing him.

Trevor leans in, shoving Dylan’s shoulder. “What’s the matter, Killer? Can’t—”

At the contact, Dylan’s arm shoots up. He shoves his thickly veined forearm into Trevor’s chest and pushes him back a few paces, slamming him up against the lockers beside the door. Trevor’s body careens against the metal with a loud crash! that draws even more attention their way. The crowd has grown even larger, no longer just the group waiting to head into Mr. Hogan’s classroom.

“ Don’t… put your fucking hands on me,” Dylan drawls, his voice low and so restrained it’s almost a whisper. Yet still laced with an eerie kind of menace.

Trevor scoffs, shooting for unaffected but landing somewhere in the vicinity of stunned and about to crap his boxers. “Whoa… Chill, dude.” He lifts both hands, palms out. “Just messing with you, bro.”

Dylan’s hold doesn’t budge. I’m pretty sure Trevor is pushing back with his full body weight, but not getting any traction. Dylan is clearly strong as hell. “Scrappy,” my Uncle Clay would call him. Which always made me picture a stray puppy—not a keyed-up, surf-grunge model with a fearless attitude and a steely green stare.

The two of them continue their silent stare-down for several drawn-out seconds.

“Get your arm off me, bro,” Trevor growls. Still trying to save face.

Dylan doesn’t budge. He’s got that stoic mask back in place that makes it impossible to tell what’s going through his brain right now.

“Yo, the Maytag Kid’s about to drop a body!” someone calls out from the crowd.

“Deck him, Trev!” someone else yells.

I almost step in and tell Dylan to walk away and ignore them all. Almost. Then I realize it wouldn’t do a bit of good. It’ll either egg him on more or make him look weak in front of everyone. Neither scenario solves anything.

“Where are those killer instincts, Braun?” someone heckles.

“Ohhh! Trev is shaking in his panties right now!” another guy jeers, somewhere near the front.

And that does it. Trevor pulls back his arm, fist curled…

Then Mr. Hogan rounds the corner. He slows in his tracks, eyeing the mob of kids outside his classroom.

Trevor quickly drops his arm, but Dylan takes his sweet time releasing his grip. A few more seconds pass and he reluctantly steps back, flexing his fingers a couple of times at his sides. Then he pushes his hands in his pockets, almost as if he’s doing it to keep his fists contained. His forearms are still taut, and his biceps contracted, straining against the fabric of his shirt.

Trevor adjusts his top where it remains bunched up from Dylan’s grip just seconds ago. “ Someone’s easily offended , ” he scoffs, but only a few people laugh.

“Everything okay, here?” Mr. Hogan asks as he approaches, eyeing Trevor, then letting his gaze slide to Dylan. There’s a flash of recognition, then weariness, before he schools his features into an expression that is a cross between a cautious smile and reluctant authority. I don’t blame him; Dylan’s gaze is like ice right now- mesmerizing but cold and unbendable. Sharp as cut crystal.

“Just welcoming the new kid.” Trevor flashes his toothy smile.

Mr. Hogan nods slowly. “Hmm.” He eyes them both dubiously. “Let’s all head into class, shall we?” Then his focus shifts just to Dylan. “Welcome, Dylan. It’s great to have you at SH Prep.”

Dylan doesn’t respond. To be fair, Mr. Hogan’s tone didn’t make the “great to have you” part sound super convincing. His hands remain shoved in his pockets as Mr. Hogan passes on his way to the door.

Once Mr. Hogan is out of earshot, Trevor backs into the classroom, tossing a parting taunt in Dylan’s direction. “See you round.” Then he winks. “ Psycho. ”

Dylan’s eyes don’t stray from Trevor, tracking him all the way to his seat. His jaw tics. Then he pushes through the crowd and strides after him into class, taking a seat in the corner of the very back row, jaw still clenched, jade eyes meeting every gaze that lands on him, almost like a challenge. And it works. People’s stares flicker and look immediately away as they pass.

I know what it means now when people say someone is an island. Because that’s what Dylan looks like right now: a solitary island, with the reflection of the stormy sea in his eyes. He doesn’t say a word the entire class. Doesn’t avert his gaze once from the front of the room, either. When the bell rings for lunch thirty-five minutes later, he leans back in his seat, balancing his chair on its back legs, and watches as everyone files from the room. I’m pretty sure he’s the last one to leave.

“You hear about the showdown between Trev and the new kid?” Gavin asks me a few minutes later. He waited for me by the doors to the dining hall.

“I was there, yeah,” I say evenly.

“Dude is creepy.”

We head for the food line. Gavin continues, “He didn’t say one word in homeroom this morning. Then he totally ignored a couple girls who tried talking to him after.”

“Maybe he had nothing to say.”

“Are you kidding me right now?” Gavin scoffs. “He totally ignored them. Freakin’ snubbed Victoria Ledworth and Maddie Jarvik when they were practically drooling over him.”

This is not a conversation I want to be having right now. I have my own issues to battle with Dylan Braun; the last thing I want to do over lunch is analyze other people’s grievances or opinions about his arrival on the scene. “Maybe he doesn’t like being drooled over,” I toss dismissively.

“Whatever. I heard he never even went to school before… Shit, maybe he doesn’t even know how to read. Or write and stuff.”

“He knows how to read and write,” I shoot back, almost defensively. I’m not sure why I say it, since I have no idea if it’s true or not.

He must, though, if it’s only three classes he’s got a private tutor for. Still, I’m not sure why I’m suddenly sticking up for him. I don’t even like the guy. And being nice doesn’t mean I have to go out of my way to defend him over stupid little stuff like this.

Gavin grabs two trays. “You want some pasta?”

My gaze catches on a tall blond figure over Gavin’s right shoulder. The subject of every conversation in the room right now is busy piling so much food on his tray, it’s clear all the attention has not affected his appetite. He turns, making a beeline for an empty table.

To sit alone.

Exactly like I warned him not to.

“Scarlett?” Gavin prompts. “You even listening? You want pasta?”

I nod, tearing my eyes away. “Yeah, sounds good.”

But as we cross the dining hall, I can’t resist another glance in Dylan’s direction. Six junior girls crowd around him now, vying for his attention. He seems utterly oblivious, raising his glass of cranberry juice to his lips. He glances up, meeting my stare, his eyes all discerning and sullen and tarnished copper. And I’m not sure how I feel that these are the first qualities I thought of, when they’re also tinted with a silent warning to stay the hell away. To not engage or trust or under-estimate. Borderline angry.

I’m distracted throughout lunch, surrounded by Gavin and all the usual suspects, my thoughts consumed by the boy who so clearly wants to remain invisible, yet is anything but. He eats quickly, and after less than ten minutes, tips up his glass and pours the last of the cranberry juice down his thinly scarred throat, then picks up his tray and carries it over to the tray-drop station. He grabs an apple from the basket next to the tall racks and his eyes meet mine again, just briefly, as he takes a bite, then turns and saunters back through the door and off to do God knows what for the thirty-five minutes still left before our first afternoon class. Lone Wolf on the prowl.