Page 87 of Palm South University: Season 2

She huffs. “Fine, I was wrong.”

I nod, satisfied, tipping the bottle back once more. “I’m glad you see it now, but I’m not the one you need to be saying that to.”

She whimpers, falling forward until her head is in my lap. I run my fingers through her hair as she speaks into the covers, her voice muffled. “She hates me. They both do. Where do I even start?”

“Just be honest with them, J-Love. And apologize, don’t make excuses. That’s all you can do. They’ll either forgive you or tell you to go to hell. Either way, you have to say you’re sorry—and mean it.”

She swallows, but nods, leaning up to face me again. “I should go find Ashlei.”

Wrinkling my nose, I eye the shirt she was wearing last night paired with underwear that could have that same reputation for all I know. “You should shower first.”

Jess laughs, smacking me with a pillow, but then her mouth pulls to the side. She leans into me, wrapping her lean arms around me and leaning her head on my shoulder. I hold her for a minute, trying to be the strength she needs. “Thank you, Skyler.”

Petting her hair, I offer a reassuring smile. “What are sisters for?”

AN HOUR LATER,Clinton is unloading Clayton’s bag from the cab as we stand on the curb outside of the departing flights terminal. They’ve both been joking around the entire cab ride, but Clinton filled me in on what happened with Shawna just before we piled into the car, so I’m itching to talk to him more about it. Though judging by his forced playfulness with his brother, I can tell he isn’t. I wonder if it’s one of those situations where I’ll need to let him come to me again, the same way I had to wait with his family drama last semester.

It’s not that I think racism is dead—I’d be naïve to honestly believe that. Still, I’ve never been so up close and personal to it before. Shawna seemed so into Clinton, she seemed like a down to earth chick. The fact that she let her prejudiced parents break them apart throttles me.

I can only imagine how Clinton feels.

“I think that Zeta wants me,” Clayton says with a sly grin as the cab pulls away and we make our way inside. “She gave me her phone number.”

“Oh yeah? Let me see.” I hold out my hand and Clayton places his cell phone into my palm, a number pulled up on the screen under the nameAss-tastic Jazzy. I chuckle at the name, but full on laugh when I see the number. “Oh, Baby Bear.”

“What?!” He looks alarmed, snatching the phone away like I’ve deleted the number.

“That’s the Loser Line.”

His brows tug inward over his chocolate irises. “What’s that?”

“It’s a phone number the local radio station gives out to girls so they can blow off losers. If you call that number and leave a voicemail, they’ll probably play it on the air,” Clinton explains.

Clayton narrows his eyes and snaps his fingers together. “What a minx. She’s playing hard to get.”

Clinton nudges him with a grin as I roll my eyes.

The Penningtons are something else.

We check Clayton’s bag and make our way toward security, the mood shifting. There’s something about seeing boys express emotion that really gets to me. I’ve never seen my father cry, nor have I stuck around long enough to see any of my exes cry, either. But I feel the weight of Clayton’s departure, and Clinton keeps pressing his lips together and chewing the skin next to his thumb nail, fighting back what I’m positive would be tears if he’d let them fall.

“Well, I guess this is it, little bro,” he finally says as we reach the security line. Clayton adjusts the small backpack he’s using as a carry-on over his shoulder, his eyes on his shoes. “Did you call to make sure Mom would be there to pick you up?”

“Nah, Mac’s mom is coming to get me.”

Clinton frowns. “Are you staying there again tonight?”

When Clayton twists his mouth and lifts his eyes to mine, my heart stops before he even says a word.

Uh oh.

“I’m sort of staying there every night . . .”

It takes two-and-a-half seconds for Clinton to catch on, and when he does, I watch his nose flare as his fists tighten at his sides. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t be mad,” Clayton pleads, holding his hands up. “Mac’s family is cool with it. They think of me like a son, and I’m doing chores and stuff to help out around the house.”

“Mac’s mom I understand, but I have a really fucking hard time believingourmom is okay with this.” I remember Clinton telling me over Winter Break that his mom never let him leave when he wanted to, even the time his aunt offered her spare bedroom up. His mom needs to feel in control of her kids’ lives, no matter how dangerous that may be.