Page 65 of Soul So Dark

It doesn’t matter. It’s still really cool. And I can’t believe Alex brought all this here and left it for me.

I plant my ass on the carpet, not even bothering to change or take off my boots before the game loads. I reach for my phone, but then stop. For some reason, thanking him for this seems like something I should do in person rather than over a text. Because this is something I can’t and don’t want to share with anyone else. And I want to keep it that way—just for me and him.

I’ll find Alex tomorrow at lunch and tell him what I played first.

But as excited as I am about these games, and the longer I play, I keep glancing down at my phone. It’s nottoolate, maybe Alex could come over and play with me. Is Colson home? I didn’t even pay attention to whether his Civic is parked out front. But does it matter?

That didn’t stop him last time…

???

I stay up until almost two in the morning playingTomb Raider.The graphics are so different than they are now, so I keep mashing down the buttons on the controller thinking that there’s a lag until I realize that the characters move slower and that’s just how it is. But, still, I can’t wait to play more.

I zip up my black hoodie and slide my glasses up the bridge of my nose, making sure to toss my purple case into my bag. Then I make sure to unplug the PlayStation console and stash it, the controllers, and all the games back under my bed so no one can ask any questions.

I’m halfway through a bowl of cereal before Colson comes swaggering downstairs. Scott emerges from the bedroom at the same time and takes a couple of shakers out of the cabinet. He fills both of them with water and a couple scoops of protein powder and shakes them up. He slides one across the countertop to Colson, who chugs it in less than 10 seconds. They’ve maintained this ritual since Colson started high school and went full-bore into soccer. And, this morning, I watch all of it with both awe and resentment.

Everyone acts completely normal, like the last few weeks haven’t been something straight out of a horror movie. Michael fucking Myers could stroll through the front door and both of them would still be downing their shakes, counting macros, and probably ask if he’d mind using his big-ass kitchen knife to chop some produce for a smoothie. Never mind that Scott still has Colson’s gun locked away in his safe and Colson still has no idea that he had a total mental break in my room and almost tore my arm off.

Then again, I could tell him. I could say something. I could’ve told him what he did that night he came into my room and asked what happened to my TV. But I didn’t, because as angry as I am at everyone else for ignoring what he did, I want to ignore it, too.

“When does Alex leave?” Scott asks, gulping down the rest of his shake.

Leave?

“The Monday after graduation,” Colson replies as he rinses out his shaker, “Adrian’s still giving him shit about it.”

“I’m not surprised. Their dad was a Marine, and even though he died in that car accident and not overseas, Adrian’s probably hyper-aware of everything that can go wrong now.”

The Marines? Alex is leaving for the Marines?

Did I know that? I don’t think so. I just assumed he’d be going to school with Colson and Mason or at least staying around here. I hadn’t really thought about it. I never cared until now…

I’m still marinating on this revelation in second period when Mr. Kelly starts setting out empty boxes for a group activity in Psychology. Tasha Emmerich, a junior with flaming red hair and more ambition than I can fathom in my current state, fishes a piece of paper out of the box. The other two guys at our cluster of desks look relieved that she’s taking the lead, per usual.

Tasha holds up the paper and examines the assignment. “OK, so ours says to write down four facts about ourselves that no one knows on separate pieces of paper, then fold them up and place them in the box. We mix them around, and then draw each one out and try to guess who it belongs to.” She studies the paper and reads the italicized print at the bottom, “After you learn which fact belongs to each person, can you identify any biases or misconceptions in your guesses? How do assumptions like these inform your everyday behaviors, whether subconscious or realized?”

This shouldn’t be difficult. Since this is an elective class, it’s not like I know any of the upper classmen that well anyway.

About 15 minutes into the exercise, a whiney voice calls across the room.

“MisterKell-aaay…”

“Miss Harrington,” Mr. Kelly calls back from the podium, not looking up.

“Can we still get extra credit for turning in old homework?”

“You mean corrected homework?”

She stares back at him blankly, which causes Mr. Kelly to peer down at his laptop with a sigh.

“No, Jordy, I’m afraid not.”

“Why?” she shrieks indignantly. “You said we could last week! Or is that only if we’re two percentage points away from a 105 likeLandon?”

Landon McGraw, another senior, glances up from his diligent note-taking, slightly surprised to hear his name. Jordy’s not wrong, Landon probably does get a 105 on everything. He also has the best posture of any human I’ve ever seen. He looks like he’s already in his 20s and belongs in an office building somewhere with his khakis and button downs, always sitting at his desk with his chair completely scooted in, his back arrow straight, and his hands either clasped in front of him or holding a pencil ready to take notes—or get another 105 on a quiz.

In any event, he isn’t perturbed by Jordy’s sarcasm. He probably thinks she’s an idiot anyway, so he just smiles politely and goes back to his work.