Page 5

Chapter three

Forest

T he commute to the Academy is no more than fifteen minutes. One of the biggest promises New Haven’s founders tried to hold to when deciding to eradicate most sources of transportation throughout the city was convenience. All of New Haven was built around the idea of functionality and schedules. Each person plays a part in the flow of order that goes into maintaining a functioning community. Maintaining order is so important that Josh would have received more punishment for delaying than the unauthorized assault on an Unfortunate. Like clockwork, and despite our delay, the tram rolls to a dead stop in front of the massive Academy building at 7:00 AM on the dot. The Unfortunate tram driver must’ve sped to make up for lost time. I wonder in that moment if he is punished when he can’t pick up the slack for mishaps like the one Josh created this morning.

I ignore the feeling of the Unfortunate’s eyes gravitating back to me. As quick as lightning, I move off the tram, hardly giving the driver enough time to swing open the doors. The cool metal collides with my forearm, causing my body to spill onto the even-cut grass. The Academy’s front lawn is no longer the vibrant green it once was during the hot summer months. It’s now sprinkled with dead pieces and quite brittle beneath the weight of my body.

The Academy’s large building consumes the entire plot of land it sits on. It’s considered the beating heart of New Haven, housing all the community’s growing minds. It resides in the middle of the Untouchable sector, taking up the most space out of any other building within its vicinity. Its walls are made of concrete and stone. The roof is nothing more than glass panes, all pushed together to create a point. Wood trim decorates every side of the structure.

A variety of plants, trees, and several koi decorate the grounds, consuming the grassy areas in bursts of dull color. Students work in and out of the massive double glass doors. I notice the teachers chattering amongst themselves, some casually repositioning their maroon blazers that help set them apart from the student body. Groups of students linger around the more scenic portions of the lawn. Even in the hottest months, the school's glass ceiling can stow away the warmth completely. Like most other buildings in this sector, color is hard to pinpoint on the structure. Even the flowers are dull, like the Academy’s gardeners purposefully chose the most boring colors to accent the space.

Kai and Raegan move past me, barely acknowledging my presence. They are deep in a conversation about their positions on the Student Advocate Council. Raegan holds Kai’s forearm close. In many ways, it's easy to see why he continues to pursue her. She’s safe. No one would ever question why they chose one another. It’s as if everything in Kai’s life has always just made sense. He hasn’t had to question anything.

He’s always just known where he belongs.

My body becomes tense again at the sound of the Untouchable's quiet conversation behind me. With a casual shift of my body, I observe the raven-haired asshole quietly conversing with the bus driver. With his head raised, I can vaguely make out how old the tram driver is. Possibly ten years older than my father, maybe even more. His head is no longer lowered as he speaks to the other Unfortunate. The two men converse with a great deal of familiarity. Working in a sector where you bus around silent Untouchables all day, I can imagine that any familiar, dirty face would liven your spirits.

The Unfortunate leans into the bus driver, whispering something in the man's ear that warrants a shift in his demeanor. The bus driver looks frazzled, the whispers between them containing something not meant to be overheard.

“You coming?” Max’s voice questions, breaking my curious gaze toward the two men.

He keeps his arms crossed, eyeing Josh and Colton as they move by. Unlike Kai and Rae, he isn't hiding the fact that he’s noticed my sudden shift in attitude. Like a guard dog, he waits for me, even allowing me to take a moment to stare down the Unfortunate in the same way everyone else had for most of the ride to the Academy.

“Yeah, thanks for waiting up. I’m just struggling to understand why one of them is on our school grounds.”

Max gently smiles, holding his head high. The Unfortunate steps off the bus, waving to the driver, before pulling away. Just like he had when he entered the tram, the Unfortunate ignores everyone around him. Even his walk would have most convinced that he knows where he is going.

“The transfer program. Don’t you remember how desperately our dads tried to shut it down?”

Each school year, a few Unfortunates are granted the ability to learn on the same level as Untouchables to give them more skills to keep the businesses and economy in their sector functioning. Without the Unfortunate's aid in growing crops, we would have no food and without us, they would have no safety. A ward surrounds New Haven, keeping away the ash and toxins floating around the air beyond the city. Some other regions adopted by Sanctum are spread across the continent, but we rarely hear anything about them. New Haven is all there is for miles. Only ash and a once vibrant society remain buried in the Earth's ground.

“They seriously went through with it?”

“Clearly,” Max scoffs.

We push past the large glass doors, fumbling in our pockets to retrieve our IDs for the woman at the front desk. Her black hair is wound so tight atop her head that I’m convinced it’s the only thing able to pull her face into the half-assed smile she has plastered on. Her long, colored nails tap her desk, not once stopping, even when students try to speak to her. Her lips are thin, set in a straight line. She wears a pair of blue light glasses, shoving them higher up the bridge of her nose to make it look like she is reading whatever is on her screen. We approach her desk, scanning our IDs and watching the system's light shine green.

“Almost late, you two,” she coos with a finger wag.

“Don’t blame us,” Max starts, leaning his arm over her desk, working his charm while flashing his baby blues. “Blame the sewer trash our upper leadership allowed in here,” he finishes.

The tingle returns down my spine, the pulse in my wrist proliferating. Stepping away from the scanner, I feel the Unfortunate’s eyes pull away from the back of my neck and onto the front desk. Her head rises completely once she notices his presence. Her once partial attention to us is now a full-fledged stare at him. I try to get a good look at his ID, but it’s facing away from me. It goes through the scanner, flashing green like our own. The front desk woman's mouth almost hangs open, showcasing her perfect set of teeth. The Unfortunate shakes his head, pulling away from the desk before scanning over a small note removed from his pocket.

The woman at the desk wipes down the scanner's surface with disinfectant repeatedly, as if his one swipe was enough to contaminate the scanner after one go. In terms of an Unfortunate, he isn't the worst thing to look at. Although calloused, his hands are clean. His uniform isn’t new and has had some years of use, but, unlike Max, his tie is folded with great care. His wild black hair isn't kinked. In fact, it looks soft. Although rugged, many of the details on his face are easy to get lost in, even from afar. The scar under his cheek is deep, possibly deep enough that even the Cure-All couldn't fix it. His eyes are blue, but not light blue like Max’s. His are dark and soft all at once. Someone spent a great deal of time on the genetic code responsible for the details of his face.

Unfortunate or not, he is beautiful in his own, terrifying way.

Even now, as he moves further away through the crowd of students, I can see how much his height towers over most of the others around him. I know his size was intimidating, even to Josh. I scan the outline of his pockets once more, looking for any sign of the small vial in one of his pockets. My head moves with my body, trying to get a closer look.

Pulling his eyes away from the note in his hand, the Unfortunate’s gaze meets my own, and my stomach fills with sudden anxiety. Trying to play off my eye's blatant exploration of him as nothing out of the ordinary, he pulls his gaze away, ignoring me and Max entirely.

Stepping back, I watch his broad shoulders move through the crowd of students parting the way for him like he carries the Earth’s next deadliest plague. I can almost swear a smirk is lining his face at the sight of the other students' disdain toward him. Some physically turn away from him in an attempt to pretend that he isn’t there. I hold my bag close, feeling my sketchbook press against my side.

“I would love to see him crumpled on the ground like the woman from this morning,” Max says.

We both begin to move as the Unfortunate rounds the corner at the end of the hall. Students begin moving back into the walkway, whispering with wide-eyed expressions. The layout of the building is straightforward. To the left of reception are all the elective wings, and to the right are all the primary classes. Anything toward the middle of the school revolves around dining and athletics. Max walks with me as I take a sharp right toward the elective wing of the school.

“I don’t think he would go down as easily as the woman.” My words come out with no given thought behind them.

“Why is that?”

It doesn't take a fortune teller to tell that Max was upset by that comment.

“You know … he’s … big.” I finally say, raising my shoulders to mimic the Unfortunate's towering walk.

Max frowns, rolling his eyes. As we make our way further into the Academy, the walls shift from their muted, dull gray to the lively colors and drawings of the art wing. Despite being outside of regulation, the art teachers had convinced the school board to allow one hallway to be filled with color. Each year, the 5th and 6th years get to work on a mural for one of the walls. Right now, we’re creating concept paintings for what will replace the current wall art. Most people tend to take a more symbolic approach to their drawings. Depictions of the war are all symbolized by a single daisy breaking through the rubble and ash. For years, there was only vegetation made by man. That is, until the flowers began to bloom. Miles of daisies marked the Earth, creating the first sign of hope after all the destruction. There isn't a part of New Haven that doesn't have the tiny, white flowers planted somewhere.

“I know for a fact he wouldn’t have that cocky attitude if he were pitted against me,” Max clarifies, leaning his body into someone's mural from a few years back.

“And you aren't radiating a cocky attitude right now?” I question with a smirk.

“It almost sounds like you’re defending him, Blackburn,” Max says sarcastically.

I roll my eyes, nudging him as a playful grin spreads across my face. His casual lean into the wall falters at the gesture, making his hold on himself slip with a slide of his hand. Grabbing him, I stop him from trying to recover his position on the wall. His hands grip my sides, a grin now consuming his face too. The warmth of his palms presses through my shirt. Blonde hair falls into his face like a curtain covering a window. He stays still, keeping his hands on me while my hands work to fix his tie.

“I would never defend one of them, but, honestly, I would love to see what would happen if Josh tried to mess with him.”

I lay his tie flat on his chest, expecting his hands to leave my sides.

They never do.

Once more, my birthmark begins to burn, making me wince with narrowed eyes. I stare into Max’s eyes, trying to feed into whatever is happening between us right now. My stomach rolls in ways that only happen after I have had too many sweets. Forcing the feeling down, I finally address the elephant in the room.

“Your class is nowhere near this one.”

Max draws a deep breath, glancing around while he decides what to say. He furrows his brows like his sister, a telltale sign that he’s deep in thought.

“I might’ve been a little jealous of your focus on a certain Unfortunate earlier,” Max says, shaking his head. “I know it's ridiculous-”

I don’t let him finish his statement. Slowly, I drag his head down by his neck and silence his thoughts with a gentle press of my lips to his. His touch grows tighter on my sides before relaxing. His soft lips stay on mine, gently pressing down harder with each passing second. I ready my head to move away, feeling my stomach churn, followed by an unsettling feeling.

I want to feel pleasure in this touch. Why can't I?

His hands move to hold the sides of my face, pulling me back into the kiss. My birthmark continues to burn, only growing more painful the longer I allow Max to touch me. With a deep breath Max pulls away from me, letting his hand linger on my own before lowering his touch away from me.

“You've never done that. Why did you do that?” he questions, his cheeks red.

I wish I had an answer for him.

“I’m honestly not sure,” I begin, glancing at his watch as we finally notice the time. “But we can deep dive into it later.”

I pull away, but Max’s hand grabs my wrist, stopping me dead in my tracks. Both of our faces are red from the exchange.

“Did you regret that?” he questions.

Lie.

I shake my head no, wanting nothing more than for him to let go so I can escape this awkward situation. The pain in my mark dies down the longer I’m away from his touch. I know I need to address the pain with my mom again, but she shuts down every time I speak to her about it, dismissing my questions.

This newfound pain may be better left to the unknown.

“I'll see you at lunch, Blackburn,” Max settles on saying.

With a broad grasp, I hug him, easing his anxieties about whether he did the right thing by kissing me back. With a quick motion, I plant one more kiss on his cheek before turning away, smiling at the look of satisfaction plastered across his face.

I force my back into the classroom door, spilling into the bright space with a loud sigh. Mrs. Auburn's eyes shoot up from her focused position at the drawing on her desk, relaxing only once she notices who’s entered her space. Her red, curly hair is wound in a mound atop her head, housing multiple pencils just waiting to fall away. Her maroon blazer is decorated in pins, all outside of regulation for her uniform but somehow acceptable given her job here. Her face is smudged with graphite, traveling down her cheeks and the sides of her hands, stopping at the ends of each fingertip. Her green eyes pass over my own, narrowing the longer she watches me.

“I thought you might not show up early today,” she says with a grin. Her petite body leans back in her chair, relaxing her feet on her desk, pulling her attention away from her drawing.

“Trust me, I didn’t get here without struggle.”

I toss my bag on my desk, sighing while taking my usual seat toward the back of the classroom. Mrs. Auburn pulls away from her desk, sliding her chair closer with its wheels. She grabs a pencil from her hair, forcing my head up from its leaning position on the top of my desk.

“Why are you red? You look like you've been running.”

“That would be because of Max Vega,” I admit.

I watch the gears turn in her head as she reflects on my words.

“The blonde one? The twin?” she questions.

“That would be the one.”

“What did he do?”

More like, what did I do?

“I may have fed into his little crush on me after we got off the tram…. I kissed him, and I think it has done more damage than good.”

She smiles, looking as if she cracked some code.

“Are your feelings toward him not as prevalent?”

“Maybe,” I already know how much of a lie that is. “But not enough for me to start feeding into his wants ,” I finish, feeling that familiar churn in my stomach.

“All jokes aside, he is academically knowledgeable and not the most awful thing to look at. Maybe consider what influence a relationship with him could have on your Judgment Day.”

It always comes back to that, doesn't it? How good do you look when our people's leaders decide where to place you after you're done with schooling? Even the people you choose to sleep with affect where you are placed.

“I'll consider it,” I say through a strained smile.

She looked satisfied at the response. Returning to her desk, she grabs a new piece of graphite, continuing her art piece, moving her head toward the array of canvases stacked on the shelf next to me.

“You can continue yours if you want. I’ve been eager to see what you will do with it.”

With a swipe, I grab the brightly colored canvas from the shelf, sprawling it across my desk with a heave. It is nothing more than layers of color, layered to create the start of something I have yet to finalize in my mind. I see the bright colors of spring seep through the painting. Most of the images on my canvas came from dreams and, sadly, have yet to come together to form a complete picture. My usual paint palette rests on the shelf next to the paintings, along with my two brushes I use like no other. My brush swirls in a bright red, landing on my canvas in detailed precision as I begin building up what I can only assume is the start of a pair of hands at the bottom of the canvas. I still see them vividly from my dreams the night before.

“Bring it over, I want to see,” Mrs. Auburn happily chimes.

Dragging the canvas over to her, I gently plant it on her desk, both of us leaning in to observe my progress. It's hard to decipher what exactly is going on in the painting. It is too morbid to be plastered on a wall in the school. The start of a pair of hands rises from the bottom of the canvas. Daisies grow from the palms in bunches. Something lingers in the back of the painting, something I have yet to visualize fully.

“Do you want me to get into the symbolism I see in this, or should I save it for another day?”

Mrs. Auburn is nearly leaning over the painting, scanning it up and down for intricate details even I have yet to point out.

“Maybe save your in-depth analysis for when it has one.”

She laughs, backing away from the painting with a thud into her seat. A small chime on her computer sounds before a flash devours her screen.

“A message from the Academy Director.” Her eyes are glued onto her screen as she reads.

I stay silent, waiting for her to engage in our conversation again. The fiery-haired art teacher has become an enormous comfort to me this past year. Unlike all the other teachers, she genuinely loves her work. Her willingness to walk the line with regulations so often makes her a breath of fresh air. That's why I always make time to come to her class thirty minutes before I have to. Everything else in this school seems so confining.

“Did you know some Untouchables roughed up a baker from the Unfortunate sector this morning?” she questions.

“I was at the stop it happened at. Josh and Colton were responsible.”

I leave out the part where I shoved Colton to stop the delay.

“Serves the woman right. She should know better than to be that deep into our sector. Although, I'm sure those two boys didn't help the situation. I am not the fondest of Josh or his list of violations.”

“You're telling me.”

She closes the message, finally pulling her attention back to me. I reflect on the older woman's frail figure once more. The image paints my mind in fleeting moments.

“She didn't deserve what they did to her,” I blurt out without thinking. Mrs. Auburn pauses, her face pulling into a look of confusion. Her brows crease inward, forcing her face into an expression I rarely see on her.

“They always deserve it, Forest,” she says, placing her hand atop my own.

I shove away my regrets, letting them melt away with each roll of her thumb over my knuckle.

“You’re right. I’m just shaken up, is all.”

A voice clears behind us, jolting us away from our tender touch with one another. Mrs. Auburn’s light, genuine smile leaves her face, replaced with a look I have never seen on her before. Her relaxed demeanor goes rigid. Her once slumped posture is now as straight as one of the pencils in her hair. Her hand, once on my own, now clasps her other so hard her knuckles are white. Her eyes are narrowed like a cat's. Any love radiating off the woman has washed away like rain down a storm drain.

She's cold, distant, and utterly closed off.

Where has this side of her always been?

“Speak,” she snaps.

My hair rises once more, only prompting me to turn my head to meet his stoic expression.

His eyes are dead set on the once lively art teacher.

“My name is Fallan Markswood. I’m the student that was picked for the transfer program this year. My schedule said my first period was art.” He scans the plethora of items in the classroom. “I assume this is it,” he finishes. His voice is just as deep as I remember it. I can still hear his blatant threat in the back of my mind. He shuffles, crossing his arms while he waits for her to respond.

“Clearly it is,” I pipe in, answering for her. His eyes finally reach mine, narrowing with a look I can only describe as hate.

A section of the room is taped off, housing a few older desks for any Unfortunates taking this class. Older art supplies lean against the wall. Worn and used canvases consume the space, leaving little room for anyone's things behind the tape.

“As you know, you have a section in the back of the room. My broken easels and canvases are under the sink. We have a few paints ready to go next to the new ones. Take what you need, then do your best to silently work in the back and leave my other students undistracted,” Mrs. Auburn finally says.

Unlike our first encounter at the tram, he offers no pushback as he moves past us, keeping multiple feet between us. He's silent with each of his motions. Fallan slings his bag over his desk, propping up the slightly less worn canvas he has chosen against it. He precisely picks out his color palette, steering away from the brighter colors. His palette is filled with a variety of blues and purples.

I return to my seat, pulling my canvas away from Mrs. Auburn's desk. She looks distraught. Her hands run through her hair repeatedly to soothe herself. Because I never had to worry about an Unfortunate in the classroom, having my desk right before the line never seemed like an issue. Now, all I can do is regret it with each movement of his body from behind me.

“What's the prompt?” Fallan’s voice questions. Once again, he is speaking with no permission.

Mrs. Auburn is too preoccupied with her drawing to notice. I'm glad she has already found a way to deal with our unexpected visitor.

“You know those murals in the hallway before you came in?” I whisper, turning to meet his hateful gaze.

He nods.

“We get to replace those this year. The students in this class create something and then the best canvases get chosen out of the lot.” As hard as I try to force the hate in my voice, it simply won't show.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of getting a civil conversation with an Untouchable?” he whispers under his breath. I narrow my eyes, letting my frown visibly grow.

“Go to hell,” I snap, letting my foot hit his desk to jolt whatever stroke he was attempting on his canvas from behind the shield of his bag.

Keeping my body forward, I try to direct my anger-filled thoughts toward the man. Without turning around, I sense a smirk pulling over his lips.

Grabbing my brush, I let my anger direct itself to my work. My hands become less gentle with each stroke. The lively pinks now blend into more aggressive shades of red. Like a gunshot in the night, the bell's loud chime almost causes me to drag my brush across the length of the canvas. Even Mrs. Auburn's precision is disrupted by the noisy clamor of students entering their first-period classes.

Josh’s large body barrels through the classroom door, stumbling into others as students fill the vacant classroom. Josh looks to the back of the classroom, holding his bag with delight. Noticing the Unfortunate, he decides to avoid his regular seat and chooses the one closest to Fallan and me. Rae stumbles in behind him, scrunching her nose at the sight of Josh and an Unfortunate so close to me. I force my bag into the seat beside me, stopping Josh from getting closer. The other students whisper about the new eyesore in the back of the classroom. Fallan’s eyes remain on his canvas, not once lifting away to acknowledge anyone. He is genuinely focused on the strokes for whatever it is that he’s creating.

“Blackburn!” Josh begins, slamming his hand hard on my desk to stop my focus. Rae slides into the seat beside me, eyeing the man with disgust. He lingers in my area, waiting to find my next button to push.

“There is no scenario in which I want you anywhere near me,” I hiss, shoving away his hand’s hold on my desk.

He isn't focused on the crude gesture. Instead, he stares down Fallan, who could care less about his presence as he continues his gentle brush strokes.

“Whatcha painting there, pig?” Josh questions, kicking his leg forward to jolt Fallan’s desk.

“Josh, don’t antagonize,” Mrs. Auburn warns, removing her focus from her neat handwriting on the board outlining today's lesson.

“You should listen. Enough slip-ups, and you'll be working grunt Untouchable jobs after your Judgement Day,” I warn, narrowing my eyes at him. He swipes my paint cup from my desk, shoving me back into my seat when I try to reach after it. Fallan looks up, acknowledging the man's harsh hold on my shoulder.

“Yeah? And where do you think they'll place you? Last time I checked, you’re living in your brother's shadow,” Josh seethes.

There is no time for anyone to react. Josh drops the cup on Fallan’s desk, snickering as the wet mirage of colored water explores his canvas and front. I grab Josh, pulling him away from Fallan’s area. Raegan scolds the man, swatting his arm for making a mess. Fallan tears away the tuck of his shirt, trying to stop the water from soaking all the way through. A sliver of his back shows. It's hard to stop myself from covering my mouth at the sight of the several white scars working over the surface of most of his skin. I am not the only one who notices. A few students gasp as their silent whispers fill the room. Mrs. Auburn begins to scold Josh while silencing the multiple spouts of laughter muffled behind people's hands. I can't bring myself to laugh at the sight.

Fallan ignores the laughter, turning toward the class with lowered eyes. His shirt is covered in a splotch that will only add to him receiving grief for the rest of the day. My face is as stoic as his. His eyes pass over my own before taking a seat once more. Mrs. Auburn motions Josh away, allowing him to drag a chair away from the front and next to me.

“You should learn when to piss off,” Raegan says, hitting Josh's arm in a way I know he took as playful banter.

He smiles at the blonde, letting his eyes linger on her too long. He looks proud of his actions, like there is no consequence for the damage he inflicts on any Unfortunate.

“Are you mad that I embarrassed your boyfriend, Blackburn?” Josh questions. His lips hover over my ear as he begins his taunt. Raegan tries her best to eye down Mrs. Auburn. The woman is so involved in her lecture that there is no use in trying to get her to pause.

“Give me one good reason not to slam your head into this desk,” I whisper back. He plants his hand on the back of my neck, forcing my focus onto him.

“You don't want to start making big threats like that, Forest. You’re already on thin ice with me,” he whispers.

“Because you did nothing wrong? You’re a saint in all of this?”

“ It’s an Unfortunate . Of course I did nothing wrong.”

Does that stop them from being people?

This kind of poisonous thinking has landed me in this position before. They hate us and we hate them. But his scars, all of those scars. How can someone only in his 5th year have so many wounds? They all laughed as if one of us couldn't have any.

My fingers linger above the material where my birthmark resides.

Are imperfections truly that uncommon?

I pull my attention back to my painting, ignoring the growing pit forming in my stomach. Raegan silently works on her painting, doing her best to create perfectly straight lines in the image she’s creating. I avoid turning around to watch Fallan's gentle strokes. Josh watches me, too enthralled with my work to get started on his own. The silent whispers from girls a few seats over break through the air. They cover their mouths, but I catch stolen words like “Shifter” and “military” as they continue to gossip.

Foreign Entities, otherwise known as Shifters, are genetically mutated individuals scorched by the nuclear fallout after the wars. While some humans adapted genetically to the changes in their environment, like our ancestors, others changed for the worse. People's minds were no longer their own. Human's feral instincts came into play as their bodies began to mutate, shifting from something human to something animalistic. They are one of the main reasons we still have the ward. To keep them out. New Haven’s military occasionally goes beyond the ward to flush out any that have gotten too close to our borders. I’ve heard the horror stories of some soldiers never returning home in one piece.

“My uncle went beyond the ward once and said he saw one. It took him and three of his men to take it down,” Josh exclaims, interrupting the girl's once-quiet conversation. Even Mrs. Auburn has paused her lecture to listen in on the conversation about an entity we know so little about.

A hand flies up in my periphery, causing everyone's eyes to shift to the back of the classroom. Fallan’s hand is held high, his back leaned into the chair in the most relaxed position possible. He looks to Mrs. Auburn, patiently awaiting her permission to speak.

“Go on, Mr. Markswood.”

“You said uncle, so I assume he’s an Untouchable like you. Respectfully, the only people tasked with dealing with Shifters are Unfortunate military ranks. An Untouchable has never had to go beyond the ward to fight a Shifter. It would seem your uncle has told you a lie,” Fallan says with a large grin.

The room is dead silent at the Unfortunate’s sarcastic taunt. Josh looks livid, clenching his palms in a sorry attempt to control his anger.

“That's enough from you today,” Mrs. Auburn mutters, sensing an escalated situation.

Josh readies himself to move. With a shove of my desk, I force my hand on his leg, letting Fallan’s smirk grow at his pleasure in the anger he has created.

“I should kill you for that,” Josh spits, swatting away my hand, forcing himself to turn back to the front.

In a tone so quiet, I think I imagined it, I hear Fallan’s silent comment.

“I dare you to try.”

No cares, no fears for his actions. He gets a thrill out of our hate towards him. Everything about Fallan would make you think he has no respect for his role in our society.

“You’re close with her twin, right?” Josh silently whispers after a few long moments of pouting. His eyes are on Reagan, who is too focused on her painting to help me out of this situation.

“Yes…. Why?”

“He plays a role in determining who gets the next spot with the school's Student Advocates. I wouldn't mind having that title under my belt to appease my father and the Council when it comes time for my Judgment Day.”

I can't stop the laughter from leaving me.

“You seem to forget how much I hate you,” I snap, pulling back to my painting.

My stroke drags across the canvas at the feeling of his nails digging into my thigh. His hand encloses the skin, clamping down like the jaws of a bear trap. He watches me with no humor in his eyes. I can't move away from him without his nails leaving marks up my thigh. Without turning around, I know I am not the only one watching this scene unfold. Fallan silently watches, observing the power Josh tries to exert over me.

“You seem to forget you owe me,” Josh whispers.

My mind races back to that night. The night I try so hard to shove away from my mind. I see the Untouchable's cold expression. Several odd moments transpiring that night before he hit the pavement. Many silent seconds of staring over the edge of that roof. Many more seconds pleading for Josh to leave me out of the incident report. It all comes rushing back. Even now, the thought of that night turns my stomach.

“Talk to Max. I wasn’t giving you an option.”

The bell rings and Josh pulls away his grasp on my leg from beneath the desk. Casually, he slings his bag over his shoulder, walking away as if he didn’t just threaten me like he does anyone who has something he needs. Raegan finally pulls her gaze away from her work, showing me the vibrant canvas. I try to force a smile.

Students begin to file out of the room, leaving a flustered Mrs. Auburn a mess she has no interest in cleaning up. I linger behind, wincing at the dull pain in my leg. Raegan decides to stay with me, even organizing the canvases against the nearest wall. I half expect Fallan to acknowledge what he had seen from behind me as he walks by. Instead, he tosses his canvas under the sink, letting it land face down and away from prying eyes. Delicately, Fallan washes his brushes, putting them aside for another use, far away from the other supplies. Like a knife cutting skin, his eyes finally land on me. They’re a deep blue like an angry, ever-looming sea. His jaw is clenched.

Hate is the only thing that lingers in his gaze. Hate for me, hate for this school, and hate for the society his kind does not fit into. At that moment, that look was worse than any pain Josh could inflict on me. At least I know why Josh hates me. Not knowing why Fallan does is a considerably scarier feeling.