The debate bus leaves in two hours. Will they even let him on it? Will they strip him of his captain position? God, could this get back toHarvardeven?
All because I couldn’t keep my hands to myself. All because I’m exactly the trash everyone’s always said I am.
I shove through the wide double doors at the front of the school, and immediately the atmosphere hits me—that particular buzz of scandal, the way student bodies hum when something juicy drops.
Heads turn. Whispers ripple outward from wherever I walk.
“—that’s her?—”
“—can’t believe?—”
“—her ownbrother?—”
I ignore them. I’m good at ignoring shit like this. Had plenty of practice.
Naturally, the first person I run into when I barrel through is McKenzie fucking Davis, standing in the main hallway with her little entourage fanned out behind her like she’s posing for a magazine cover.
And she’s got this smile. This giant, self-satisfied, cat-that-ate-the-canary smile that tells me everything I need to know.
“Out of my way,” I growl, in absolutely no mood to deal with Queen Bitch today.
“I knew there was something going on between you two,” she sneers, blocking my path. Her uniform is perfect as always—skirt hem exactly regulation length, sweater vest pressed within an inch of its life, hair curled in those stupid perfect ringlets that probably take an hour every morning.
I want to rip those ringlets right out of her skull.
“Seriously, McKenzie, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll move your ass.”
I try to shove past her, but she stops me with her next words.
“I saw him cowering by your locker, in case you’re wondering where he is.”
My head wrenches around to look over my shoulder at her suspiciously.
She just blinks at me all innocently—lashes fluttering, expression blank—and my stomach does another sick swoosh.
This is obviously a trap. Has to be. McKenzie doesn’t do helpful. McKenzie does vindictive.
But I have to know. And my locker is on the way to the cafeteria anyway. Close enough that I can check both.
So I keep running.
My boots echo in the hallway. Students press themselves against lockers as I pass, phones out, filming. Always fucking filming.
I round the corner toward my locker and stop short.
Students crowd the hallway, cutting off the path behind me. The whispers explode into full-volume commentary.
And in the center of it all, like a spotlight on a stage I never auditioned for, are two police officers.
They’re pulling shit from my locker. So much shit.
Plastic bags. Big ones. Gallon-sized freezer bags stuffed full of weed. The cheap stuff—brown and stemmy, the kind you buy in bulk to flip for profit.
Pounds of it. Has to be at least three, maybe four pounds.
And smaller baggies. Dozens of them. Pre-portioned into eighths and quarters, ready to sell.
My hands start shaking. Then my whole body.