“Good. And when you do see your brother… make sure you tell him about our little visit to his childhood home. Make sure he knows, if we have to visit again, we won’t be so nice.”
Flicking open a stiletto, Barboza slices off my duct tape bindings. I wince as the blade nicks the sensitive skin inside my wrists, leaving thin trails of blood behind.
I’m free, but I don’t move.
Not an inch.
Not a muscle.
“We’ll see you soon, kid,” Rico calls as they head for the door. Their heavy boots thud across the porch. “Count on it.”
Chapter Thirteen
JOSEPHINE
For the restof the week, I achieve the impossible.
I mange to avoid Archer.
At school, I make myself scarce — switching out my books at strategic times when I know the hallways will be empty, spending free periods in the Creative Arts wing working on my sketches, eating lunch in my car. At home, I stick to my side of the estate — lounging at the pool, sailing around the islands, hitting tennis balls on the empty court, studying for the upcoming AP exams in my bedroom.
I do not go back to the boathouse.
For all I know, Archer is avoiding me as well. He’s in no rush to make amends, that much seems clear from my lack of texts, phone calls, and drop-ins. He’s undoubtedly busy after school, his schedule packed with baseball games and extra practices. With the regular season winding down, I’m sure his coach is already prepping for the start of playoffs next week.
Friday night marks the final game against Exeter’s biggest rival — St. John’s Preparatory School, the all-boys academy a few towns over. Our team is bound for the State Championships regardless of the final score, but the Exeter vs. St. John matchup is always a big event. Half the town turns out to tailgate, their faces painted green, bodies plastered with Exeter paraphernalia. Everyone even loosely associated with the academy attends — alumni, students, staff.
Everyone except me, that is.
No way am I going to sit in the bleachers and cheer Archer on to victory. Not when we’re so at odds.
By Thursday afternoon, the impending game is all anyone can talk about. I weave through clumps of students in the hallways, listening to the chatter with a detached sort of acceptance.
You’re going tomorrow, right?
Reyes is going to crush it!
St. John’s is going down this year.
Do you have your tickets yet?
I spin my locker combination, wishing I hadn’t forgotten my headphones at home.
“How’s it hanging, Valentine?” Ryan asks, planting his shoulder against Kenny Underwood’s locker as I’m exchanging my textbooks after lunch.
“No complaints, Snyder.”
“Ouch! Did you just last-name me?”
“You last-named me first!”
“But everyone calls you Valentine.”
Not everyone.
I shrug and shut my locker. “Do you need something?”
“Why yes, now that you ask.” He grins widely. “I desperately need to know where you’ll be sitting tomorrow night. Want to make sure I can find you in the crowd. I didn’t see you on Tuesday at our away game.” He waggles his eyebrows as he leans in, whispering conspiratorially. “And, trust me… I looked.”