We Make Mayhem [boyxboy]

Chapter Eighteen

Just minutes into the first class of the day, I remembered that Noah's profile was running in the New York Times today. Maybe that was why he wasn't there.

The second Mrs. Ryan had her back turned to write on the whiteboard, phones were out under the desk, thumbs were scrolling. Of course, no one was subtle enough for her not to notice.

"I know you're all very intent on the news of the day," she said through pursed lips, "but I'm going to have to start confiscating phones if I don't see more eyeballs on the board."

That did it—Mrs. Ryan was the type of teacher who actually followed through on threats. There was a rumour that she had actually thrown a student's phone out a window, like, ten years ago or something. Who knew if it was true, but she was stern enough that no one wanted to risk it.

My phone burned a hole in my pocket. I was dying to read what the New York Times—the fucking New York Times!—had to say about Noah. Would they write it in a way that would make the whole New York Times readership fall in love with him? That gave me a tiny jealous twinge, deep inside, but I longed to find out because, as dramatic as it sounded, not seeing him all weekend felt like withdrawal and reading the New York Times profile might satiate that hunger.

I bet there were pictures, too.

I struggled through the class, but immediately after leaving Mrs. Ryan's classroom, before I could get to a quiet corner or deserted stairwell to indulge myself with the New York Times article, Bailey Reid, drama club president, grabbed my arm in the hallway.

"Riley, Riley, Riley!" she squealed. "Are you and the A/V club available to work lights and sound for us this year?"

That little question lead into a conversation about scheduling dress rehearsals and audio setup for a show two months away that, apparently, absolutely could not wait until another time. Bailey was telling me about the intricate details she wanted on the costumes when the next bell rang—the "get your ass to the next class" bell, as Gemma called it.

"Oops, gotta go!" Bailey said. "Message me later and we'll sort out the rehearsal schedule!"

I gave her a salute and tried not to glare at her back as she skipped away. She didn't know what she had done.

That meant I had to suffer through another class before I could read the damn article. Luckily it was history and I liked that class, so it was a little less difficult, but when the lunch bell rang, I sprang out of my chair like it was electric and raced to the cafetiria. I needed to get in line early, get my lunch, and sit the fuck down so I could read that damn article and get my fix.

When I had my lasagna, caesar salad, and garlic toast, I turned to begin looking for a seat and saw Chloe for the first time since Friday. She was sitting with Gemma and another friend, Ashley, smiling while Gemma told a story. It was a genuine smile, too—her eyes crinkled and her nose scrunched. Good.

I snuck past the table without her noticing me, which was a relief, and probably the best thing for both of us. Me because I didn't want to get glared or shouted at, and Chloe because she looked happy when she was oblivious of me. It seemed like it would be best if that continued.

I found an empty table at the back of the caf, sat down, and finally—finally—opened the article on my phone. The headline read:

    Junior Hoaxster: Son of Decker Lord, 17, Follows in Father's Footsteps with 'Performance Art'

The lead photo, right under the headline, showed Noah sitting on the stairs of his guest house—the same stairs I stumbled down in a daze on Friday night, barely able to believe what had happened between us upstairs. In the photo, he sat with one arm looped around his folded legs, which truly looked a mile long. The other hand covered his mouth. It was hard to tell if he was giving a moody stare or hiding a smile. It was the perfect vibe for someone who had just caught a cosmopolitan city's entire foodie crowd out in a lie.