PROTECTED SECRETS

💛part one✨

-Arias PoV- 
Monday, September 24, 2:55pm

A sex tape. A pregnancy scare. Two cheating scandals. And that's just this weeks update. If all you knew of Eastwood High was James Loxton's gossip app, you'd wonder how anyone found time to go to class.

"Old news, Aria," says a voice over my shoulder. "Wait till you see tomorrow's post." Damn. I hate getting caught reading About That, especially by its creator.

I lower my phone and slam my locker shut.

"Who's lives are you ruining next, James?" James falls into step beside me as I move against the flow of students heading for the exit.

"It's a public service," he says with a dismissive wave. "You tutor Reggie Crawley, don't you? Wouldn't you rather know he has a camera in his bedroom?" I don't bother answering. Me getting anywhere near the bedroom of perpetual stoner of Reggie Crawley is about as likely as James growing a conscience.

"Anyway, they bring it on themselves. If people didn't lie and cheat, I'd be out of business." James' cold blue eyes take in my lengthening strides.

"Where are you rushing off to? Covering yourself in extracurricular glory?" I wish. As if to taunt me, an alert crosses my phone: Mathlete practice, 3pm, Coffee House. Followed by a text from one of my teammates: Evan's here.

Of course he is. The cute Mathlete- less on an oxymoron than you might think- seems to only ever show up when I can't.

"Not exactly," I say. As a general rule, and especially lately, I try to give James as little information as possible. We push through green metal doors to the back stairwell, a dividing line between the dinginess of the original Eastwood High and it's bright, airy new wing.

Every year more wealthy families get priced out of San Diego and come fifteen miles east to Eastwood, expecting that their tax dollars will buy them a nicer school experience than popcorn ceilings and scarred linoleum.

James is still on my heels when I reach Mr Kelleher's lab on the third floor, and I half turn with my arms crossed.

"Don't you have someplace to be?" I ask, hoping he'll just leave me alone.

"Yeah. Detention," James says, and waits for me to keep walking. When I grasp the doorknob instead, he bursts out laughing.

"You're kidding me. You too? What's your crime?" I'm dreading spending another second with him.

"I'm wrongfully accused." I mutter, and yank the door open. Three other students are already seated, and I pause to take them in. Not the group I would've predicted, except one.

Noah White tips back in his chair and smirks at me. "You make a wrong turn? This is detention, not student council."

He should know. Noah's been in trouble since fifth grade, which is about the last time we spoke. The gossip mill tells me he's on probation with Eastwood's finest for... something. It might be a DUI; it might be drug dealing. He's a notorious supplier, but my knowledge is purely theoretical.

"Save the commentary." Mr Kelleher checks something off on a clipboard and closes the door behind James.

High arched windows lining the back wall send triangles of afternoon sun splashing across the floor, and faint sounds of football practice float from the field behind the parking lot below.

I take a seat as Calvin Moore, who's palming a crumpled piece of paper like a baseball, whispers "Heads up, Kylie." and tosses it toward the girl across from him. Kylie Garcia blinks, smiles uncertainly, and lets the ball drop to the floor.