:: C H A P T E R S I X | FEEL THE FEAR IN MY ENEMY'S EYES ::
October 2
My mom always told me that good things come to those who wait. I used to think it was a load of bullshit when I was a kid. What's the point of waiting? Whoever came up with that crap must have never known how to fight for something that they really wanted.
But here's the thing: sometimes fighting for every single thing that you want tires you out. Sometimes I wish that I could have everything handed to me on a silver platter. That I could get into any college that I wanted to without worrying about scholarships or having enough money to pay for even one semester.
God, I hate them sometimes. They're supposed to be my friends, so why is it so clear that they don't give a shit about me?
Even though Kian didn't hate the Inheritors like I did, at least he wasn't blind to their faults. I understood why he wanted to fit in — the Inheritors could make your life miserable if they didn't like you — but ditching his have-not friends was only something that a jerk would do.
I rested my head against the cool bus window where the morning light poured in. I felt the beginning of a headache behind my eyes. Kian was close to perfect—brilliant and beautiful with his slanted amber eyes and lashes that were naturally long and dark — but his penmanship was clearly something that had needed work. Every single one of his journal entries was messily scrawled in thick, dark ink. It was like decoding hieroglyphs. And in a way, I guess it was. I was decoding the mystery that was Kian Daniels.
But it was more than that; in the past few days I had learned a lot about Kian (I had even invaded his most private thoughts), but I was still didn't understand him. I mean, why would Kian, the popular athlete, want to keep a journal? I thought only melodramatic and misunderstood bad boys did that.
How did that cliché go? Oh right, the bad boy with the motorcycle and attitude problems secretly kept a journal that revealed how he wished to be accepted by his peers. As far as I knew, Kian wasn't in the possession of a motorcycle or a bad attitude. He was the opposite of a sullen rebel—he was a golden boy with a shiny future full of success and happiness.
So what had caused him to give it all up?
Taking a sip of coffee, I bent my head to read another entry, hoping that it would reveal more about Kian, while my one hand absently massaged the crick in my neck.
October 10
I met a girl today. But it's not what you would think. Some of the guys from football had cornered her by the vending machine—the one no one ever uses because it just carries water—after practise. I guess she stayed because of some meeting (journalism or SRC? She looked like the type), but I never asked because she took off as soon as I pulled Skylar off of her.
See? This is what I mean about the Inheritors. Most of them are sick bastards, but the decent ones are the ones who keep you coming back for more. But the sick ones, well, they get away with shit like this. Dave let it slip that Meg had sicced them on her. I don't know why, but I know that I've got to keep an eye out for her. She looks so familiar that I can almost put a name to her face, but I can't because she doesn't belong with the Inheritors, and that's the group where you can find me. Usually.
My stomach clenched, rebelling against the mouthful of coffee that I'd just swallowed. I couldn't read anymore, at least right now. I rewrapped the elastic band around Kian's worn journal and dropped it into my backpack just as someone's weight dropped into the seat beside me. "Hi, Reed," Liam said, smiling as he plucked my mug out of my hands and took a long sip.
I blinked. "What are you doing on the bus? Don't you have a car?" I didn't have a problem with the bus—unlike the rest of Scire. But why would anyone who owned a car want to wake up early to ride the vehicle that the Inheritors had affectionately named the "Trashmobile?"
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking slightly embarrassed. "I was looking for you, actually."
"Me?" I choked out. "But aren't you pissed at me?"
Liam had the good grace to look uncomfortable as he pressed the coffee mug back into my hands. "I was tired."
"That's a shitty excuse," I said sharply. I was still angry about Kian's journal—and the terrible lengths that Meg and her friends would go to make someone's life miserable. Liam was a decent guy, but he was an Inheritor. And you never trusted someone who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. "And we both know it."
A startled expression crossed his face before his features hardened. "Do you really want to hear the real reason?"
I exhaled, attempting to take another sip of coffee without thinking about the last pair of lips that had touched the rim. "I wouldn't be asking if I didn't want to know."
"God, all you journalists are the same. You want to find the answer to every question, but you're only happy when it's the 'right' answer."
"Don't," I snapped, my voice low and dangerous. "You've done this before—don't you dare compare me to Meg."
"Why not? Isn't she, like, the golden standard that all have nots aspire to?" I recoiled at the cruelty in his words. When Liam wanted to, he could make you forget that he was one of them. And it only hurt more when you remembered that he was on their side. It felt like he was throwing all of my insecurities in my face. It was one thing for me to notice that money created a void between my rich classmates and I, but to have Liam mention it ... well, it was humiliating. And it was like he didn't even notice that he was driving a knife into my chest and twisting it as hard as he could.
We stared at each other for a minute before I glanced around the bus. The other two occupants—an old woman and a middle-aged man—weren't paying any attention to us.
I realized that I wanted to hurt Liam back. I wanted him to feel the same stomach-twisting embarrassment, feel the bile rise in his throat, the sting behind his eyes. No matter how much I'd tried to guard myself against it, I'd accepted him as an ally in the quest to protect Kian's name, and now we were at each other's throat like any other Inheritor and have-not.
"I'm not sure why he was friends with you," I said quietly. "Kian was a much better person than you'll ever be."
His face darkened until it resembled the underside of a thundercloud. "You want to know why you pissed me off? Here's why, what kind of person goes poking around at a funeral?" He rapped the seat with his fist. "I never got why they called this thing the 'Trashmobile,' but now I know why."
I was shaking with fury. In the space of five minutes, Liam had managed to prove that he was an Inheritor, through and through. "Get up," I snarled hoarsely as the bus slowed down three stops before we reach St. Benedict. "Just get up."
I was halfway down the aisle when he spoke again. "I didn't come to apologize, by the way. I just wondered if you might know where Kian's journal went."
"What makes you think that I would want to help you?" I asked frostily. "But if it makes you feel any better, I don't know what you're talking about."
I was so angry that the lie didn't even burn my throat.
"And your coffee needs more cream." He laughed, a bitter sound that made me feel sick. "But that shit's expensive, isn't it?"
I wanted to dump my coffee all over his head. But I would be the one who would get in trouble.
Because when I fought fire with fire, I was always the one who got burned.
***
"Murdering people is not a suitable career choice, you know." Jules' amused look faded when I didn't stop glaring at the Inheritors' table. "Jeez, Reed, what did he do?"
"Acted like an Inheritor," I mumbled, "but I shouldn't be surprised."
"But you also shouldn't look like you want to cry or throw something either."
"He just said some stuff," I said quietly. "And I said some stuff back. You know, typical crap."
Jules' hand fastened itself around my wrist. "What kind of stuff, Reed?"
I hunched my shoulders forward, and focused on my lunch. It was the same as every day: a sandwich, fruit and a brownie, but looking at it only emphasized the difference between the gourmet lunches of my classmates. St. Benedict served hot lunches, but they weren't the average cheeseburger and fries combination of other schools. The chef was French, and he always prepared a variety of elaborate meals that I could never afford. Of course, the Inheritors didn't appreciate what they had. Some of the athletic kids would toss back glazed salmon and crab risotto without even tasting it, while others would unhappily pick at it because they were "watching their weight."
It was humiliating how I couldn't even buy an Italian soda because it would eat up my entire weekly food budget. I hated how even food had the power to make me feel small.
"What kind of stuff?" repeated Jules, and the skin around his eyes tightened. "What did he say?"
I avoided his eyes, picking at the turkey on my sandwich. "The usual, Jules. Nothing new."
Silently, he passed an empanada over the table. I took a bite, savouring the taste of the spiced beef, raisins and egg. Jules' mom had been making them for years, and no one could make them better than her. "Who needs a French chef when we have these, right?" he asked, reading my mind in the way that only he could.
I smiled, but it felt strange on my face, like I'd been doing more frowning than smiling lately. My eyes darted over to the Inheritors' table again. Liam's eyes briefly met mine before I glanced away. Did he almost look guilty?
No, I wasn't going to let myself fall into his trap again. Liam Sinclair was born with money in his blood and snobbery in his nature. I would never trust him again.
"Right," I said. "Who needs them?"
***
The slip of paper was wedged into the crevice between the bus wall and seat of my usual spot. The edges were ripped, and whoever had wrote it had completely disregarded the blue lines—the narrow writing slanted from the top corner to the bottom corner.
R— it said, I'm sorry. —L
Unconsciously, I began to crumple the note. Did he really think that two words scrawled on a ripped piece of foolscap could take back the terrible things that he'd said?
Who was I kidding? He was Liam Sinclair, and he probably thought that I owed him an apology. Perhaps I did, but I was never ever going to apologize, not after how he'd poked and prodded at every single one of my insecurities.
I tossed the crumpled note into my bag, intending to throw it out later, and I pulled out Kian's journal.
October 16
Liam Sinclair is probably one of the best people in the world. And I can say that as a completely straight guy who has been in love with one girl for his entire life because it's true. I think he might be the only person in the world who really gets me.
We weren't always best friends. When I joined the basketball team, we disliked each other on principle. That's how it works between Inheritors and people like me; you watch your back.
But when the rest of the team was stringing me up on net by my underwear or beating me until I was covered in bruises, Liam was the one who pulled me down or stepped in before they punched me into unconsciousness because that's who he is. He's just Liam, and he's caught in the middle of this stupid war like the rest of us.
I rewrapped the journal, snapping the elastic band anxiously. I knew Kian and Liam were good friends, but hadn't known of the bullying that Kian had gone through, though it didn't surprise me. Kian hadn't always been the perfect boy, admired by everyone. He had been like me.
But that was where Kian and I were different. He'd managed to fight his way out of obscurity; he'd escaped the bullying, while I was still very much the victim who didn't know how to save herself.
Kian was special. He was the champion of the Inheritors and the have-nots. He may have not had it all, but at least he'd won some of his battles.
That was what scared me. I wasn't Kian.
***