For as long as I can remember I've had a strange relationship with feelings. When I was younger, like elementary school/preschool age, my problems with emotion skewed more towards having too many. I was erratic, going from screaming about a minor inconvenience to laughing at the stupidest little things, but as I got older I went to the other end of the spectrum. I started feeling almost nothing at all. It was like someone had turned down the volume and all of a sudden everything inside me was muted, dull. I knew what things I should be feeling, wanting, but I couldn't tell if they were really there or if they were just pale reflections of the things other people expected of me.
Ever since coming to Pruitt I felt as if someone had reached inside me and messed with all the controls. Especially after yesterday. Whatever fog I'd been comfortably living in had dispersed almost entirely.
Now, the feelings were vibrant colors. The fear about Heather and The Lords and everything else I couldn't control, the anger at all of it, at Magnus' death, the sadness I felt for Fletcher and Madeline. Even the good feelings were too much, the excitement, the relief that I finally had friends (if you could call it that) at Pruitt, the wanting that had cropped up since the kiss.
It was overwhelming, all of it, and I couldn't focus on anything. Especially not whatever Madeline was talking about.
We were in the journalism office again. She was going over "strategies", as Fletcher would call them, talking with so much apathy that it had to be manufactured. Now that I knew about Magnus, I understood a little better why they were taking everything so seriously, but Madeline maintained her air of sarcasm even though I knew Fletcher would have caught her up on our conversation. Most of it, at least. That meant the sarcasm was for her benefit, not mine. I didn't mind. We all have ways to keep from feeling. I just wished mine were still working.
"Murphy, are you listening?"
I wasn't, but I didn't want to admit that. I also didn't want to lie, so I just stared at her.
She sighed through a reluctant smile. "Whatever, I can barely listen to myself." Her long legs folded and she took a seat. Not on a chair, but on top of a desk. "Fletcher was supposed to be here, but he's off doing god knows what..."
I felt my cheeks go hot. I hadn't really let myself think about what the kiss meant, but now I was worried. Madeline noticed.
"Wait a second. Shit, what happened? Did something happen at the party?" I realized she was echoing Fletcher's words from yesterday. They both jumped so quickly to concern, it made me nervous.
"No. Not really."
She scowled like she didn't quite believe me, "Did Fletcher do something?"
I paused. He had, but so had I.
"Oh god, you're blushing."
"No I'm not."
She laughed. "You are."
I was. I knew it. My face loved to betray me. "We got lunch yesterday."
"Right," She raised an eyebrow. "Lunch."
For a moment, I imagined a world where I confided in Madeline and we laughed together about how weird Fletcher was. She'd give me advice, and I'd leave feeling calmer and closer to her. But that wasn't me, and it definitely wasn't Pruitt.
"I need to go. I have homework." I told her.
It was obvious to both of us how weak that excuse was, but Madeline didn't push. Instead, she said, "This is for you." In her palm was a small metal cylinder, about the size of a pen cap. Now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow. "It's an audio recorder. My Father's company makes them. If they're going to keep taking your phone you need to have a way to collect evidence. It also takes pictures." She glided her thumb across the surface, pausing on what I now realized was a camera lens.
Pruitt was so fucking weird.
On my way back to the dorm I walked past the lacrosse fields, where the boys were practicing. Boys lacrosse and girls lacrosse differ in that boys get to beat the shit out of each other and girls actually have to learn how to catch. It's so strange watching boys, like it's almost a different sport. But I like watching them anyway. I just like the game.
They were good. There's no doubt about that, and they practiced just as hard as they played. I found myself feeling grateful that there's no body checking in girls lacrosse because if there was, Heather probably would have killed me in my first week.
"Scholarship Kid." The voice came from behind me, and I wheeled around, searching for the source.
It was Tim.
The King of Pruitt was dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants and still managed to look like a greek god. He cocked his head to the side, his smirk so similar to Fletcher's I almost flinched. That's when I realized I was just standing there staring at him with my mouth wide open, like a fish out water (which, I guess, I was).
"What are you doing here?" He asked, taking a step towards me. He was so close I could smell his cologne. It was sweet and woody, and definitely more expensive than I could even imagine.
"I was going to my room." I said, gesturing weakly towards the dorms.
"And you stopped to watch." It wasn't a question, but I nodded anyway. I couldn't stop thinking what Fletcher had told me about Magnus, how all the lords had been there when he died, how Tim must have been there... "I hope you're not here to see me." This time his grin revealed his teeth, whiter than sun on snow and just as bright.
I shook my head, and then it occurred to me. "Why aren't you playing?"
"My ankle."
He was standing just fine. "What happened to your ankle?"
"Nothing." He answered. He was lucky. I tried to imagine what coach Keller would do if I tried to lie my way out of practice. They'd probably never find my body. Not that I'd ever try to get out of practice. Tim was still talking. "You left my party early." He said with another smirk. "After insulting the host." His eyes narrowed. I couldn't tell if he was actually angry or just teasing me. Either way, my skin crawled.
"What?" I didn't remember insulting him. Though, I didn't remember much of anything from that night.
"You told me I had bad stick skills."
That I remembered. "I didn't say they were bad. They're just not good." I doubled down before I could think better of it. Mostly because it was true.
"Huh, I thought you'd be less bold now that you're sober. Not more." He leaned in so close that I could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, and looked at me with a piercing stare. "You are sober, aren't you?"
I nodded, even though being around him was making me feel a little light headed. "It's nothing you can't work on." I said, collecting myself and trying to match his cool tone. "Unless you start skipping practices or something." As I finished I shot a pointed look to his ankle. His eyes followed mine, and his gaze hardened for just a moment. Then he laughed. He was so close I felt his breath warm across my face, but I didn't move. It seemed like the slightest thing might break the moment.
"You're crazy, you know that?" He said, his voice low. I shrugged. "Maybe you should show me your stick skills sometime. If you're so good."
The invitation, if that's what it was, almost made my heart beat right out of my chest, but I tried to maintain an outer calm. "Maybe." For the first time in a long time I knew exactly what to do next. I put a hand to his chest, feeling the outline of his musculature through his shirt, and gave a gentle push, clearing the way for me to walk by. "I'll see you later." I said, not even looking over my shoulder as I made for the girl's dorms. I knew he was looking after me. Boys like Tim weren't used to girls walking away from them.
I didn't care.
During the next few weeks it became obvious that Fletcher was avoiding me. He was nowhere to be seen, not in the lunchroom or on the quad, not even in the journalism office. I considered going to his dorm, but thought better of it. He was making it clear that he didn't want to see me. That was fine. Or, it should have been fine, but I couldn't help missing the feeling of his lips on mine, and the low timbre of his voice as he muttered about strategies and tactics.
Luckily, I still had Madeline. She must have taken pity on me because she kept coming up with excuses to meet in the journalism office. It wasn't like I was getting much intel, even if I was hanging out with Heather and her group pretty much every day. They weren't the Lords, they were just my way of getting close to them, and they hardly ever said anything important. (If I had to listen to Talia drone on about another gala I was going to tear my ears off).
But Madeline and I met anyway, and we started to become something close to real friends. She told me about her parents, who owned a security company, and had four houses. And I told her about Lamoni. Well, not everything, but some of it. I learned that she was a vegetarian and her favorite animal was possums for some reason. It was nice. It had been a long time since I'd had anything close to a real friend, but the whole time our conversations were haunted by the things we didn't say. The real reasons I left Iowa, the kiss I wasn't telling her about, and things I could tell she wasn't telling me. Sometimes she'd be halfway through a story and she'd just stop, and move on to something else like maybe I wouldn't notice. I do notice, but I didn't ask. Everyone had secrets. Especially at Pruitt.
But the kiss was the one secret I couldn't forget. The whole time I was with Heather or Madeline or in class or on the field, Fletcher was in the back of my mind, staring at me with those broken, intense eyes.
I'd taken to walking out on the quad until lights out, no matter how cold and dismal it was, hoping maybe I'd run into him by accident. It was pitiful. I was turning into one of those girls who I'd never been able to stand, girls who were living for someone else, and I didn't know what to do about it.
That particular night the stars shone so bright I felt like maybe I was back home in Lamoni, and I'd ended up so distracted by it that I stayed out past lights out by accident.
At the realization I felt a huge jolt of fear. It would have been different if I was Tim or Heather or even Fletcher, but I was at Pruitt on a scholarship. I wasn't supposed to mess up. I wasn't allowed to.
So, I crept back to my dorm on the tips of my toes, sticking to the shadows and going slow enough to keep my footfalls silent.
For all their money, the security at Pruitt was subpar. At first, I had thought it was because they expected too much of their students. I thought maybe the idea was that rich kids didn't sneak out. Now I knew it was because they expected too little. It was something I'd realized a while ago. The administration knew about the lords. They had to. Maybe not all of it, but enough. They just didn't care.
That's why I was able to make it back to my room without tripping an alarm or getting caught on a camera. It's also why someone else was able to sneak inside.
Juliet was sitting on her bed stock straight even though she usually would have been asleep right now. Across from her, sitting on my bed, was Tim Watson. I'd never seen my roommate look so scared, but Tim was splayed out, flipping through one of the books I had to read for English, The Great Gatsby. When I entered the room, both their eyes met mine. Juliet said nothing, just scowled like I was the one who invited him there. Though, I wasn't sure what he'd told her so I couldn't really fault her for that.
Tim on the other hand, jumped from the bed in a mixture of grace and power, like a lion. He stood, smiling his movie-star smile.
I wanted to ask what he was doing there, but the words wouldn't form.
"Hey," He said, taking the pressure to speak off my shoulders. "I was thinking now would be a good time to go over stick skills."