In My Dreams I Hold a Knife(13)

“Well, that’s because Frankie got the life his dad always wanted, right? Way back when his dad was a football star, before he got injured?” Caro shook her head. “Parents, man. They can be so unintentionally creepy.”

“It’s like Freud said,” a dark voice cut in. “You have to kill your father before you’re free.” A pause. “Or was that a rap song?”

I froze. The voice triggered every nerve in my body, sparking them to life. I turned slowly, fighting a pull as irresistible as gravity. Maybe, just maybe, if I didn’t look, I could remain safe. Safety had to be better than what lay at the end of this turn, nothing but him, flesh and blood, and the short distance between us.

I stopped turning. And looked.

They all thought I mourned Mint. That the sight of him and Courtney together would set me off. Yes, Mint had hurt me, but he wasn’t the person who’d cut me so deeply the wound would never heal. Mint wasn’t the face I saw at night when I tossed and turned. Mint wasn’t the person I’d betrayed so profoundly that the weight of it had seeped into everything—my dreams, the words I spoke, the very cadence of my steps, as if I walked everywhere carrying an extra heaviness. Mint wasn’t the cause of what I now realized was a decade-long panic attack, unfolding in excruciatingly slow motion.

No. That man stood in front of me now, looking at me with wild abandon, grass-green eyes dangerous as ever.

Coop.





Chapter 5


October, freshman year

We stood in the abandoned field behind grad student housing—in the hiding place we’d thought was secret—and stared at the wreckage. There were no clues to whisper what happened. There was nothing but twenty students gripped by silence, even the squirrels frozen in the trees, even the dry, dead leaves muted underfoot.

We were a single day out from the Homecoming parade, and our pride and joy—the float we’d spent weeks building—was crushed. Decimated. Themed Duquette Royalty in what Courtney assured us was a playful but not arrogant reference to East House’s five-year winning streak in the Battle of the Freshmen Halls, the float was an elaborate, fourteen-foot replica of East House, styled as a castle, complete with real, intricately woven vines.

Or it had been. Now the entire structure was caved in, as if it had been hit with a wrecking ball. The coup de grace was supposed to be a short round of fireworks we’d planned to set off from each of the turrets, the ammunition generously paid for by Mint’s parents and currently stowed in his backpack, ready to be tested. But the turrets were smashed, hanging at odd angles like broken limbs.

We were supposed to dazzle the Homecoming crowd into handing East House its sixth first-place win, and cement our place in campus history. I’d worked for weeks drawing the entire thing, from the castle to each flower that surrounded it, directing others where and how to paint.

All of our work, for nothing.

What the hell happened?

I searched my friends’ faces, seeing my panic mirrored. We’d worked with other people from the dorm, sure, but this competition had been ours. Our stroke of genius, our leadership. Our excuse to see each other every day, on top of every night. In such a short time, we’d become the kind of friends who were less separate, distinct people and more limbs you couldn’t live without. This attack felt like a personal affront.

Mint, standing near the head of the float, dropped his backpack full of fireworks. It hit the ground with a heavy thud, causing Frankie, hovering behind him like a shadow, to shift out of the way, eyeing it warily. Beside me, Caro braced her hands over her face, shielding her eyes from view.

Coop stepped close to me and lowered his voice. “That float was a piece of art.”

I dropped my eyes, feeling the loss of my work more sharply now that someone had named it. “It was just a little painting. Not important.”

Jack picked up a piece of limp, broken vine and cradled it. “What in the world could have done this? It’s like the float was hit by a bulldozer.”

“Wrong question. You mean who could have done this.” In the crowd of stunned faces, Heather’s alone was mercenary. Heads turned in her direction.

Courtney put her hands on her hips, her slim elbows making razor-sharp angles, even under the bulk of her coat. “We all know exactly who did it. It was those freaks from Chapman Hall. Led by twin weasels Trevor Daly and Charles Smith. They want to win so badly they decided to take out the competition.”

There was a murmur of agreement. Trevor and Charles were loudmouths and well known for pulling pranks only they thought were funny. Like stealing girls’ underwear out of the laundry room and stringing it up on tree branches.

“Hey, now,” Mint said, shoving his hands in the pockets of his peacoat. “Trevor and Charles are rushing Phi Delt.” He offered this like it was a talisman of protection against accusations, an endorsement that couldn’t be argued with. Phi Delt was, after all, the best frat on campus. It was where everyone knew Mint would end up. They were rushing Frankie and Jack, too, but that was mostly because they came with Mint, like a package deal.

“How did Trevor and Charles even know where to find our float?” It had been my idea to hide it behind the grad student apartments, tucked on the edge of campus, where undergrads rarely ventured—an idea I’d been proud of until this moment.

Frankie rubbed a hand across his reddening face. “I might have…mentioned something during beer pong…about blowing things up and grad students yelling at us…”