The Rebel of Raleigh High (Raleigh Rebels #1)(29)

I’m headed for the exit, about to go in search of something more palatable than cafeteria fare, when I catch sight of the food and realize that it’s actually a far cry from the garbage they dished up at Bellingham. Grabbing a loaded tray of food—burger, wedge of lasagna, cup of chocolate pudding—I find an empty table and park myself, ready to hoe in. I’m unimpressed when I sense someone to my right, lowering themselves onto the bench beside me. One, single, solitary banana appears on the table next to my tray, and an overpowering smell, saccharine sweet, hits the back of my nose.

“Wow. You starved at home or something?”

I sigh, annoyance snapping at my back. It’s her again—the Walking Fenty Purse. Zen straddles the bench, facing me, smiling suggestively as she peels her banana and takes a bite. Has this chick never seen a fucking movie? Doesn’t she know that she’s a walking cliché? Aside from the obnoxious perfume she’s doused herself in, she also reeks of desperation. Highly unattractive. She eyes my lunch like it’s both the most disgusting and most enticing thing she’s ever seen in her life. “Seriously, though. Do you live in an orphanage?” She clears her throat and then speaks, affecting a terrible English accent. “Please, Sir. May I have some more?”

Stupid, ignorant, stuck up bitch.

“Oliver. Nice. No, I didn’t grow up in an orphanage.”

Zen beams. “Oh, I know. I was only messing around. I—”

“They call them ‘homes for boys’ now. I stayed in one from the age of six until I was eleven. After that, I bounced around in the foster system for a while. That was fun.”

The girl looks bewildered. Her mouth falls open wide enough to tell me that she can’t figure out if I’m fucking with her or not. I should put her out of her misery. Tell her it was a joke. That would be the kind, if dishonest, thing to do, but fuck…I’ve never been accused of being kind.

She shifts awkwardly on the bench, swiveling around to face the table properly. “That sounds like an interesting childhood.”

“Oh, yeah. Fucking fascinating.” I jam the burger into my mouth, taking a massive bite. Zen watches me, horrified, as I plow through my meal. I don’t bother looking up from my tray, even when three other people—two guys and a girl—come and sit with us. Eventually, I surface from my food and lock eyes with Halliday; she gives me a warning glare, nostrils flared, and the look conveys her thoughts perfectly: Please, dear God, do not breathe a single word about what happened last night. Please, please, fucking please.

I give her a single raise of my eyebrows, mentally telling her to chill the fuck out, then I grab my tray and stand.

“Hey, dude. What kind of motorcycle is that anyway?” the guy on the left asks. His name is David, or Daniel, or Diego or something.

“It’s an Indian. A Scout.”

“Huh. My old man says anyone who rides a motorcycle must have a death wish.”

I grunt as I leave the table. “Yeah. Your old man’s probably right.”

It feels like an eternity passes after lunch. I’m torn; I can’t wait to get the fuck out of this hell hole, with its clean bathrooms, and horribly healthy, wholesome-looking students who smile way too damn much, but I’m also looking forward to staying, too. Because once that bell rings at two-thirty, all of these assholes are gonna file out of here and I’ll get to spend an hour with Silver.

She’s going to follow through on the lesson. She will. I know she will. I’m so confident that she’s going to be there when I enter the music room at two thirty-five that I’m honestly a little confused when I show up only to find the place deserted. I even check the sound booth cubicles to see if she’s waiting for me in there. It takes me a second to really understand that she’s stood me up. I run my tongue over my teeth, leaving the music room, heading in the direction of the admin office, where all the student records are kept.

Okay, Silver.

It’s like that, is it?

Well, two can play that game.





12





SILVER





“Hey, Maxie! For real, dude. Where the hell are your shorts? We’re gonna be late!” I’ve already run all over the house, searching for Max’s soccer uniform, but the boy loses everything he touches, and thus far he’s been more interested in ‘Call of Duty’ than helping me hunt down his shit.

I’m not even supposed to be taking him to practice tonight, but Dad managed to talk me into it—uninterrupted time for him to continue working on his piece for The Architect’s Digest. In exchange, he promised I could have the keys to the cabin this weekend since it’s Labor Day on Monday, plus a full tank of gas so I can drive myself up to the lake. The thought of being up there, alone, with only my guitar and my books for company? Seventy-two blissful hours of solitude? Yeah, it’s gonna be heaven on earth. Of course, Dad has no idea I’ll be going up there alone. I didn’t lie to him, per se. Okay, well it’s potentially a lie by omission, but it’s hardly my fault if he doesn’t do his due diligence. For the past two years, I’ve been allowed to use the cabin at the lake because the girls always used to come with me. A group of five girls, together in the woods, armed with pepper spray, made it possible for my parents to sign off on unsupervised trips to the tiny log cabin my grandfather built on the shore of Lake Cushman back in the sixties.