The Weight of Blood (33)

“But I didn’t stop her either,” she muttered. “I never stopped Jules from messing with Maddy. None of us did. We all just . . . stood by.”

Kenny leaned back against the window, staring as if trying to make sense of her, but remained flabbergasted. “But why me? Why can’t someone else take her?”

“Because you’re both . . . I mean, you would look good together.”

Kenny’s eyes widened. “Oh God, Wendyyyy.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing in.

She scooted closer to him, holding the blanket over her bare chest. “It’ll be good for your image,” she insisted, nuzzling his shoulder. “The star quarterback, five-star recruit takes the town’s reject to the first All-Together prom. No one will forget it. They’ll write about it in the paper. And then people will see that we’re . . . nice people.”

Kenny’s face darkened, and he shrugged her off him. “You trying to prove that by pimping me out to some girl I don’t even know?”

Her eyes went wide. “No! It’s not like that. It’s about—”

“What about what I want?” he snapped. “Have you ever thought of that?”

Wendy pressed her lips together, feeling an argument lurking in the air, beating at the constructed walls of their avoidance game. “Just think—for one night, you’ll make some girl’s dream come true. She hasn’t had it easy. And a lot of us are to blame. Me included.”

Kenny’s eyes softened as he stared at his knuckles.

“Please, Kenny? For me.”

They sat for a long silent moment, the mood shifting. Wendy questioned her judgment, since Kenny rarely said no to anything. Always easygoing and down for whatever. But as he sat like a frozen statue, she wondered what lived on the other side of his reliability.

Finally, he huffed, yanking a T-shirt over his chiseled chest. “I’ll think about it,” he mumbled without looking at her, and opened the trunk hatch. She exhaled in relief.

He’ll come around, she thought. And really, it wasn’t a big deal. It was just one night.





Eight


May 21, 2014

SIXTH PERIOD. English.

Mr. Bernstein walked through the rows of seats, handing back the quarterly book analysis assignments. He placed an A-minus paper on Kenny’s desk and tapped it twice.

“Need to see you right after class about this,” he said.

Heads turned in Kenny’s direction, all wearing the same Uh-oh! Someone’s in trouble expression. Kenny grinned at the gazes as if it was no big deal but felt his organs harden. Had he answered the right question? Added the bibliography? Numbered the footnotes?

He slyly peeked over at Jason’s desk, his paper sitting face-up. C-minus, the same as his last two papers. So why hadn’t he been asked to stay after class?

The bell rang, and Kenny waited for the class to clear out before he stepped up to his English teacher’s desk.

“What’s up?” he said, his voice light and airy.

Mr. Bernstein nodded at the report. “Did you get some help with that?”

Kenny handed him back the paper. “No. Why? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no, it’s great! Incredibly insightful.”

Kenny frowned at the minus symbol sitting next to his grade. Then what’s the fucking problem? he thought, yet forced out a “Thanks, Mr. Bernstein.”

“But . . . it’s the third one like it that you’ve done. Not saying your work wasn’t good before, but this sudden improvement is, or to someone else, could be perceived as, well, a little inconceivable. I know you have a ton on your plate. So maybe . . . did Wendy perhaps help you write it? I’ll be okay with it if you’re just honest with me, son.”

Kenny gripped the strap of his book bag, careful not to react to the burning lump of coal in his throat. He’d stayed up half the night finishing that paper, put in more effort than necessary, only because the book interested him. He studied the lines in his palm, something he tended to do when he needed to regain composure. He rubbed a thumb down the long life line that started near his pointer and ended at the top of his wrist. A reminder that he had a full life ahead of him. A life with football, fame, and money. Why waste his time trying to prove himself to some asshole who couldn’t run or throw a ball to save his life?

So he gave his English teacher exactly what he wanted.

“You know, you’re right, Mr. Bernstein,” Kenny said, the lie burning his lips. “I asked Wendy to read a draft, and she helped me polish it up.”

Mr. Bernstein nodded. “That’s what I thought. No worries, son. We all could use a little help now and then. I’m sure you won’t have any issues in college. They’ll have plenty of people to help you with your schoolwork.”

There was an undercurrent to his words. He didn’t mean help you, he meant do it for you.

Kenny chuckled, his toothy smile straining. “You right! Thanks, Mr. Bernstein. I appreciate the tip. Later!”

Out in the hallway, he rolled his paper up, strangling it with both hands. It wasn’t the first time a teacher had covertly suggested Wendy was the key to his stellar grade point average. A star quarterback with brains? Highly improbable. He so badly wanted to believe teachers treated him different due to his athletic stardom. But when he clocked his fellow teammates, none were faced with the same doubts and insulting allegations.