Ace of Spades Sneak Peek(24)

Having Jack here makes me feel a little safer, though.

I shudder and wipe my face again. I like the sound of rain, but actually being in it is the worst, so I’m happy—for the first time this week—to see the white bricks and giant black gates of Niveus.

Jack and I walk up the stairs and straight through the doors into the hallway, where the conversation was obviously very much alive before we entered. I suddenly feel hyperaware of my oversized uniform, dripping water onto the marble floor.

“Gonna head to class,” Jack says quietly, before leaving me by the entrance, alone. I watch him disappear down the hallway, feeling less safe now that he’s gone.

The pulling in my stomach begins, like it has been doing all week, as I trek down the hallway. Aces has made me as noticeable as a guy with a face tattoo, and the annoying squelching of my sneakers against the marble doesn’t help my case.

I rush up the stairs to the music rooms.

“Hey, Devon,” Mr. Taylor says with a smile as I enter.

This gets the attention of the other students, and I get more disapproving stares.

“Hey, Mr. Taylor,” I say.

The toast I ate for breakfast wants to lurch out as my stomach squeezes and squeezes.

I walk over to my station, feeling tired as I sit down heavily, then switch on my keyboard.

“Yo, Richards, what’s up?” a voice says. I startle.

It’s Daniel Johnson: quarterback, brown hair, brown eyes, typically “handsome” face. Daniel Johnson, who has never in his life spoken to me.

“Yo, Johnson. The sky,” I respond.

He pauses, looking up, then realizes—sooner than I thought he would—and laughs. “You’re funny.”

There’s another pause, and then he’s sitting himself down next to me.

“So listen, it’s the twenty-first century. No one hates gays no more.”

I didn’t get the memo.

“So, like, I’m cool with it—as long as you don’t crush on me or anything, you dig?”

“I dig,” I say.

He pats my back, then pauses with a wink. “No homo.”

I want him to gather his things and bother someone else. But he seems determined to piss me off.

“So what’s Scotty like? The guy acts like he’s a god. But, like, trust me, I know what godly is. Girls tell me daily, you know?”

Daniel seems all philosophical about his dick game, shrugging in what I’m sure he thinks is a humble way.

“But none of his conquests tell me things. I tried asking Chiamaka—because even though he’s gay, who wouldn’t want to hit that?”

I wouldn’t.

“So, what’s Scotty like?”

For someone so big on No homo, he’s really making me wonder …

I sit back, looking up like I’m thinking about it.

“Scotty is a god, Daniel,” I say, realizing only after that he probably doesn’t get any form of sarcasm.

He bobs his head slowly, processing my words carefully.

“Wow, maybe I shouldn’t have doubted him,” he says.

“Maybe.”

Daniel turns and pats me on the back again. “You’re actually an okay dude, Devon.”

I think that’s meant to be a compliment, but I’m not sure how complimented one can feel by Daniel. At last, it seems my prayers are answered and Daniel moves away.

My phone buzzes. A text from Unknown. Bold, bright text beaming at me.

Just in. Our favorite alleyway lurker, Jack McConnel, has a drug problem. Let’s just hope his straight A record doesn’t suffer because of it and his brand-new friends …—Aces

The message creates this emptiness inside. Like all my organs have been removed and I am just this shell. Jack would never touch that stuff. His ma died because of drugs, his dad got incarcerated because of drugs, and he has brothers to look after.

He’d never do something that idiotic or risk his scholarship like that.

I go to my messages and hesitate.

Jack’s name in all of this makes even less sense than Chiamaka’s. At least with Chiamaka, I could link us both back to Scotty, but now none of this makes sense.

I text: Are you ok? I know the rumors aren’t true.

Within seconds, his reply vibrates in my palm.

Do you?

The hollowness gets deeper, like there’s an invisible man digging a hole in my stomach.

I study his words, then reply:

The Jack I know wouldn’t do something like that.

The Jack I know swore over his ma’s grave that he’d never go near any of that shit. As they lowered her into the hole, tossed dirt on her wooden casket, he promised her dead body he’d stay away.

Maybe you don’t know me that well.

I’ve known Jack for as long as I’ve known myself. The invisible man in my stomach stops digging and stabs my heart instead.

I look up again, turning to survey the class. A girl looks at me, then covers her mouth and swivels back around in her chair, her shoulders vibrating as she lets out a quiet laugh. I feel eyes on me, and I catch Mr. Taylor staring. He gives me a smile.

My fingers are still wrapped around my phone, a part of me waiting for Jack to say he’s joking, that Aces is wrong about him. The screen dulls, darkens, then locks. The other part of me knows that the text is never coming and that despite how much I want to push the thought away, maybe I don’t know Jack like I thought I did.