Ace of Spades Sneak Peek(6)
I feel this energy coursing through me, excitement bubbling inside. I’m not sure what it is—maybe it’s finally being a senior, or maybe it is me being cocky—but something tells me that this year will be different from the others.
That this year will finally be the year everything falls into place; the year that will make all the blood, sweat, and tears worthwhile.
3
DEVON
Monday
One of the only silver linings of being at Niveus is getting to miss some of my classes to work on my Juilliard audition piece.
Ever since I mentioned the possibility of applying to Juilliard, Mr. Taylor has helped “fix” the problem of my attendance. Going to the best colleges is something of a priority for us Niveus students, and so it’s not all that unusual to see upperclassmen miss classes for extra lessons in their chosen majors.
Like now. After first period ended, Mr. Taylor let me move to one of the smaller practice rooms. I’m meant to be in my fourth-period math class, but instead I’m here poking random notes out of the keyboard. I swivel in my chair, reaching for more blank music sheets from the cabinet behind me, but when I tug the drawer, it doesn’t give. I let out a sigh and drag myself out of the chair. I keep a large stack of music sheets in my locker for times when I need to scribble down ideas for new melodies.
I sprint down the steps and through the doors that lead to the hallway where my locker is, stopping short when the students there pause to stare at me. All of them. Some smile with teeth and others look at me with calculating glares. As if they know me. People usually look right through me, like my body is covered by some invisibility cloak. It’s weird that they aren’t in class, not that I can judge or anything, seeing as I’m not in class either.
I edge toward my locker, feeling a little confused and disoriented.
“Is that the guy?” someone whispers. I turn back to find some of their gazes still fixed on me.
I try to focus on entering my combination, and not the sound of someone gasping, or what feel like judgmental stares digging into my back.
1 … 8 … 6—I start, but a tap on my shoulder interrupts me, and I drop my hand. I’m met by Mindy Lion, a girl in my music class who I speak to sometimes, whose long purple hair and bright purple lipstick are impossible to ignore, whether you want to or not.
“Hey, Devon … Are you okay?” she asks, face filled with pity—which is really weird, because one, I don’t suffer from resting bitch face, so I assume I look fine, and two, Mindy and I are acquaintances at most.
“Yeah, you?” I ask, because apparently we care about each other like that now.
“Yeah, of course. I just wanted to come over, because I know how hard it must be with the picture circulating and everything.”
“What picture?”
Her mouth drops open.
“You haven’t seen it?” she asks.
I shake my head, trying to look unbothered. I glance up; the people behind Mindy are blatantly rubbernecking at us now.
“What picture?” I repeat, my voice breaking a little. It’s like my body knows before my mind that whatever she’s talking about, it’s not good.
Mindy fumbles around in her bright red designer bag and pulls her phone out, tapping, then presenting the screen to me.
I blink, looking at her phone closely. It’s a picture of two guys. I glance back up at her, because what has this got to do with me? But then a weird thought pulls my eyes back down to the picture. It’s not just two guys, it’s two familiar figures—one with a bruised neck, and the other, a face I know all too well. I see it every day in the mirror. They are in a room, their lips locked.
My stomach flips and jerks out of my body, heartbeat stopping altogether.
Oh my fucking god.
4
CHIAMAKA
Monday
I’m in pain.
Not the type of pain that hurts because it’s bad, but the type that hurts from laughing so hard, everything starts to ache.
I attempt to look away from Jamie, who is the cause of all this. The only downside to having my best friend as my lab partner is painful laughter and distraction from the task at hand.
He rips part of a page from his notebook and rolls it up into a thin cylinder before placing the end of it in the Bunsen burner’s flame. He brings it up to his lips and pretends to take a drag.
“I’m so tortured. I listen to The 1975. I dyed my hair pink to be ironic since, you know, my soul is black, and my Christian name is Peter, but my clan calls me Tortured Stone—because I’m obviously tortured but really badass.”
I put my hand up.
“I’m requesting a different lab partner,” I say, wiping my eyes with the sleeve of my white lab coat.
Jamie pushes my hand back down.
“Look at your options, Chi.” He gestures to the other tables around us. “You could sit with Lance, who breaks every piece of equipment he’s given; Clara, who eats the materials; or me: literal perfection.”
I roll my eyes. None of that is true. Well, except maybe the last part.
Jamie quirks an eyebrow up at me, eyes a little narrowed like he’s daring me to question him and his inflated ego. And he has the audacity to call me cocky. His golden freckles dance along his cheeks as his smile widens.
“I guess you’re right,” I say, giving in.