Ace of Spades Sneak Peek(7)
He looks triumphant. “Good choice, Chi, good choice.”
He changes the flame from orange to blue, like the instructions say we should, his wrists covered with the colorful string bracelets his mom got him from her trip to India last summer.
I place my hand on my stomach, which is still aching from laughing so hard.
“Start packing up, five minutes until the end of class,” Mr. Peterson tells us.
Jamie groans, pouting at the Bunsen burner like a child.
I turn the gas off and load our equipment onto the white tray it came from—much to Jamie’s annoyance. He loves controlling anything to do with fire in our experiments. I think his pyromania started in sophomore year, after a long summer at the camp a select few Niveus students get invited to annually, not that I care or anything. Everyone knows that legacy kids are the only ones who get invited to those events.
Legacy kids = Niveus students with superpowerful parents and generations of family members who’ve attended Niveus Academy. Aka Jamie’s entire family from the beginning of time. My parents aren’t American and they don’t have old American money, just old Italian money, so I don’t get the same “privileges” as the legacy kids. Honestly, things would be a lot easier if I were one. My future would be more certain, and I wouldn’t have to work so hard.
Jamie’s known since he was in diapers that he’ll get into any Ivy League school he wants, inherit his father’s billion-dollar company, have connections in any important organization here in America, and never really have to work a day in his life. I want my future to look as seamless as his, everything perfectly laid out. Money can only get you so far; you need power and influence to go with it, and the Fitzjohns—Jamie’s family—have all three.
“I need to tell you something at lunch,” Jamie whispers. The intensity of his voice makes me jump a little. I nod, his shoulder brushing against mine. Jamie thrives on attention. Every single touch—every hand graze, every elbow nudge, you name it—is purposeful. He knows how to make sure he’s the only person you’re focusing on. That plus his winning smile are what make him irresistible; I’ve seen him charm his way out of homework and parking tickets. I’m pretty sure he’d flirt with Death herself if there wasn’t a possibility that he’d die and not be the center of attention anymore.
“Sure, Lola’s?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
Lola’s is this imaginary place we made up. Back when we were freshmen, we thought it sounded like a quirky coffee shop you might find in the middle of an old-fashioned town, where housewives meet up to gossip and smoke. As we got older, we realized Lola’s actually sounds like the name of a sketchy strip club. Despite the connotations, we still use it. It’s our way of saying Let’s talk in private.
Lola’s can be any place we’re alone together. In freshman year, the year we met, a teacher put us in pairs and Jamie introduced himself as the guy who was going to ruin my life, and I responded that he thought too highly of himself. Back when we first met, Lola’s was a corner in one of the empty classrooms. We would sit there during lunch and bitch about people in our year or talk about the people we wanted to be when we were seniors. I wanted to be the best. Best grades, best looks, best hair, best boyfriend … best everything—the person everyone envies. Jamie told me he wanted to be someone his parents respected.
Then, all through junior year, whenever we weren’t in school, Lola’s was his bedroom and his bed, under the covers—
“Yeah.” He smiles, winking at me. “Lola’s.”
The sounds of text tones fill the air. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I take it out.
[1 new message from unknown]
Hello, Niveus High. It’s me. Who am I? That’s not important. All you need to know is … I’m here to divide and conquer. Like all great tyrants do.—Aces
Divide and conquer…? Who even talks like that? And who the hell is Aces?
My phone buzzes again.
This time a picture accompanies the message. Two guys kissing. One with a very, very bruised neck. Gasps and giggles ripple around the room. I roll my eyes. It’s the twenty-first century, people … is this really something gasp-worthy? But then I read the message beneath.
Just in, the picture says it all. Dramatic arts and music do indeed mix well.—Aces
Is that … Scotty? With … Devon Richards?
Loud collective laughter pulls me away from the picture momentarily. I look up at everyone else as they stare at their phones closely.
“Is that Scotty?” Jamie asks. I nod.
Scotty is one of my ex-boyfriends. I guess that’s why he’d ask, even though it’s not Scotty I’m staring at. It’s Devon. He’s not a person I care for, or talk to, but it’s hard not to notice the only other Black person at school. What’s weirder than this picture is that until today, I don’t think I’ve ever even heard Devon speak. Now, out of nowhere, he got made a Senior Prefect … and then this?
Have I missed something?
“So … Scotty’s gay? Can football players even be gay? Well, he does do Drama too, so I guess—”
“Jamie, football players can be gay and drama kids can be straight. Don’t be that straight white guy who sticks his foot in his mouth,” I say. “Besides, Scotty could be bi.”