Boarding with the Bad Boy [COMPLETE + BONUS published edition]

History

                 

I consider telling Jill about the fight with Brandon when I'm at her place for my post-workout shower, but every time the confession lifts to the back of my mouth, I just can't say it. I don't know what's going on with me. This is only the second time in my life I haven't wanted to tell Jill something. The first: Sam's kiss. Both of these things have happened at Ryder and in a three-day timespan. I feel like I'm going crazy.

            Jill doesn't notice my silence. Or she does and chooses to ignore it—a trait I appreciate. She tells me about seeing Justin in English this morning, and how cute he looks tan, with his hair bleached from the sun and falling in loose curls around his eyes. I have my head turned down, rubbing it furiously with the towel, but I pause, flipping my head up and eyeing her.

            "Wait a sec. The Justin that I met last year, with dark brown hair shaved close to his head, is now a blonde with long, curly locks?"

            Jill squeals and holds a pillow to her mouth. "Yes! I had no idea he could be even better looking!"

            "No way," I contest. "That's too significant a change; there's something fishy going on. Maybe it's a wig."

            Jill lifts her eyebrows at the hard edge in my voice. Too hot, Logan, I reprimand myself. But before I know it, she's pulling up her phone and tapping around to something.

            "It's definitely not a wig, Lo. Look at this and tell me it doesn't make you wet." She shoves the phone under my nose and I glance down at it, my breath stopping. Oh no.

            In the photo, posted last Thursday—the day before boarder check in—two boys stand with their arms around each other. One is young, too young to be in high school. The other is, unmistakably, 208.

            "Wait," I twist my face up in confusion. "Which one is Justin?" Please be the little one, I think helplessly.

            "Don't be silly!" Jill bounces a little where she sits. "He's the sexy, legal one."

            Damn. I look at the picture again, feigning interest as I bicker with myself on whether or not to tell her about my interactions with Justin so far this year. When I look back at her, her eyes are so happy I can't do it. And, anyway, what's one more omitted detail?

            "He's cute," I say, handing the phone back. "But definitely a tool."

            Jill throws her pillow at me. She doesn't ask any questions and I don't tell any lies.

The rest of the week follows in the same vein as my first day, though nothing has me quite as shook up as Brandon's comments in the woods. Perhaps I should be thankful to him, all the name-calling and avoidance by my peers actually feels less painful after our little "chat" at Monday's cross-country practice. But it's hard to be thankful when the hatred in his eyes shows up again Friday night.

It's late, pitch black. I should be home, in bed. I should be at Ryder. I think this languidly, like Ryder is some kind of delusion. And then I laugh, looking up at the starry sky. Why am I outside so late? Why is it so hot? I'm wondering these things when I hear a car coming toward me on the wet road and I remember. I have to pay attention.

My dad's car appears, trundling in my direction. I'm perched halfway up a hill so I can watch. But I know what's going to happen and I need to move—fast—in 5-4-3-2...

My dad's car hits a slick patch of road and jerks to the right. I leap up, throwing myself down the hill. I know what happens next: the car slams into the guardrail, its weight and height just enough to thrust it over. I run as it tumbles into darkness, the headlights flashing. Someone behind me is laughing and I make the mistake of glancing back. It's Brandon, his dark eyes full of a hatred I've never had directed at me before. But I have. Once.

"Time to live the family legacy," Brandon taunts.

I realize I'm wasting time. "Not now, Brandon." It comes out a guttural yell, and then I'm off, throwing myself over the barrier and down the steep hill to the wreckage. I don't see my dad and I scream for him, my lungs filling with panic and smoke.

"Dad!" I can hear myself, echoing off the trees. He's not answering and I dig my hands at the door of the car, my fingernails breaking. "DAD!" I'm shaking and sweating. It's so hot.

"Grey!" I hear it from far away and I want to shout in relief. He's still here. I'm not too late.

I grapple against the thick air holding me back, still shouting and fighting to get to him. "Dad!"

I feel his hands on me, drawing me to him, and he's saying my name: "Grey." But my dad doesn't call me Grey, he calls me Logan, and, too slowly, the trees and the car disappear. I wake to Sam, holding me by my shoulders and looking at me with concern-bordering-on-horror.

"Sam," I say, finally. My face is wet and the more lucid I become, the more I understand what's happening. One of my nightmares. I'm sweating and crying, my hands finally settling against their fight with the sheets. Sam's face...well, I'm pretty certain I've been screaming aloud for a solid few minutes. Without thinking, I lean my sweaty forehead against his chest. He doesn't pull away.

"I'm sorry," I mutter finally, thickly. "That happens sometimes...since...you know..." I can't say the words yet. Not so soon after I lost him again—my fault, I remind myself. Always my fault.

Sam doesn't respond right away, but brings his arms around me, holding me to him.

"I've got you, Grey," he says finally, as I start to cry. I'm embarrassed and vulnerable, and I let him hold me for a few more, silent moments, before I push back and brush damp hair off my face.

"I really am sorry," I mutter. "I've been trying to get a handle on those."

"Do you..." he pauses. "Do you want to talk about it?"

           Something heavy settles in my heart.  "No."  I don't.

            He sits there for another minute before seeming to come to his senses and patting my leg awkwardly, shifting off my bed and crossing to his.  My heart's not pounding anymore, but it still takes me a long time to fall back asleep. I can tell Sam has the same problem. His breathing doesn't grow slow and even for nearly an hour. 

The next morning, Sam leaves the room before I'm even up for practice and I don't see him again until late Sunday night. We don't talk about, don't talk at all—not in any kind of real way—until the following Friday.