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

THE BOARDERS: 19

Lo

I lie in bed for a long time before Sam reenters the room. He's quiet, clearly expecting that I'm asleep. I have half a mind to ask him what the hell he was doing bringing Jared into our space at two in the morning, but that would require starting a conversation I don't want to have right now. I lie still as stone, eyes closed, while he undresses and climbs into the bed across from me. Jill's words from this afternoon play on repeat: one more night, and barely that now. Soon enough, the sun will rise and Jill will be flying back over the Atlantic to help me regain my sanity.

I'm not sure how I manage to fall back asleep, but, sometime before the sun rises, I do. When I wake again, it's to a bright late-morning, Sam's bed messily made and empty. I'm relieved to have my own space, but my angst from last night has hardly lessened. I think of Sam's face, peering around Jared as the latter made that stupid comment about daddy issues. If that ever gets back to Brandon... I can already imagine his gloating malice.

My imagination takes off, riling me into a state of real anger. Sure, the scenarios in my head are of my own creation, but I've learned over the past few years that I can expect the lowest low from Brandon, but he'll always go lower. All the bad stuff running through my mind right now? He's got something ten times worse up his sleeve. And I'm done tolerating it.

I throw the sheets off me, leaping from the bed and locking the door, stuffing Sam's desk chair under the handle so that he can't open it, even if he does return. Then I begin my unpacking in earnest, fury making me unreasonable. I should be running as far as possible from this dorm, from Sam. Instead, I shove clothes into drawers and hang my five sets of the Remington uniform in my wardrobe, making myself at home. It will piss Brandon off to no end that I'm not defecting to Sullivan, and I suppose a part of me wants him (wants all of them) to know I'm not going down without a fight.

As I unload my schoolbooks, I pull yesterday's plastic bags of "revenge" supplies toward me. They're too childish, too simple for the situation I've found myself in. I swipe them into the garbage. If I'm going to get back at Sam for screwing with my head and my body the way he has, I'm going to do it right.

I shoot off a text to Jill, requesting she ask Spencer for Sam's number and praying she's not already on her flight. But she responds within minutes, an emoticon- and expletive-filled demand to know what's going on, with the ten digits I need at the very end. I send a quick message back—a face with rolling eyes lined up against a gun—and save Sam's number in my contacts. Step one complete, almost too easily.

Next, I dig into my desk for a notebook and start to make my list. Ever since I got into my mom's car at fourteen with my backpack and a half-ton of guilt on my shoulders, I've made lists for just about everything. I'm committed to not forgetting the important things ever again in a way that borders on obsessive-compulsion. My California hypnotherapist—the one my mother saddled me with after her affair with Mr. Ott crumbled before we even hit LA—insists it's a reaction to the one major thing I "forgot" when I got in that car. She's probably right, but I'm not in the habit of giving her any credit, and, besides, I don't have time to dwell on my neuroses right now. Sam, Brandon, and Jared are each owed a shit storm—and my dear roommate gets his first.

I've just wrapped up round one of my revenge when Jill texts that she's home. I glance out the window in surprise. The sky is softening to a light purple, and I'm amazed to realize that most of the day has passed in my haze of plotting and executing my plans. I think about calling Remington's doctor to let her know about Sam's STD outbreak before going to see Jill ("Mrs. Evans" is a concerned mother, after all), but the very depth of my anger is a sign I probably ought to call it a day for now. I let Jill know I'm headed over.