“I must be a glutton for punishment,” I mumble as I rub my thumb over one of Cody's selfies. He's got this big white smile, skin bronzed from the sun, and brown hair streaked with blond highlights. He looks so … like the total opposite of this place with its ice-cold nights, thick copses of woods, and uptight rich assholes. I mean, there are rich assholes at home, too, but I go to school in Santa Cruz, so most of them are pretty hippy-dippy, even if they have big bank accounts. These guys have that East Coast, old money vibe.
After a while, I start to wonder if Dad's going to text me back at all. Maybe he went to bed early? Or has a meeting or something?
My phone's pretty low on battery, too, and I forgot my charger this morning.
“God, my luck seriously sucks,” I say aloud, my voice echoing around the empty kitchen. I get a bit desperate then and text Church Montague to ask for help. I mean, he is the Student Council President, right? He's supposed to help other students.
I cover the rest of the casserole up, put it in the fridge, and then wash my spoon. Last week, I forgot to wash a spatula and the Council gave me another day of detention. Such stupid pricks.
Settling into one of the comfy chairs in the corner, I curl my legs up and wait, only to fall asleep. Seems I have a habit of doing that. When I wake up, I rub at my sleepy eyes and look around. There are candles all over the counters, dozens of them, and they're all lit.
“What the …” I start, pushing up from the chair. My phone clatters to the floor, and I curse as I pick it up. It's dead. Slipping it into my pocket, I walk past the candles warily, going for the door again.
It's still locked.
Turning around, I put my back up against it and try to decide if I should be freaked out here. Screw it, I'm freaked out anyway.
“Hello?” I call out, immediately cringing. That's what every horror movie heroine says just before she gets her throat slit. “Your prank is seriously stupid. Candles? I mean come on, you can do better than that.”
Movement from the corner startles me, and in an instant, there's a man coming at me from the shadows, holding a glass jar. I push myself against the door as he rushes toward me, unscrewing the top and flinging the contents onto me.
At first, I think it's just a few twigs and leaves … and then I feel the crawling.
Spiders.
There were spiders in that jar.
I'm so scared that I don't even scream. My breath starts to come in panting gasps, and I end up yanking my blazer over my head and tossing it before I go for the buttons on my shirt. The bindings! They'll see the bindings.
Silent tears are pouring from my eyes as I brush frantically at my shirt, knocking eight-legged bodies onto the floor as chanting starts up from the opposite end of the room. The man in the black hoodie nearest me just watches as four others rise up from the darkness near the pantry, humming some ominous tune.
They surround me as I shake and claw at my hair and clothes, trying to rid myself of all the creepy crawlies. I'm a serious arachnophobe, like bad. This is essentially my worst nightmare. The people in hoodies, the candles, that's nothing but fanfare for the horror of the spiders.
“Chuck Carson,” the person with the jar says, throwing back his hood to reveal Church's blond hair and amber eyes. They're like spun honey, so pretty in the candlelight. I hate myself for even thinking that in such a tense moment, but there it is. “You have been an insufferable asshole from day one. How do you plead?”
“F-fuck you,” I grind out, shaking and running my fingers obsessively through my hair.
“How do you plead?” the twins purr, pushing back their hoods. The other two boys remove theirs, but it's already quite obvious that Ranger and Spencer are inside.
“We're willing to offer you some amnesty, but first you must repent.” Spencer gives a wolfish grin and crosses his arms over his chest. Ranger just stares at me with unreadable blue eyes.
“Repent?” I breathe, looking at them all like they're crazy. My heart is racing, and my face is streaked with tears, and I'm just so … so … pissed. “You want me to repent? For what?”
“For being the rudest guy in school,” Ranger says, scowling at me and ruffling up his blue-streaked black hair. “You've been standoffish and weird since day one. We're giving you a chance to fix things.”
“You just threw spiders on me!” I sound hysterical, and my voice is just a little too high-pitched to be believable. Spencer's grin fades, and he tilts his head again, turquoise eyes narrowing. Crap, crap, crap, he can tell! I remember his expression when he grabbed my wrist, and I just … panic. “Leave me the fuck alone!” I move forward fast and shove Spencer in the chest with two hands. If he were expecting it, I never would've touched him, but he's so surprised that he ends up stumbling back and slamming the base of his spine into the corner of the counter, knocking several candles over and spattering wax.
“You prick!” he shouts back, launching himself up and at me. Only Ranger stops him from throwing a punch my way. I swing my backpack, hit both twins as they approach, and then duck past them all, going for the dining room door.
It's unlocked this time, and I manage to make it out into the hallway before Spencer catches up to me.
“You are so dead, Chuck!” he shouts after me as I take off toward the staircase. I don't stop running until I get back to my dorm.
I think I only escape because he lets me go.
The thing is: I can’t exactly avoid him forever, now can I?
There's no point in telling Dad about what happened after Culinary Club. He apologizes for not getting my message, telling me he was in a school board meeting. I shrug it off and tell him the janitor let me out, no big deal. If I snitch to Dad about what the Student Council did, I'm going to pit the whole school against me. As of right now, the other boys just avoid me like the plague.
The last thing I want is to be bullied by everyone.
The Student Council is doing a good enough job on their own.
“Chuck, mop the floor,” Ranger demands, putting the handle into my hand. “You can wash all the dishes before you go.”
“That doesn't seem like a very fair division of labor,” I mumble as the twins move up to stand on either side of me, like prison guards. Shoving the mophead into a bucket, I go about cleaning up the giant mess of flour on the floor.
“You missed a spot,” the twins say, smearing their feet through the water and leaving dirty streaks. My nostrils flare, but I don't fight back. I've been fighting for weeks, and today, I'm just tired.
“When you're done there, you can alphabetize these cookbooks on the shelf beneath the window,” Church says as he places a box on the counter, smiling cheerily at me. He's the least mean, and he's always smiling, but when his face shuts down, it's a little dark and scary. He reaches for a cup of coffee and sips it. Pretty sure he’s addicted to the stuff. I rarely see him without a caffeinated drink of some sort in hand.
“Nobody uses cookbooks anymore; it's all online recipes” I grumble, and then I feel a lightness in my pocket. The twins have pilfered my cell. I drop the mop and turn around to grab it from them, but they're stupid-tall, and they toss it effortlessly between them.