I wish I could crawl back into his bed now and forget it all.
Moving on, I find the room next to Henry’s and knock twice.
A groan comes from within.
I knock again.
“Go away.”
“You’re supposed to say, who is it?”
The seconds pass and I knock again.
“Good God. Come in already.” His voice is muffled, like he’s shouting through a pillow.
With one final glance over my shoulder at Caleb’s door, I turn the knob and step inside.
The room is much like Henry’s—square, with a bathroom on the right and a window over a queen-sized bed. Tangled in the gray comforter is a body, and there’s enough skin showing that a warm blush starts creeping up my throat.
“Please tell me you’re not naked,” I say, averting my eyes.
“Please tell me you are.” He does not sit up.
Striding to the base of the bed, I grab the blanket and give it a hard tug, flipping it over his body. He is wearing boxers, thank everything holy, but that’s about it.
“My therapist says I’m supposed to talk about my feelings,” he says, covering his head with a pillow. “I’m unhappy. This makes me unhappy.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m so sorry.”
“You don’t mean it.”
“You don’t say. Get up. Let’s go eat something.”
He groans again.
“You can’t stay in bed all day,” I tell him, sitting on the edge of the bed.
He mumbles something that sounds like “time.”
“Almost noon.” I don’t tell him that I haven’t been awake that long, either.
His leg moves, and it hits my hip. For a second I think he’s playing footsie with my thigh, but after a dedicated shove, it’s clear he’s trying to push me off the edge.
“Come on.” I stand, skirting around the corner of the mattress. His back is revealed below the pillow covering his head, the angles of his shoulders sharp and triangular. “You can meet my friends.”
“No friends.”
I wrestle the pillow away, and he glares at me through red, bleary eyes.
“Then let’s go be antisocial. Either way, I’m hungry.”
“I’ve been hungry for three months,” he says. “I’ll live another day.”
Then he rolls over and pulls the blanket over his head.
This is a problem. If I push too hard, I run the risk of burning our friendship. If I leave him alone, he—and Dr. O—will think I don’t care. I need to find an in, just like I did at his party last summer. Something to get, and hold, his attention.
Grayson doesn’t want Brynn. He wants Sarah, the girl who reeled him in when we first met.
“Want to play a game?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer, but I can feel him holding his breath.
“One of the girls here has something I want. A silver piggy bank she keeps on a ridiculous dog bed in the corner of her room.” I picture Petal the Platinum Pig on Geri’s throne and make a note to warn her. Any other time, I’d let someone stealing her stuff be a fun little surprise, but she, and Grayson have history. “It would be really nice if that could find a way to me—without her knowing who took it of course.”
A muffled snort comes from beneath the blanket.
“What do I get out of it?”
I stand, fighting the urge to drag him up with me. Grayson may be having a rough time right now, but he’s still Grayson. He’s driven by the game.
He likes it when I walk away.
“You get to choose the next game,” I say.
Play, I will him. Play.
He flips onto his stomach, the blanket still over his head.
I walk to the door and close it behind me. When I look up, I see Moore’s back as he heads down the stairs and wonder if he’s there to keep me safe, or to report my lack of progress to Dr. O.
* * *
GRAYSON DOESN’T COME out of his room for the rest of the day.
After our failed pep talk, I distract myself with homework. I’ve finally caught up with the assignments I need to keep pace with the other seniors, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have to work my ass off. Henry and I commandeer the dining room table and trudge through physics and pre-calc, but by the time we’re done, it’s afternoon, and Grayson has yet to leave his room.
Monday morning isn’t any better.
I’m starting to doubt this whole game thing will work. Maybe he’s changed since I saw him last. Maybe he’s too far gone to play.
I’m trying to think of what to do next when the upperclassmen line up in the gym, facing Belk and the mirrored wall for PE.
“The votes have been tallied,” announces our bulky security guard. He also teaches the fitness classes, though there’s some debate as to whether he is, in fact, fit.
Beside me, Henry is crossing all his fingers on both hands and whispering a prayer. Sam is on his other side, drumrolling his hands on his thighs.
“Come on yoga,” Caleb says, smirking my way. “I was not made for competitive sports.”
Thanks to Moore’s increased security measures in the boys’ wing, Caleb and I weren’t able to meet on the roof last night. We texted, but at a school like this, we’re fools if we think someone won’t hack into those messages. Still, through his vague texts, I managed to piece together that he found the new recruit in Sycamore Township, but doesn’t have a good read on her yet.
He’s trying again this week, which puts both of us out in the city. My new hostess job starts this afternoon.
“You do have the legs for yoga shorts,” I say.
“Eyes up here, Devon Park,” he says, motioning toward his face.
I elbow him in the side. Automatically, I look for Grayson, and feel guilty when I’m glad he isn’t here.
We had three choices—yoga, basketball, or a fill-in option—after we finished the kung fu segment last quarter. This is the first school I’ve ever been to where the students actually have a say in what they’re going to learn, and since sports aren’t exactly my jam, I happily voted for yoga. Everyone I talked to did. I even wore my stretchy black pants in preparation.
“Ballroom dancing,” says Belk.
“Yes!” Henry screeches beside me.
Sam’s drumroll stops short. “What?”
Charlotte starts to laugh.
“Failed democracy,” calls Geri.
“Ballroom dancing wasn’t an option.” I try to imagine myself in a silky, feathered dress, spinning around a dance floor, but stop when I’m pretty sure smoke starts to come out my ears.
“Nine people wrote it in on their ballots,” Belk says. “Caleb wrote it twice.”
“Did I?” Caleb gives a weak smile, then narrows his eyes at Henry.
“You must really want to dance!” Henry’s voice wobbles in excitement.
I groan, seeing now that Henry must have somehow gotten his sticky fingers on our ballots and written in his own choice. Charlotte and Sam have realized the same, but no one has yet overruled Henry’s efforts.
With a shrug, Caleb steps forward. “It’s been a deeply hidden dream of mine for some time.”
I can’t help smirking. If Caleb’s on board, few people will argue.