The Golden Boys: Chapter 7

Chin up, eyes trained on the building.

Tucking my keys into my pocket, I pop both earbuds in and tune out everything else.

Today doesn’t have to suck, Blue. There’s no guarantee you’ll even see those knuckle-draggers. Think positive. Think … positive.

The lot is packed. Nearly every space holds some expensive car or oversized SUV—more room than any teenager would ever actually need. Dressed to kill while leaning against these beasts on wheels, are my new classmates. The music in my ears drowns out their conversations and laughter, but not my own envy. They have a lot that I don’t, but what I covet most is their peace of mind.

They fit in here, they’ve formed alliances that help them navigate the day-to-day. Even those who aren’t with the in-crowd have likely found their place, formed small cliques that serve as buffers against the sometimes-harsh landscape of high school. Most have probably attended school together all their lives. Then, there’s me—NewGirl, as Pandora has apparently marked me.

I’m ashamed to admit that I finally took the plunge and got swept away by Pandora and all her musings. The conversation with Ricky left me no choice. After what he mentioned about her getting things between West and me way wrong, I couldn’t help myself.

So, after talking to Jules, and realizing I didn’t have it in me to tell her the hell West, Dane, and Sterling put me through, I ended the call and scrolled.

For hours.

These peoples’ lives are messier than any soap opera I’ve ever seen, and now I know a handful of their secrets. Too bad I don’t know the real names behind all the monikers, the missing pieces that would have made what I read just a little bit juicier.

However, what I do know, is that KingMidas—leader of the pack—is undoubtedly West; Sterling—the voice of reason—is MrSilver; and Dane—the vain one with a penchant for selfies—is PrettyBoyD. Collectively, these three are TheGoldenBoys.

Also, these three are major assholes.

Just saying.

Cranking up the music, I glance down at my tattered jeans. Lucky for me, the hole in the knee looks stylish. What no one will ever know is I got that hole running for my life when the Huong family’s dog decided to hop their fence and chase me. An adventure that ended with me skidding down the sidewalk.

Then there’s my gray tee. Or rather, the gray tee I stole from Scar. It barely comes down over my belly ring. Hopefully, the self-appointed dress code police won’t notice.

A group of girls pass, and we lock eyes. One tosses her head back, cackling while the other two whisper to one another. I’m probably just being paranoid, but I’d swear they’re laughing at me.

The feeling snowballs when I glance back over my shoulder, and all three are staring right back at me, smiling like they know something I don’t.

Whatever, skanks.

Holding the straps of my backpack, I jog quickly up the cement steps, slipping inside the open door after another kid passed through. The volume has picked up considerably, so the ambient noise can be heard over the song blaring in my ears.

And then, reality sinks in.

Everything looks so different from South Cypress. Dark, rich wood has replaced the large, tan tiles that lined the hallways of my old school. The unflattering fluorescent lights are nowhere to be found either. Instead, modest chandeliers are spaced out in a row down the long stretch of ceiling. Paired with the yellow stained-glass windows in the atrium, it feels more like passing through a church sanctuary than a school, but the hallways with classrooms aren’t nearly as formal, although the mahogany carries throughout.

I pass a pair of giggling freshmen this time—or at least they’re small enough to be freshman—but I know I’m not going crazy. There’s a sheet of paper in their hands, and when they peer up and see me, their eyes widen like they’ve seen a ghost.

Don’t freak out. It’s probably nothing. Just go to your locker, then go to class. You’ve got this.

I intend to stick to this plan, keeping my head down to avoid trouble, but I suddenly realize trouble has found me.

A group of boys at the end of the hallway stand out like giants, their shoulders rising above the heads of nearly everyone they pass. But it isn’t only the Golden boys. There are others, an entire squad moving through the halls as a unit, with West front and center.

It isn’t a surprise that he’s already spotted me. Those piercingly green eyes can be seen even from this distance, and so can the fury within them. Passing one another is unavoidable, but I refuse to let him think I’m intimidated, because I’m not.

He hikes the single strap of his backpack higher on his shoulder and his bicep flexes with the movement. We’re nearly at one another’s feet now, but I step aside at the last second, narrowly avoiding a full-on collision since it’s clear he’s perfectly content bulldozing over me. My shoulder brushes his arm and he stares down on me with that devilish half-smile.

“Welcome back, Southside,” he grumbles low and menacing, getting the words out as we pass.

I say nothing in return.

The whole thing is over quickly and I’m grateful for it. But the second I turn down the hallway to access my locker, my heart sinks.

Almost every single pair of eyes is locked on me. Those that aren’t, are focused on the sheets of paper in their hands. The same sheets of paper plastered all over the lockers like wallpaper. Only, instead of a printed floral array or some stupid duck pattern, it’s an article. Copy upon copy of the same article, actually.

Whatever didn’t get posted on the wall looks like it’s just been tossed into the air and has landed on the floor. I stoop to take one, and instantly feel the wind get knocked right out of me.

The copies are the newspaper’s full account of Hunter’s crime, every gory detail that paints him as the monster he was discovered to be. Then, below the text, the responsible party took it upon themselves to add my school pic from last year, just to make sure no one misses the connection.

To make sure no one misses that I’m the sister of a murderer.

“Oh my gosh! Is it really her?”

“I bet she knew and helped him cover it up.”

“Psycho probably runs in the family.”

The ugly whispers hit me from all directions, but I don’t bother trying to pinpoint who said what. It doesn’t really matter. Everyone’s thinking the same thing. I can feel it.

My eyes sting with tears, but they’re not steeped in sadness. These are angry tears.

Practically panting, I pull down the pages I can reach, but there are so, so many. Hundreds, maybe a thousand or more. There’s no doubt in my mind who’s behind this, and I can’t help but to think of all the trouble he’d gone through just to humiliate me.

The research to discover who my brother is and what he’d done, the work of spreading the info he found to the masses.

When the onlooker’s gazes suddenly shift toward the end of the corridor, my head whips that way, too, finding the Golden boys standing there, so satisfied with what they’ve done. They’ve doubled back just to witness this moment. I mean, of course they’d want to see the fruits of their labor, right?

Before I can think about what I’ll do when I get to them, I’m already storming in their direction. West doesn’t flinch, just smiles at me like he’s proud of this. Proud he’s just let the entire school in on my deepest, darkest secret.

This blight had been the fuel that lit the fire, which eventually led to the fight that nearly cost me my chance of admission here. The wrong girl said the wrong thing about this situation, and I lost it.

Completely.

My consolation prize for beating her bloody was a fractured knuckle and a late-term expulsion.

No one knows better than me that my family is screwed up, but that doesn’t give people the right to point that shit out.

Or … create an entire exposé, for the express purpose of humiliating me today.

I’m nearly to him now, and I have every intention to wipe that smug grin clean off him, but a familiar face pokes her head out of the counselling office, creating a barrier between West and me.

“Ms. Riley? My office, please.” Her timing is impeccable, but then I wonder if that isn’t the point. Perhaps Dr. Pryor is trying to save me from myself.

I halt, taking longer to do as she’s asked, but I remind myself why I’m here, why I’m letting this pissant get away with this crap.

If doing it for yourself isn’t enough, do it for Scar.

“Ms. Riley?” Dr. Pryor steps out of the doorframe completely, volleying a look between me and the guys, then stares me down as she crosses both arms over her chest. The glare she shoots me next is stern, and I know she isn’t playing.

Casting West a look that could kill, I brush by Dr. Pryor rougher than I mean to, and pass through the small waiting area before dropping down in the seat across from her desk. She rounds the corner of it, still giving me a look, and then takes her seat, too.

She pushes the length of dark dreadlocks over the shoulder of her gray blazer. She’s always super stern, but has also made more than one exception for me, so I like her well enough.

Rage burns through my veins at warp speed, which is precisely the reason my knee is bouncing like crazy. More than anything, I want to tear West’s eyes right out of the sockets. That’s about the only thing that will settle me.

“Mind telling me what this is all about?”

“Short version?” I snap. “That prick, W—”

I can’t get his name out. Not because I care about protecting him, but because of what I suspect about the way things run around here. If West or his family have enough pull, whatever I say will only make things worse.

Dr. Pryor’s brow quirks. “It looked like you were ready to pounce on West Golden a moment ago. Do I need to have him step in here to get some answers?”

Despite wanting to snitch on that tool more than I want my next breath, I suppress it all.

“No, ma’am,” I mumble under my breath.

The way Dr. Pryor purses her lips tightly suggests she’s unamused, but I’m not forced to say more than that.

“I’ve reviewed the surveillance content from earlier this morning. Looks like a group of ten slipped in wearing dark hoodies and plastered their paraphernalia all over the place. They were a little on the small side, so my guess is that the culprits are either a group of girls, or perhaps just underclassmen.”

That bastard is smart. He and his boys are larger than life, which means anyone who saw the footage would immediately know who was behind this. So, he used his status here to his advantage, coaxing others into doing his dirty work.

“A small crew from the custodial team are on their way to clean up the … artwork in the hallway. And since you seem determined not to share what you know, now seems like as good a time as any to discuss another pressing issue.”

When she folds her hands on her desk, my heart sinks. No good conversation ever starts that way.

“With the incident that took place before you left South Cypress, it’s made the job of helping you secure your future a bit more difficult, but it’s not a lost cause.”

I flex my once-fractured knuckle with the reminder, then stare as Dr. Pryor reaches for a file with my first and last name printed on the tab. She begins to pour through the stack of documents inside, while I sit wondering what this is about.

“I know this must have come up before now, but I don’t have anything on file regarding your plans to pay for college. You were accepted to Cypress Valley University, which is a great school, but I see nothing about covering expenses beyond what you’ll be able to acquire with financial aid. Am I missing something?”

Her question deserves an answer; I simply don’t have one.

When the stretch of silence between us grows, Dr. Pryor sighs and eventually closes the folder.

“Listen, Ms. Riley. I’m aware you’ve had a rough go at life, but I know a little more about that than you might think,” she shares. “Branch Street, born and raised.”

My eyes flash toward hers curiously. “That’s only a few blocks from my house. You lived there?”

She nods, and that stern look softens a little. “I was the first in my family to attend college, and I swore that once I finished I’d find some way to make a difference in that community, give kids from the south side a chance no one else is willing to offer. It’s the whole reason I started this program.”

Before this, I knew she was invested, but had no clue she was the founder of the program itself.

“So, while you might feel a little like a fish out of water here, know you’re not in this alone. I’m doing everything in my power to help you, but you have to meet me halfway.”

Another dim smile brightens her face, and it’s then that I realize she’s actually beautiful. Not at all the wicked witch I assumed she’d be, based solely on the fact that I naturally conclude such things about authority figures.

“I see here you played basketball all three previous years.”

Nodding, I agree. “That’s right.”

“I’m guessing you’ll be trying out while attending Cypress Prep as well?”

My lips part, but I choke on my words. In truth, I don’t want to spend the extra time out of the house, away from Scar. Last season, Mom and Hunter were still around, so that made a slight difference. However, now that they’re gone and I work whenever possible, joining the team will mean my schedule becomes even fuller.

“Actually, I thought I’d sit it out this year,” I begin, but I never get to finish.

“That won’t work. You need to try out,” she asserts. “You’ve got to get involved in as much as you can to pad your transcript. I’ve got a few leads on scholarships you might qualify for, but the requirements are strict. Which means we’ve got our work cut out,” she shares. “They’re not huge amounts, but possibly enough to cover your first year‘s overages for tuition and textbooks. So, aside from not getting into any more trouble, I need you to get involved in at least two auxiliaries. Basketball will cover one, but you’ll need another.”

Another thing to add to my plate.

Perfect.

“…Like what?” I ask, trying not to let my frustration show.

She reaches into her drawer and pulls out a flyer. “The school newspaper is short on help this year. I already told Mr. Dansk to expect you to drop in after school to introduce yourself.”

I could practically smell my future boredom. “Isn’t there something else? Something less time consuming? Something less … lame?”

Her brow quirks. “The Mathletes have room. Is trigonometry on weekends any less lame?”

And now I know she’s heavy on the sarcasm when provoked. Duly noted.

“School newspaper it is,” I concede.

The flyer is shoved across her desk for me to take. “Remember, Mr. Dansk after school. Then, basketball tryouts in November. Do you need a form for your physical?”

I shake my head. “Got one during orientation. Out of habit, I guess.”

She nods and then goes back to the mountain of paperwork on her desk. Halfway to the door, I glance back.

“You don’t have to go through all this trouble for me,” I admit. “So … thank you.”

A faint smile curves the corners of her mouth. “Close my door on your way out.”