Broken Pretty Things by Amber Faye

Chapter 36

I dragmyself out of bed to go to school the next day.

Gunnar tips his sunglasses at me as I wander to the car in a long-sleeved dress. “Hey,” he says, friendly, as if he’s happy to see me. “Look who made a miraculous recovery. What was it? Parvovirus?”

“Yes, asshole, it was parvovirus, because I’m a dog.” His lip twitches as I slide into the passenger seat, throwing my schoolbag in the back. “Where’s Ransom?”

“He drove in on his own,” he says with a small chuckle. “He doesn’t want his dork brother dropping him off anymore.” I roll my eyes. Partly at myself for forgetting, again, that Ransom is barely younger than us, and partly because Gunnar thinks it’s cute to pretend he isn’t one of the most well-liked people in the school.

“I still need to talk to him,” I say. I should have tried to find his room last night, but even after a day of relaxing, I was exhausted and fell asleep early.

He glances at me. “Well, if you’d come to meet me last night …”

“What?” I ask, still feeling bone-tired. He takes his time answering, and I watch the sunlight streaming through the trees, flickering against his silhouette.

“He had a picture of it. We were going to show you.”

I sit bolt upright. “You got it? A picture of Cole’s note?” A picture hadn’t even occurred to me. Damn. That’s such a better idea than trying to get Ransom to steal it for me.

“Yeah, but I guess you don’t care that much.”

I reach over and punch his arm.

“Ow, jeez. I’m kidding.” He looks at me. “Sorry, I know, not the right time to be facetious. We can skip first period, if you want. We’ll go to the field and look at it.”

I feel cold crawling on my skin and suddenly I get the urge to open the door and get out. Run all the way back to the Rayne mansion and get back in the bed I’m really starting to fall in love with. “We have to do this,” I say out loud. He gives a firm nod, his lips rolled inward. “Hang on.” I fumble for my phone.

“What?”

“I’m calling in reinforcements.”

* * *

Hero keeps lookingover her shoulder as she heads to meet us by the old bleachers, nervous about breaking the rules by being here. She’s clutching her books in her arms, wearing thick glasses, a high-collar and low, sweeping skirt, and still somehow looking like a fashion model. When she reaches us, her cheeks turn pink and she gives Gunnar her best glare.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, giving her his warmest smile. I can see her lip literally quiver with the effort it takes to ignore him and not respond to him politely. It makes me laugh.

“You’ve met,” I tell him. “You were pretty rude.”

He looks sufficiently awkward. “I believe it. Sorry.”

“Hand it over. I’m so ready,” Hero says, shifting from foot to foot. “I’ve been reading up for the last couple of days on the basic principles of handwriting analysis.” She flicks her eyes up to the sky. “Obviously, it’s still considered something of a pseudoscience, but as long as we don’t base our conclusion around it, I think we could have some fun holding it up to some graphological theories. Well, not fun, but—”

“I really think I would have remembered if I’d met her,” Gunnar says quietly, leaning into me. I ignore him.

“Hand it over, like she said,” I say to him.

“The physical thing might have been better. What about idiosyncrasies in things like stationery? A specific type of paper?”

“Looks like it was just ripped out of one of Cole’s notebooks,” Gunnar says, turning the screen around to face her. Hero takes the phone in both hands, and her eyes widen almost cartoonishly as she takes in every word. She glances up at me, and then at Gunnar.

“OK,” I say. “I have to see it.”

Hero pulls it slightly out of my reach, looking at Gunnar again. “Andie, I don’t know about this.”

Gunnar looks suddenly pale, drawn, and rubs his face. “Neither do I. This is kind of sick, isn’t it?”

“Let me work a little on some theories I had first, Andie,” Hero says, apologetic, still holding the phone out of my reach. She’s a couple of inches taller than me, but I take her arm in my hand and gently pull.

“I have to,” I tell her.

Eyes wide and uncertain, she hands it over.

* * *

“Here,”I say, handing over a daisy chain I’ve been clumsily working on. Cole takes it with a short laugh. It’s only barely big enough to fit around his wrist, but he wears it anyway, brandishing it like it’s the best gift he’s ever gotten. “It’s good luck. We’re going to march right in there and tell him: You’re not doing football in college. Right?”

He lets his head loll, screwing his eyes shut. “Andie,” he moans.

“We are. We’re doing it.”

I open his front door for him and he hesitates before sloping inside after me. We find his dad in his favorite chair in the living room, a tablet in his hands and his glasses low on his nose. He looks up at us, and he smiles broadly.

“Nice to see you, Andie,” he says. “Staying for dinner?”

“Maybe,” I say, side-eyeing Cole. “It depends.”

He humors me, which I wasn’t necessarily expecting. “Depends on what?” He looks at me looking at Cole, and then looks at his son. Six foot, easy, and yet right now he looks small, wide-eyed, caught in the act. He gives me his best glare, which isn’t very intimidating, and then looks back at his dad.

“I just wanted to tell you that I chose my major.”

“Good. It’s good to get that out of the way early. We can find you extracurriculars to fit around your studying and sports.” Mr Waller smiles again, a kind smile, aimed at both of us. “I knew what I wanted to do from your age, too. Stuck with it, and it got me here.” His smile falters, for a second, and then it’s back. “To success,” he adds, straight to me.

“Yep,” I say, politely, shifting from foot to foot.

“I’m not playing college football. I just don’t want to. And I want to study Literature.” It comes out in a defiant rush, and for a moment, Mr Waller’s expression doesn’t change one bit. He sets his tablet down on the side table, and nods, as if thinking it through.

“No son of mine is wasting my money, my time, and my resources on a fake artsy-fartsy degree.”

“Literature is actually one of the more respectable and—” I pipe up, ready with an entire speech.

“Quiet, Andie. It’s time for you to go home.” He stands, drawing up to his full height. “You. To your room.”

“No, I want to talk about this,” Cole says. His father is the only one who can dwarf him. My tall, broad, confident friend is reduced to nothing more than a foolish teenage boy. Someone who doesn’t know himself; someone who isn’t enough like his father to be trusted to make his own decisions.

“We have talked about it, and I have said no.” Mr Waller’s voice drops. “I knew I was going to have to deal with this shit from your brother, but you? You always reminded me of me, Cole. Tell me where I’m going wrong. Is it the school?” He turns to me, his eyes dark, with no evidence he was ever friendly or smiling before. “I thought letting you spend all this time with your girlfriend would keep your head on straight, not rub off on you. Is this you? Have you been telling him to get useless degrees and give up sports?” I open my mouth but before I can answer he continues. “Maybe it’s that Rayne boy getting in your head. What’s he majoring in?”

“Politics and International Relations, sir,” Cole says, dryly.

That’s a lie, though. Isn’t it? Gunnar told me that’s what his dad wants him to study, but he’s going to go into conservation. Saving the pandas, or the rhinos. Maybe the bees.

I make a note to talk to him, make sure he isn’t giving in to his father’s pressure to use his natural talents to go into politics.

“Better. Respectable,” Mr Waller says, and then hums. “What in the damn hell is that on your arm?” Cole glances down, and so do I, to see the stupid daisy chain peeking beyond his sleeve.

“Andie w—”

“You know the things my friends say about my sons?” Mr Waller is shouting now, no pretence of calm. I back away and move to hold onto Cole’s arm, not sure if I’m comforting him or seeking comfort anymore. “Your generation is soft, flabby, offended by everything. Afraid of everything. Weak. I swear to everything I hold dear, Cole, if those are tears in your eyes right now, you can forget about your inheritance.”

He reaches out, grabs Cole’s wrist with enough intensity to bruise, and yanks the flowers from his wrist so they fall to the ground.

“No more nonsense. You’re going for varsity quarterback, and you’ll study a respectable degree that can make you money. You’ll marry a respectable woman. Well-bred, well-mannered, well-dressed.” He points his finger at me. At my worn jeans and Godzilla t-shirt. “Out.” I feel my pulse quicken, but at the same time, I feel pride.

I’m glad I’m not his definition of a respectable woman.

“No, Dad,” Cole says.

“Come on,” I say, and pull him by the arm. Mr Waller makes no move to stop us.

“Don’t come back until you’re ready to take your future seriously,” he barks after us.

“I can’t wait to leave,” Cole yells once we’re back in his car, punching the wheel. Then he turns to me, pulls me into a hug. “Thank you.”

I choke out a laugh. “For what? I made it so much worse.”

“No,” he says. “You made it better.” He rubs his face hard. “Just remembering I have a friend like you makes everything easier to deal with.”

“Is just remembering enough?” I say, pointing to his front door. “Because I doubt I’m welcome back for dinner anytime soon.”

“Yeah,” he says, and squeezes my knee. “Maybe we should just run away.”

“You, me and Gunnar,” I agree, pulling my notebook out of my schoolbag and ripping out a page. I grab a pen and scribble something, fold it once, and hand it over. He takes it, and rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.

“Thanks.”

“I need one too,” I say, and hand him a piece of paper and the pen.

“You’re a weirdo,” he mutters, but he writes it anyway, folds it, and hands it back.

Remember: You have a friend like me.

“Loser,” he says, and turns on his car.

“You’re a loser,” I say, and tuck the note into a zipped pocket of my schoolbag. “Where are we going?”

“Your house,” he says. “Call your mom and tell her I’m starving.”