Chapter Four Capital Punishment #2
I force my gaze to the whiteboard up front, only for it to register what Mrs. Burle has been scribbling on it.
Capital punishment.
My stomach twists.
“All right, everyone, let’s pick up where we left off on Friday,” the elderly woman says briskly.
“We were discussing the polarizing opinions on capital punishment. We focused on the position of those against it. Today, let’s discuss the pro position.
Once again, using the Thorn case as our example… ”
Will Jasmine hate me if I throw up in the middle of class on my first day of school?
Probably. I can already hear her whining Ryan! Whyyyy.
I tamp down the nausea and tune out the voices of my classmates as various students rehash my father’s crimes and offer reasons why he deserves to die. Meanwhile, I feel like a piece of crap. No, even worse than that. At least a piece of crap doesn’t share Gabriel Thorn’s DNA.
Mrs. Burle decides it would be fun to end the class with a vote. Let’s see who thinks Thorn should be executed! Not a single person votes for his life to be spared, so I don’t, either.
The moment the bell rings, I bolt out of the classroom. I’m not only dying to escape—I’m eager to get to my next class. Photography.
Finally, something I like.
The art and media classroom is really cool: a two-story industrial space with exposed pipes on the ceiling and one wall made up entirely of windows.
There’s a loft above, and various graduated steps with easels set up on them, arranged in a circle and surrounding a sunken space in the center.
I walk around the easels and find a few people already gathered on stools near the drafting tables.
I sit next to a girl with a pink pixie cut and a purse that’s shaped like a typewriter. She immediately turns toward me. “You’re the new girl,” she says in a smoky voice. She has dark skin and a tiny nose ring.
I nod. “Ryan.”
“Mar,” she says. “Short for Amaryllis. But anyone who calls me that has not been known to live for long.”
I’m about to respond with an oh and maybe find another seat, because the last thing I need is to be associated with another person who considers murder a viable solution to their problems.
But then she giggles and says, “Kidding. I like my name. It’s odd. Anything odd is already a plus in my book. I hear you’re a Shipley.”
It seems my reputation has preceded me. I just hope it’s my fake reputation, and not the real one. “Yup. How did you know?”
“There are only three hundred kids in this school. No one flies under the radar here.”
I wince, hoping she’s wrong about that. Time to change the subject. I point to her binder, which is covered with some gorgeous, artsy photographs, like the kind I take. “Those are amazing.”
“Thanks. I’ve been taking pictures since I was three.”
“Really?” I ask, excited for the first time. “I didn’t start that young, but I love taking photos too. My grandmother gave me a nice camera a few Christmases ago and I’ve been obsessed.”
“Oh, then you’re going to love this class. It’s the best. And we should definitely go out shooting together one day.”
“I’d love that,” I say, smiling shyly.
The rest of the class is even better. There are only five students, including us. The teacher is Mr. Hicks, a young hipster type who—bonus—doesn’t make me stand up and introduce myself. He smiles warmly through his horn-rimmed glasses and says, “Welcome.” I wish all my classes could be this chill.
When the bell rings, Mar and I walk out into the hallway, dodging a sea of students eager to escape for lunch. Before I can even say goodbye to Mar, Jasmine appears and clamps a hand on mine.
“Come on,” my cousin says, dragging me away. “We’re going to lunch.”
I catch her glaring behind me. “Uh…okay? You’re cutting off the circulation in my fingers, though, so—”
“What were you doing talking to her?” Jasmine whispers with contempt.
“Who?”
“Amaryllis Sullivan. She’s so weird.”
I shrug. “I like weird.”
She stops and glares at me. Then she puts both hands on my shoulders. “Okay. Get that out of your system right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a Shipley,” she moans. “That’s what I mean. We already get bad press for having a serial killer uncle. I don’t want to have a weird cousin too.”
I suppose she does have a point. I’d like to be as inconspicuous as possible this year. I don’t want to make waves or stand out for any reason, good or bad.
Jasmine herds me out the double doors to the courtyard, where Connor joins us. There are picnic benches scattered all over the green. I notice a few guys at one table waving Connor over, but he ignores them. Instead, he flops down across from us at a table under a shady elm tree.
“Did your mom order you to have lunch with me?” I glance from Jasmine to her twin, and their sheepish expressions are all the confirmation I need. I groan at them. “Oh my God. Go sit with your friends.”
“You are our friend,” Connor says lightly, grabbing his brown-bag lunch from his backpack.
I sigh and do the same, just as a tiny girl with long red hair and big blue eyes ambles over to us. Jasmine introduces her as Gillian, one of her best friends.
The redhead grins at me. “Welcome, fellow ginger.”
I glare at her, half joking, half serious. “I am not a ginger. My hair’s a dark auburn.”
“Sorry to inform you, but all shades of red fall under the ginger category,” Gillian says in a grave tone, and I can’t help but laugh. She seems cool.
As I’m pulling out a misshapen turkey sandwich from my bag, Jasmine suddenly sighs, a soft, happy sound.
She’s gazing across the lawn at Everett, who’s tossing a football with his friends. A group of girls sit on a blanket nearby, watching in admiration. The girl with the blond highlights, Sofia, is at the center of them. If this place is as big a cliché as I think it is, they’re the cheerleaders.
The Everett Adoration Hour is interrupted when Mr. Perfect hands the football to one of his friends and jogs toward the parking lot beyond the lawn. A sleek black bike is pulling in, stopping almost directly in front of Everett.
My gaze—along with everyone else’s—flits in that direction. The driver removes his helmet and runs a hand through dirty-blond hair that has that messy, just-rolled-out-of-bed look.
If All-American Everett was ever going to have a rival for king of Crockett High, it would be this guy. But my guess is, this guy wouldn’t want to be king of a place like this. He’s the type who’ll arrive to school hours late just because he doesn’t give a damn about anything.
My impression of him as the brooding loner crumbles the second Everett claps the guy on the shoulder. Not long after, they’re laughing about something.
They don’t seem to notice that the entire student body is fixated on them. No wonder. They’re both attractive on their own, but together? It’s explosive.
“Who’s that?” I ask warily.
Jasmine gives a knowing smile. “Chase Hedlund. He has that effect on people.”
“What effect?” I turn and frown at her.
“It’s the whole bad-boy vibe he’s throwing off. Girls like to stand and stare at him. Guys too.”
“It’s almost unfair that so much hotness can be concentrated in such a small space,” Connor confirms.
I have to grin. “I wasn’t staring because he’s hot.” Which he is. Undeniably. They both are. “I was just confused. Doesn’t seem like those two would travel in the same circles.”
Jasmine shrugs. “Everett doesn’t chill with the rest of the delinquents, but he and Chase are tight, for whatever reason.”
I shift my gaze away from them. As much as I want to unravel the mysteries where boys like Everett and Chase are concerned, I can’t. I can’t risk getting close enough to anyone to figure them out.
Because if anyone figures me out?
My life will be over.