Chapter 13
Idecide to skip the Alpha Delta dayger at Hayes’s frat house the next day.
After last night, I’m not exactly sure where Hayes and I stand, and showing up to a frat party to find him tangled up with my sister doesn’t strike me as the smartest way to find out.
He’d said he wanted to talk about Argy after the game, but it’d felt like something else. Like he was fishing for information. Testing my reaction to his getting back together with Amber, maybe. And then he shut me out the second I pushed too hard about her and his family.
Yes, he apologized, but there was distance in it. A quiet kind of retreat that told me not to push again.
I feel like giving him some space is a good idea right now. Maybe I’m giving myself space, too.
Still, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking about the consequences of staying home today.
If Amber goes and they spend the whole day together—laughing, drinking, reconnecting—what then?
Would that be all it takes to seal the deal?
To make whatever’s between them official again?
Hayes barely has time for me as it is. If he gets a girlfriend, especially one as clingy as Amber, that time is going to drop to zero.
What did he say again last night?
Oh, right.
She just “fits into his life.”
Does that mean I don’t anymore?
Of course, he also dropped that life-altering bombshell about being forced to move to Greece after the school year.
Not for a semester abroad. Not for summer break.
Move permanently—as in, pack up and go. So maybe he’s just trying to keep his head above water, focusing on how to handle his parents and his future.
Maybe Amber, and whatever’s left between them, isn’t even on his mind right now.
Sometime after lunch, I hear Amber’s heels clacking across the tile as she heads out.
I’m sprawled on my futon, door shut, bingeing old Buffy the Vampire Slayer reruns.
I’ve seen every episode a dozen times, but I never get tired of them.
Buffy was everything—smart, fierce, brave even when she was terrified.
Outnumbered or not, she never backed down.
She always ran toward the monsters. There’s just something about that kind of courage that sticks with you.
“Come on, let’s go,” my sister says, barging in my bedroom and plopping down beside me. “The party’s already started.”
I don’t even look up from the laptop screen.
“I’m not going.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’ll be fun, Ally.” She elbows me lightly. “You can ride with me and the girls.”
She sounds sweet and sincere, but I know her too well. I’d bet money Mom sent her in here to try and convince me, probably bribed her with one of those Sephora gift cards her clients hand out instead of tips.
Typical Mom.
She’s already tried twice this morning herself. This has her fingerprints all over it.
“No, thanks.”
“But Mom says—”
Bingo.
I knew it.
“I don’t care what Mom says,” I say flatly. “I already told her I’m not going, and I’m not changing my mind. So you can both just back off, okay?”
I finally look up—and instantly regret it.
Amber’s wearing a brand-new dress I’ve never seen before: pale Cinderella blue, body-skimming, with flutter sleeves and a cutout at the waist. I know she already blew her last paycheck on her Homecoming dress, which means Mom must’ve caved and bought her this one.
Her blonde hair is curled into perfect, bouncy waves, her skin still glowing from a fresh spray tan. She looks like she belongs on the cover of a magazine. Every guy at that party is going to lose their mind when they see her.
Including Hayes.
A hot knot of envy twists under my ribs. I don’t want to care. I shouldn’t care.
But I do.
I hate how easy it all is for her. How she gets to sparkle and be adored and doesn’t even have to try.
“I just thought it might be fun to hang out today,” she says, almost shyly. “You know… like we used to.”
I hesitate, something in me softening a bit.
It’s not just the words—it’s her expression. She’s not smirking. Not performing for once.
Maybe there is a Sephora gift card in it for her, but this part is real. She genuinely wants me to come out and spend time with her. And I don’t know why, but that gets me.
“You look really pretty, Ambs,” I say, reaching out and tucking a shiny curl behind her ear. It’s awkward and unfamiliar, big sister energy I didn’t know I still had. “Have a great time today.”
“Ally—”
“Please, just go. I’ll be fine.”
I turn away, cranking up the volume on Buffy until the sound drowns everything else out.
After she leaves, I search for something darker to watch. Something to match my mood.
I scroll through Netflix until I land on some old horror movie about a creepy kid who might be the Antichrist. Apparently, he kills people just by looking at them.
The plot feels vaguely familiar, though I’m not sure I’ve seen it before.
Probably just the usual trope. There are so many devil-child stories—Rosemary’s Baby, Little Evil, Deliver Us.
This one isn’t half bad, from what I can tell, but I’m too distracted to really follow.
All I can think about is Hayes.
Sometime after a mysterious dog shows up and a Catholic priest starts warning the parents their child might not be human, I shut my laptop and drift off to sleep.
I’m running.
My bare feet slap against wet sand, lungs burning, heart pounding like a war drum. The wind howls, tugging at my hair. I can smell the ocean, taste the salt, feel the dusk thick and heavy on my skin.
I’m little—maybe five or six. My mother is screaming something I can’t quite hear, clutching Amber to her chest with one arm, the other gripping my wrist so tightly it hurts.
Behind us, something snarls.
The sound makes my blood freeze. It’s low and savage and not like any animal I’ve ever heard. It’s wrong. Unnatural.
I glance back, and the shadows stretch, flickering. There are eyes in the dark, low to the ground. Glowing red. Hunting us.
“Faster, Alysander!” Mom cries. “Don’t stop. Don’t look back!”
I run harder, tears streaking down my cheeks.
Then—out of nowhere—he’s there.
Hayes.
Standing at the edge of the rocks. Hair wind-tossed, face mostly hidden by the twilight. He steps forward and raises one hand, palm out, like he’s telling the monsters to stop.
And they do.
They squeal in fear… and then everything goes still.
I blink—and Hayes is gone. The monsters, too.
And then I’m in Mom’s car speeding away. Just road and sky and darkness...
I wake with a start, Mom’s screams still echoing in my head.
The room is dim now, my laptop dark beside me. For a second, I’m not sure what’s real. The air still smells faintly of wind and sea salt.
Just a weird dream, I tell myself. But the image of the monsters with the red eyes… and Hayes—his face, his hand raised like a command—lingers longer than it should.
I roll over, re-fluffing my pillow. It was probably that stupid horror movie. Or something I read in my mother’s letters—that last one, the one about the beach and running from hellhounds.
Still… it felt so real.
Too real.
More like memory than dream. It didn’t feel imagined. It felt remembered.
I shake it off and force myself to fall back asleep.
When I wake again hours later, something in me has shifted. I feel lighter. Clearer.
I decide I’m done lying around, obsessing over what Hayes might be doing with my sister or whatever mess is happening with his family. None of it is within my control. Especially if he won’t let me in.
Instead, I’m choosing to focus on me. My wants. My goals. My future. If no one’s going to choose me, I’ll choose myself.
Maybe I didn’t land the role I wanted in Hercules, but there are other ways to build my résumé.
Other ways to boost my shot at NYU. I remember reading about a girl who grew her YouTube following to nearly a million subscribers.
She turned down a record deal and still got accepted to both NYU and USC, which has the best pop vocal program in the country.
And she didn’t even write her own music.
She just covered old Britney Spears tracks.
Surely, I can do better than that.
A burst of resolve moves through me as I turn my laptop back on and create my own YouTube channel. I choose a name that’s simple and low-key. Catchy enough to stand out, but subtle enough that no one from school will immediately know it’s me if they stumble across it.
Sander Sings.
With the account set up, I reach for my steel-string Yamaha acoustic guitar, the one always leaning against my nightstand. My mother bought it for me on my thirteenth birthday from a thrift shop near her studio. It’s still the best gift I’ve ever received.
I sit cross-legged on my bed and strum a few chords, playing with the tune. I already know which song I want to upload first.
It’s an angsty breakup anthem I wrote last year about a girl who falls for a guy she’s never meant to have. A little punk, a little rock-and-roll. Maybe more autobiographical than I care to admit. I’m especially proud of the hook, though the melody still needs some work.
I run through the song a few times, adjusting the lyrics here and there, but I can’t record yet because my stomach is growling so loudly I’m pretty sure the mic would pick it up. Not exactly the vibe I’m going for. The background of my first admissions track can’t sound like a dying whale.
Unfortunately, there’s nothing edible in the kitchen.
All I can find is Mom’s vile wheatgrass smoothies and a container of homemade kale chips that taste like seaweed and cardboard had a disgusting baby.
Mom usually saves grocery runs for Mondays, since she doesn’t go into the Artists Co-op until later in the afternoon.
Which means I have no choice but to wash my face, twist my greasy hair into a bun, and crawl out of my cave in search of real food.