Chapter 2
Two
THEN | SISK
“Pitfire!” I don’t know what I was thinking arguing with Sarah.
Actually, that’s a lie—I know exactly what I was thinking.
For once, I believed merit might actually mean something in this cursed city.
I believed the one spot in the Corps de Ballet—the one I’ve bled for since I was ten—wouldn’t go to some girl whose mother pulls strings at the front office.
But Sarah didn’t get it. Why would she? She gets new pointe shoes delivered in boxes while I’m still dancing in the ones I had to stitch back together myself.
So I did what any rational person would do when faced with blatant injustice—I lost my damn mind in the middle of the hallway and earned myself a detention slip. Now here I am.
The classroom is a wreck. Desks are shoved every which way, papers are all over the floor, and the chalkboard still has half a lesson on it that someone couldn’t be bothered to finish erasing.
I have no idea how this is supposed to work. I’ve never been in detention before—not because I haven’t had reason, but because I’m usually better at keeping my rage with the world under wraps in public. Sarah simply hit the wrong nerve today.
Apparently, I’m not the only one who lost it though. I glance at the two guys in the room. They couldn’t be more different if they tried.
My book bag hits the floor with a thud that makes both of them look up. I shove a stray strand of hair back into my bun and straighten my shoulders.
One guy is impossible to miss—Jax St. Clair, Tar City’s unofficial king of hallway swagger. Everyone knows him. Everyone wants his attention. I definitely don’t.
He’s lounging in his chair like detention is his personal throne room.
His hair is perfectly messy, the kind that takes way more time than actual neat hair.
He’s in a plain white T-shirt that fits just right and wearing a watch that could probably pay my mom’s medical bills for a year.
Those gray-blue eyes of his are annoyingly distracting, not that I’d ever admit it out loud.
It’s not even the way he looks that bothers me—though that definitely doesn’t help—it’s what he represents, and how that puts us on opposite sides of everything.
We’ve been in the same school for years.
He’s the guy who shows up late, smirks his way through class, and still gets the best grades.
I’m the girl who’s at the studio before sunrise, practicing until her feet bleed, and still gets told she doesn’t have the right look for the lead.
In Tar City, some people are born with a key.
The rest of us are just picking the lock.
We aren’t friends—I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know I exist. But I still notice him every time he walks past in the hall, every time he slouches into the back row like he owns the school. He has this gravity that pulls my attention whether I want it to or not.
He stretches, lifting his arms over his head, and his T-shirt rides up just enough to reveal a strip of skin. My eyes betray me and follow before I snap them away. Heat creeps up my neck, and I mentally curse myself for noticing. Damn him.
The other guy is a complete mystery. Tall, skinny, pale—looks like he lives in a basement and only comes out at night.
Freckles scattered across his nose, half-hidden behind glasses that keep sliding down while he hunches over a game controller he’s taken apart.
His desk is a crime scene of tiny screws and tangled wires, like he performed an autopsy on the thing.
Neither of them acknowledges my existence.
“Hello?” I try again, louder this time.
I march over to the skinny guy’s desk and slam my hands down on it. A couple of tiny pieces go flying off the edge and hit the floor.
That gets his attention.
“Be careful!” he snaps, then actually looks at me for the first time. His face turns beet red. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, totally forgetting how words work.
“Sorry,” I mutter, kneeling to pick up the pieces I knocked over.
Behind me, Jax pops his gum so loud it sounds like a firecracker.
“What’s your problem?” I spin around.
He shrugs, not even bothering to look at me. “Didn’t say anything.”
“Since I have your attention—shouldn’t there be a teacher in here?”
Jax grins and another bubble forms between his lips, pink and perfect before it pops.
“That’s disgusting,” the skinny guy mumbles, finally getting his glasses to stay on his face for more than two seconds.
“What? Chewing gum?” Jax pops it again, even louder this time. His eyes lock onto mine, and there’s no mistaking the challenge there. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and he’s having way too much fun doing it.
“Chewing anything with your mouth open like a farm animal.” The skinny boy gestures vaguely at the desk. “There’s a note.”
I pick it up.
Jax St. Clair
Sisk Zaitseva
Ivan Rosen
Detention: 2 p.m.—4 p.m.
Task: Bring this tape box to the library. Assist Ms. Rowan with shelving.
My eyes drift to the heavy, worn cardboard box sitting beside the paper.
“Ivan?” I ask, looking at the skinny guy.
He nods quickly. “Yeah.”
“Then I guess we’re all here.”
I reach for the box, but Jax’s hand gets there first. He lifts it easily, his eyes flicking to mine.
“Oh, look at that,” I say. “A gentleman. Almost believable.”
“What? I am a gentleman,” he says, popping his gum again like punctuation.
Ivan rolls his eyes, sweeps his controller parts into his backpack, and falls in behind us.
On the way to the library, a couple of guys down the hall decide to announce their presence—
“Hey, ballerina—how flexible are you, really?”
“Yeah? Bet she bends real nice.”
I tense up instantly, every muscle in my body going rigid.
Jax doesn’t say anything, he simply cracks his knuckles one by one.
For a ridiculous second, I actually think he might do something, say something to shut them up.
Like I’m some damsel in distress waiting for a big, strong fighter to come rescue me.
But why would he bother? I’m just the girl who’s been in his classes for years but never really been on his radar.
Ivan lowers his voice. “Ignore them. They’re just jealous they can’t touch their toes without crying.”
It’s so weird and unexpected that I can’t help but smile.
Jax notices, but keeps whatever he’s thinking to himself as usual.
We’ve been breathing the same air in this school for three years, but we might as well be in different worlds.
Sometimes I’d catch him watching me in the cafeteria, his eyes lingering a moment too long, before one of his friends would say something and he’d turn away, leaving me feeling like a stupid, hopeful idiot.
Other times, I’d feel his eyes on me during school assemblies, a weight that was both unnerving and strangely compelling, like he can see right through the fake smile I paste on my face every morning.
But this is where we stick to. He has his world and I have mine. He’s got his crew and his reputation and I’ve got my pointe shoes and the empty studio where I can actually breathe. I’ve made it my business to keep it that way.
I’m the girl who takes three different staircases only to avoid walking past his locker. I’m out of my seat before the bell even stops ringing, dodging through the halls before him and his friends can fill them with their loud voices and that stupid confidence that seems to follow them everywhere.
I’ve scheduled my life around avoiding him, leaving practice early or staying late, anything to shut down the possibility of an interaction before it can even begin.
Not that it should matter. Jax St. Clair operates on a whole different level, one where girls like me are invisible unless we’re useful somehow.
We’re merely fillers in his story, and I’ve fought too hard for my own spotlight to fade into the background now.
You’d think ignoring a guy who acts like you don’t exist would be easy. It’s not. It takes work. Constant, exhausting work.
He is basically built to be stared at. Tall with that hair that looks perfect without him even trying, and those eyes that make you forget what you were about to say.
His jaw is sharp with just enough scruff to make him look older than the other boys here.
And he has this habit—this stupid, distracting habit—of running his tongue along his bottom lip when he’s thinking.
He’s completely oblivious to the effect that little gesture has.
I notice all of it, of course. I'd have to be blind not to, but only from a distance. It’s like watching from behind glass.
You see everything, you understand what’s happening, but you’re not part of it.
And that’s how I like it. Because it keeps me safe.
Wanting him would be like handing him a hammer and pointing to my own chest, and I’ve survived too much in this life to let myself be crushed by a boy who probably doesn’t even know my name.
He gets to the library doors first, using his shoulder to shove one open while balancing the box. He shifts his weight, holding it long enough for me to pass through. It’s such a simple gesture, but coming from him, it feels like he’s showing off.
I hesitate for half a second, then walk past him without making eye contact.
We step into the library, and the librarian’s eyes lock onto us from behind her desk.
“I was about to send someone to hunt you three down,” Ms. Rowan says, her voice pitching up and down like a startled parakeet.
Jax lifts the box slightly. “Where do you want it?”
“Oh—well—over there is fine,” she waves vaguely at a cart. “Put it anywhere. The whole cataloging system died years ago. Yes, right there.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Jax slide one tape out of the box and tuck it into his jeans like it’s no big deal. Before I can call him out, Ms. Rowan claps her hands, pulling my attention back to her.
“Shelves in the back! Alphabetical by author, then genre. Fiction first, then nonfiction. No creative expression, please.”