Chapter 6 Avery
Avery
We don’t have service here.
It’s the first thing I notice as I’m changing into dry clothes after my shower.
I discovered it as I tried to pull up Google Drive to organize the notes I took during the competition—the notes I took before everything went completely off the rails—but nothing would load.
Then I tried to send a text and got a Delivery Failed for my trouble.
Downstairs, it isn’t any better. I circle the living room, phone held out in front of me, but it remains a moderately useless brick that only works as a flashlight and a camera.
“It’s everywhere,” says a voice behind me. “Trust me. I already checked.”
Trust me. Two simple words that the owner of that voice tosses out so easily, as if they haven’t recently betrayed me. As if they don’t know that I’m explicitly trying to avoid talking to them.
“Caulder,” I say, as politely as I can. He’s not alone down here, after all.
I see that when I turn around and find Marlene bundled up under a blanket with headphones on and a sketch pad in her lap on one end of the enormous leather couch and Caulder stretched out on the other side.
Everyone else must still be in their rooms making use of the fancy showers.
Marlene and Caulder clearly already showered, based on their wet hair and pajamas, plus the room smells like the same “orange bergamot” bodywash that was in my bathroom.
As usual, Caulder appears calm and unrattled. His brown hair falls a little in front of his eyes, making it look for a moment like there’re shadows under them. But then he runs a hand through his hair, and the illusion’s gone.
Perfect as always. Infuriatingly so.
Sometimes I slip into a fantasy where I imagine what my life would be like if I had never known Caulder at all.
If we hadn’t grown up next to each other and spent Saturdays eating ice cream at the park while our parents watched us from the benches, would it have been easier to deal with who he is now?
Or if we had still known each other, would we have stayed best friends if the rupture in my life happened after puberty fully sank its teeth into both of us?
Would it have made it easier to start ninth grade back at the same school and find that he’d turned into a completely different person, the kind of person who would never, ever be friends with an awkward nobody like me?
I can still remember the sting that zipped through me the first time I saw him again at freshman orientation.
He was facing the other way, picking up his schedule, when I heard his voice, and it seized me and yanked me toward him.
He’d always been a tall kid, but he’d been a tall kid with a bad haircut and a missing front tooth who called me “Aves” and tried a million different slime recipes with me.
Now he was tall in a way that I knew I’d never catch up to, and there was an easiness in how he traded words with the people around him that I didn’t recognize.
His smile was the same slightly crooked smile, but there was something charged about it.
Something everyone around him seemed to respond to.
Effortless in a way I’d never be.
I realize I’m staring at him, which a normal person would ignore or at least look away from, but because he’s Caulder, he stares right back. Forces me to sit in the discomfort. Forces me to break his gaze as I finally avert my eyes and sit down across from him and Marlene.
“Emerson’s probably got the Wi-Fi password,” Caulder says, not acknowledging my dissociative moment. “I dunno where he went, though.”
I nod but hold up my phone anyway, stubbornly stabbing at the Wi-Fi button to see if there’s any nearby connection. Of course, there’s nothing.
“Told you,” Caulder says.
I glare at him. “I just wanted to make sure. That’s not a crime, is it?”
It’s easier this way, to settle into these new roles. To pretend that the only reason I distrust him is because of our history at Coastal Canyon and not because he used to know more about me than anyone. To act like what hurts is just the fresh blood between us and not the scars.
After all, for Caulder, that’s clearly the case. He glares right back at me, hazel eyes sharpening. “No. But you could’ve just taken my word for it.”
“No thanks,” I say. “Where’re the teachers?”
My question’s directed to either Caulder or Marlene, but he answers.
“Dorman and McCullough said they were going to bed,” he says. “Told me to tell everyone to get showered and go to sleep. They said we’re leaving as early as Triple A will get here.”
“Which won’t be early,” Emerson cuts in, sauntering into the living room from where he must’ve been lurking in the kitchen. “They’re delusional if they think anyone’s getting out here before nine. And even more delusional if they think anyone’s going to bed right now.”
Caulder’s jaw twitches. “Well, whatever. We should at least keep it down.”
“Where’s Mr. Jay?” I ask, not missing the fact that Caulder referred to only two of our chaperones.
Something glints in Emerson’s blue eyes as he flops down next to me on the couch.
He puts his loafered feet up on the coffee table, not caring that it’s clearly an old, expensive piece of furniture and not a footrest. Though, actually, maybe to him, this furniture is cheap, a downgrade from his living room.
I know for a fact he’s never set foot in an IKEA.
“Probably outside sneaking a smoke,” he says. “But why do you wanna know, Winslow?”
I arch my eyebrow, my skin crawling. I thought I’d been doing a decent job of hiding my loathing for Mr. Jay, but clearly, Emerson’s picked up on something. Before I can come up with a response, Caulder speaks.
“Jay’s upstairs with Lucas,” Caulder says. “Apparently, there’re a bunch of old movie props—even some Hitchcock ones. They’re looking together.” Then he holds up his phone and asks, “Do you have the Wi-Fi password? I’ve tried all over the house to get service.”
Emerson grins. “Afraid not. The whole place is ‘unplugged.’ Meant to give us the full experience of being out here separated from society.”
No service? I guess I wasn’t going to get much done before bed anyway, but I still would’ve liked to have some time to scroll to keep my mind off…everything else. Plus, I’m pissed Emerson’s just now bringing this up. So much for a perfect place to stay.
“There’s a landline for emergencies, though,” Emerson adds, practically bouncing in his seat with glee, reveling in his reveal. “Do you want to call home and check in?”
“I’m good,” Caulder grumbles, also clearly irritated. “This all just gets better and better.”
Emerson, if possible, looks even more delighted thanks to Caulder’s misery.
He settles deeper into the couch, leaning back and crossing his arms behind his head.
His blond hair’s starting to dry a little, the usually perfectly smooth strands frizzing slightly on top.
His heavily applied cologne has managed to stick around even after the rain and a shower, nearly choking me even though there are several feet between us.
I sigh and put my phone into my pocket, and he turns his eyes on me. He likes to say his eyes are gray, but really, they’re just blue. Slate blue, not bright blue. Like water that’s gone cloudy or the bottom of a treacherous lake.
“Disappointed, Avery?” Emerson asks. “Planning to work on your college essay, perhaps? A valedictorian never sleeps, right?”
My heart thumps. He’s prodding. The worst part is, his prod has found the bruise.
“You know I’m not the valedictorian, Emerson,” I say.
He puts his hand over his mouth in faux embarrassment. “Do I? Sorry. Must’ve slipped my mind.”
It definitely didn’t. If anything, Emerson’s the only person more aware of the fact that I’m the salutatorian and not the valedictorian.
Because while I have the second-highest GPA in the school, he has the third.
He missed me by less than two-tenths of a point.
I know because he’s reminded me of that every day, along with his insistence that his private school classes were “obviously harder and should’ve been weighted. ”
I’ve never asked him why he left his private school to come to our “shitty” public school. Because one, I don’t want to hear his explanation. And two, I know he would find a way to throw in an insult.
“Even more of a reason to get your essay finished, then,” Emerson muses, voice bordering on singsong. “What sort of pitiful narrative are you weaving for Stanford, Avery? Something about having your hopes and dreams crushed by our actual resident valedictorian?”
My cheeks burn, and now it’s essential that I avoid looking at Caulder and Emerson. I glance over at Marlene to see if she’s picked up on what Emerson’s doing, but she’s still drawing.
“Caulder,” Emerson says when I don’t answer. “You must know what Avery’s writing about. Come on. I won’t tell anyone.”
“No,” Caulder says.
He doesn’t elaborate. Caulder Grant has never said an unnecessary word in his entire life.
He doesn’t need to constantly defend or explain himself.
He doesn’t struggle to be taken seriously.
He gets to walk into a room and people instantly know who he is: baseball star and team captain with scholarships already pending, valedictorian guaranteed to major in whatever high-paying STEM field he decides he wants to try, and, oh yes, co-captain of the debate team…
even though he was never on debate until last year, when his baseball coach, Mr. McCullough, encouraged him to “give it a whirl” after hearing Caulder did a great job in a mock trial in AP Lang.
A mock trial where I pointed out multiple flaws in his logic, but no one cared. All they saw was Caulder, golden boy, shining like always—though this time, in a new way. Who cared that I had been in Speech and Debate since freshman year, or that it was my entire life?