Chapter 08: They'll say Polonius's words were wiser than the Devil !

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Avery was smoking a pipe, of all things, on my bed. I watched the minuscule cauldron bob to the beat of her breath, obscure her sharp chin, and cough out tufts of smoke that resembled yarn. She caught my eye through the haze of grey and tipped one side of her cheek up.

"Wanna try?"

Smoking wasn't exactly my thing, save for those rare few Marlboro's snuck up sweater sleeves or down bra cups to ease jittery nerves. "Pass."

She looked scandalized. "Since when're you not in the mood for a smoke?"

"I feel kinda sick," I said and I did, to some extent, with the realization that directly in line with the ball of her shoulder, but not directly behind her, Ryder Quinn's black jacket was slung over the back of my seat. Even the thought of last night's outing liquidized my bone marrow until it accumulated at the bottom of my ribs and weighed them down. If Avery turned, she'd surely see it. "How're you not hungover?"

She raised a nonchalant shoulder. "Didn't drink that much. Vincent said he wasn't a fan of 'vodka breath', the asshole. He's the one who downed an entire bottle."

The diversion was somewhat relieving. "Told you he was a prick."

"I know," she muttered miserably around the pipe. "I didn't even mean to spend the night with him."

"Then why did you?" It came out far more insensitive than I'd intended but her honesty was debatable. Vincent had insisted on her staying back with him whilst Ryder drove the rest of us home and she'd happily agreed without anyone forcing her to.

She pulled a face and took a long drag before speaking.

"I'm sorry, all right? What else could I've done? I thought Ryder would be jealous if he saw me with Vincent but he wasn't even there half the night. Just went off on his own doing God knows what."

The subtle implication in her tone alluded to everything she wouldn't say. Knowing Ryder, he was probably getting blown by some college girl at the back of the club. I didn't know how to tell her she deserved better and she didn't know how to face it. She'd had the biggest crush on him since sophomore year and old habits died hard.

I wondered how she'd feel knowing I'd worn his jacket on my bare shoulders last night.

"Why don't you just talk to him? You can hardly expect him to be jealous when you've never said more than 'hello' to him."

"God, Alaska," she scoffed. "If only life were as easy for everyone else as it is for you."

Her spite alarmed me. Not because she wasn't mean (she'd grown up in St. Jude's for God's sake) but her disdain typically revealed itself through underhanded methods. A snarky comment here or there, a rumor tossed into eager ears. She never expressed her annoyance up front, not like this. She was wrong obviously, in a broader sense, but I knew what she meant.

That boys were nicer to me, more willing to incite a conversation, than they were with her. I wasn't vain, I was just aware. I'd heard the comments; how I was the prettier one, with the bigger breasts, the nicer lips. But I knew it was only in comparison to her. Next to anyone better I was as good as dirt.

St. Jude's girls loved this fickle attention. I did too, blindly, but I couldn't see why. What was the point in objectifying ourselves to meet their expectations when they'd be here one day to appreciate it but gone the next?

I'd tell Avery as much but someone knocked on the door. Both of us jerked in horror. Avery was already trying to snuff out her pipe. She mouthed, 'Warden!', and stood in a flurry of smoke and skirt, then tiptoed across my room to the wardrobe.

I grabbed my deodorant and whatever other perfume my hands grappled off the bedside drawer and sprayed them in the general direction of where she'd sat. Then, making sure she was concealed among my clothes, with my heart in my throat, I opened the door.

Only it wasn't warden staring back at me, but Chase Stetson.

He stood in the doorway with his characteristic blond hair shielded under a black cap and a pink tinge to his cheeks. Speaking with breathless urgency, he said, "Hey. Could I come in?"

One look behind his head and I understood why. A group of girls were accumulated a safe distance behind him, either ogling or whispering in the kind of manner that conveyed they weren't paying attention when they were. Everyone wanted to watch the drama unfold but that didn't mean they loved it.

"I think that'd make it worse," I said.

Omitting, 'Not that you aren't used to being stared at anyway'.

He contemplated this and came to conclusion with his cheek between his teeth. "You're probably right."

An elbow against the door frame, the other hand cupping the nape of his neck, sweatshirt sleeves bunched around his wrists, he was probably the most disheveled I'd ever seen him. So unlike himself without the typical attire of a suit and an unsmiling mouth. "I can't stay long," he confessed, voice an almost conspiratorial whisper, "I barely made it through the back door."

I frowned, though mostly at Miranda Kingsley giving me a thumbs up over his shoulder. Even if he'd made it past the cameras (clearly Jo, the seventy year old who watched the surveillance most of the day, couldn't give less of a shit), the wardens would sniff him out soon enough. "Why're you—"

"You. I need to talk to you. About last night." I must have winced, or given some sort of distress at my recollection of being vomited on, because his expression became rueful. "The guys told me what happened. I don't even remember half of it to be honest."

How could he? He downed a quarter of a tequila bottle himself, taken a few hits of a joint and then fallen asleep on my shoulder until I'd dragged him out to Ryder's car—in which he fell asleep again until Johnny threw up on both of us.

Did he remember me pushing the hair out of his eyes and him reciprocating with a tipsy laugh and, 'You're so good to me'?

"But I just—fuck. I shouldn't have gotten drunk. Not with idiots like Johnny around."

Contrary to popular belief, I didn't think Johnathan Westham was particularly idiotic, or the 'annoying one' in their group. He'd always been a bit of a try-hard, especially around girls, but a night out was all it took for him to unravel. Last night, the only thing that boy had been was wasted, and tired. Of trying, of life.

I waved a hand even though my knees were shaking. "It's fine. I get it. My brother went to that school, he was pretty much the same."

Chase paused. And when only when he stopped moving did I realize how restless he tended to be, perpetually in motion or poised with potential energy racking through his frame: fingers tapping against the wood framing him, lips twisting deliciously with thoughts only he could hear, hands adjusting the cap on his head.

The connection appeared made when his brows came together. "Charles . . . Finton?"

"The one and only."

His eyes were hooded, partially obscured by shadow and a curtain of hair peeking out from under his cap. "He's like, Royal Imperial legend."

I forced a smile. "Also, very, very dead."

I waited for him to frown, or look even the slightest bit apologetic. Waited for flamboyant wine to shatter on marble. He didn't even flinch. Instead, voice low and sincere, he said, "I'm sorry. For everything," and licked his lower lip. "I would've brought flowers but I thought that'd be cliché."

I smiled without meaning to. "I hate flowers."

His cheekbones tilted up as well, smile curving like Cupid's arrowhead at one end. "I figured. Enigmas aren't indulgent in paper roses."

His statement took me off guard. I didn't think he'd remember our conversation from the ball. "What are they indulgent in then?"

He smiled crookedly. "Hm. Let's see. I think . . . I think you prefer the idea of me wanting to get you flowers and then deciding against it, instead of actually doing the action, because it's a justification, right? I assumed you'd like flowers because you're a girl, and that's what they do in all the films, but really you don't, because you're you, not a conformist to stereotypes."

When he put it like that, it sounded almost true, even when I hadn't thought in that direction. But I liked his version of me. "When'd you figure that out?"

Another sly, one sided smile. "When I discovered the truth of the matter: what is a paradox but the observer's misinterpretation?"

I didn't know how to reply to that. I didn't know what I'd expected from a newly turned Golden Boy, but it wasn't this. He spoke as if he understood me, when he could be miles off the mark.

Down the hall, or perhaps up it, someone shouted, "What's going on here?"

Chase turned his head at the sound but stayed put. "Jesus, quite the ravenous audience you've got here. I'd stick around and entertain them but that nun's coming right this way. But, listen, I, uh—there's this new diner opening by the beach this Friday . . . if you want to check it out."

His apprehension surprised me. How quickly he could go from confident to sheepish and render himself humane rather than this untouchable sanctity.

"I—"

"You don't need to make a decision now. Just think about it." He tipped his cap in a centuries old gesture and turned to leave. Numerous pairs of eyes followed him.

"Wait, Chase." I ran into my room, grabbed Ryder's jacket and handed it to him. "This is Ryder's. Tell him thanks." He peered at it curiously before nodding.

"Will do."

I didn't wait to watch him leave and closed the door with a sigh of relief. "Hey, Av. You can come out now."

She broke out from the wardrobe in a fit of coughs and blinked in the dull light, accompanied by the final rays of the sun as it streamed through my balcony door. "God, that was long." She staggered towards my bed. "What the hell did she want?"

"It wasn't warden."

She propped herself on her palms. "Then?"

"Chase Stetson."

There was a slight delay, only a split second or so, where neurotransmitters diffused across synaptic clefts. Then she shot up, moving quicker than a bullet released from its barrel. "What?" She rounded the corner of my bed and held me at an arm's length. "Chase Stetson? As in Golden Goy, Chase Stetson?"

I thought, who else? "The one and only."

"Oh my fuck." Her fingers trembled against my skin. "What'd he want?"

"I don't know, exactly, he just apologized for last night, and there's a new diner opening up by the beach—"

"He's asking you out?"

"What? No. Yes. I don't know, Av. I don't think I'm going to go." I moved past her and picked my tie off the floor, carelessly shoved it into a drawer.

The truth was it was terrifying being with Chase. He was too devastatingly beautiful and beautiful boys like him were meant to be admired not owned.

"You're kidding, right? Chase Stetson is asking you out, and you're not going to go?"

I turned to face her. Her confusion felt like an accusation. As if she knew. About Ryder's jacket, and . . .

I'd kissed him last night. Ryder. Just once. Just a peck on the cheek. Only as a 'thank you' gesture, for the jacket, for walking me back to school whilst Eli heaved Chase and Johnny out of his car. But the inquisition in Avery's gaze clawed at me. "I'm not looking to get screwed over."

She tutted and careened me back towards the bed and plopped herself down beside me. She tucked her chestnut hair behind her ear, mouth barely containing a smile as she readied herself to speak. It was her excited expression. It used to bloom over new dresses or John Green novels, but nowadays only over boys.

"But that's the thing. He asked you out. He's the one that likes you. The reigns are in your hands. If you're uncomfortable with anything you can just cut it off, right?" I tried to mull over it but it wasn't quick enough for her. "Right?"

"I guess?"

"Exactly. And it's not like a Golden Boy has ever come all the way here to ask out a girl, has he? I know what you're worried about, but he's new, remember? Barely been in that school for six months. He doesn't care about a dumb fucking rivalry; he wouldn't have tried so hard to get with you if he did. Look, I know things have been hard for you after Vincent, with all those guys thinking you're some kind of slut, but this your chance to finally get back at him. What could be worse than his ex dating one of his oh-so-precious Golden Boys?"

I dragged my lip between my teeth but didn't correct her. Vincent hardly counted as my ex; one makeshift date didn't mean we were ever a thing. "I don't know, Av. He was young then, we both were. I already forgave him for it a long time ago."

She sighed and hissed at the same time in exasperation. "You're too damn nice Alaska. So what if you forgave him, did he ever apologize?"

"No."

"'Course he didn't! He still thinks he didn't do anything wrong. That's why you need to do this, Al. Show him how much better off you are without him. It's about time us girls got a win."

She made it sound so easy. A plastic smile for Chase Stetson and Vincent would be at my knees begging for forgiveness. It was surreal, no matter what angle you viewed it from, but guilt bit into my heart and gnashed at the treacherous chambers with Ryder Quinn's white teeth.

'If you're uncomfortable with anything, you can just cut if off, right?'

Right.

I took a breath; revived my awareness so I wasn't acting on the spur of the moment the way I had with Ryder. "Okay."