Page 19 of Rules

I don’t know why. I don’t know how. I just do.

I will my gaze to move, scanning the almost empty parking lot and street. Not like I’d expect much activity at two in the morning, but when I’m here, I’m always extra careful. Watching over my shoulder every now and then, my senses altered because even though I don’t expect trouble, I’m not dumb enough to believe it won’t find me.

Not here.

The door opens, and I can hear her soft goodbye before it shuts behind her.

Showtime.

Watching her carefully walk away, I wait until the distance between us is big enough so she won’t see me trailing behind. Exiting the car, I let the door softly shut behind me. Locking it, I pocket the key and pull my hood over my head as I follow behind carefully so she doesn’t see me.

Because I’m sure if Brook Taylor finds out, she’ll have my balls.

I cringe at the thought, but even that doesn’t slow me down.

Nobody should walk around here by themselves, especially not a girl.

Yes, the streets are mostly empty at this hour, but not completely. And the crowd that hangs out isn’t a crowd you’d want to mess with. The streetlights are few and far between, and the ones that do work shine such dim light they don’t help much with visibility. But it doesn’t seem to deter Brook. She walks rapidly, her head bowed down, backpack slung over her shoulder.

This is her constant.

Her life.

I follow, keeping a safe distance between the two of us, until she reaches another one of the gloomy, falling apart buildings that is her home.

Because the last thing I want is for her to know I’m following her.

That I’ve been following her.

For weeks.

Because although Brook Taylor doesn’t need a savior, I need her to be my redemption.

* * *

MAX

BEFORE – SENIOR YEAR

“I just think we should include it in the presentation,” Brook insists stubbornly from the other side of the desk. “It’s a part of their tradition.”

Sighing, frustrated, I look down at the notes in front of me, but the scribbled words make my headache even worse. Rubbing at my temples, I try to work through it like I always do. Deep breaths, while my mind untangles the letters and rearranges them into something that you should be able to read, but today it’s not helping. Maybe it’s because it’s in Spanish?

Fuck it if I know.

“Look, Sanders, if you don’t want to do it, I can work on this project myself, and we don’t have to go through this again. I’ll make the presentation and give you your notes so you know what part you’ll have to present to the class…”

Just the thought of presenting anything makes my stomach queasy, but I push it away.

“It’s not too much.” I stop her, my hand covering hers to gain her attention, but she pulls it away like my touch burned her. Something flashes in her green eyes, just for a second, but then it’s gone, hidden underneath the mask she shows to the world.

“Sorry,” I smile apologetically. “My head hurts like a bitch today. Can we do this another time?”

More like never, but it’s not like I have a choice. At the last private school Jeanette and I attended in California, my teachers would always pair me with my sister, and she knew what to do. Over here, they don’t care about those things. I tried talking privately with Mrs. Rodrigues about switching my partner, but she was set in her ways. Said something about getting out of my comfort zone and broadening my horizons. The thing she didn’t know was that this is so out of my comfort zone, it could be a hat trick.

All my life Jeanette has been there, helping me with essays and reading assignments. Helping me focus on studying and understanding what’s written on the pages of all the textbooks, because to me it always seems like the words are trying to escape the pages.

A few weeks ago, Brook said Jeanette’s the smart twin while I’m the pretty one, and she wasn’t far from the truth. It stung, but I played it cool like I always do. Like I’ve been doing for years. I’m not stupid; I know that, but words… words and I have never gotten along well. It’s frustrating, staring at the page, trying to concentrate, trying tounderstand, but not succeeding. So no matter how many times my sister assures me I’m not stupid, sometimes I wonder if she’s wrong and everybody else is right. Maybe I am stupid. Other seventeen-year-olds know how to fucking read and actually understand the words written on the page.

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