Page 18 of Even in the Dark

Seb steps forward and reaches his muscular football-throwing arm through the window again, removes the milkshake, and less than a second later, he’s pulled back and casually slurping from the pale teal straw. He swallows. “Just for that, I’m taking back my gracious gift.”

He takes a few long strides backward, peering over his shoulder to check for oncoming traffic. “I’ll see you losers at lunch.” He glances back our way, flashing a final signature Seb Murdoch grin. “Or in history, if Abbott doesn’t lock the door on me again.” And with that, he turns and jogs back to his Jeep.

I put the car in drive. “So… that was Seb Murdoch,” I tell Dylan as I pull back out onto the road. “He’s… well, Seb is Seb.” Then after a second, I feel the need to add, “He’s a good guy. You can trust Seb.”

Annnd… Nothing. Not even a one-word response.

“So?” I take another stab at being nice. “You want the lowdown? The dos and don’ts of SH Prep?” I jerk to a stop at another red light.

“Sure.” He shrugs. So enthusiastic.

“Well, you’ve got your standard cliques,” I tell him. “Your nerds, your jocks and cheerleaders, your sporty girls… your standard fare hipsters, band kids, then theater kids and theatertechies.” I dart a look in his direction. “Those are two separate groups, by the way—the theater kids and the theater techies. Apparently, they hate it when you clump them together. Not that I’m guessing you’ll be jumping to audition for the spring musical or anything, so… yeah, probably not pertinent information for you.”

I wait for a possible grunt of humor. No idea why. I get nothing, of course.

I continue. “Jocks rule the school, especially the football players. Cheerleaders are popular by association, sadly. Dark ages and all that. But the sporty girls are right up there, so there’s some progress, at least.” I pause, checking to see if Dylan is even paying attention.

His gaze stays fixed out the window.

I forge on. “Theater kids keep to themselves, but everyone loves the musicals. Band geeks are basically invisible. Student council members think they run the school, but they don’t. By a long shot.” I make a turn on Mariner’s Drive. “Ok. Teachers. Don’t cross Mrs. Hendricks in homeroom, she’s evil. Mr. Garza is crazy strict, but fair. And don’t ever show up late for Mr. Abbott’s history class. He locks the door.”

Dylan gives a slight nod. I’m not sure if he’s listening or just humoring me at this point.

“You don’t exactly give off big joiner vibes,” I continue. “So, I’m going to assume you’re okay if I skip the whole extra-curricular spiel.” I take his silence as assent and carry on. “Last thing: the dining hall. The food is amazing, but everyone likes to complain about it. Tradition or something. As for seating, it’s not like in the movies where the entire room screeches into sudden silence if someone dares to venture out of their paddock or whatever. Basically, no one cares much if you mingle.”

I glance at him again, because this next one’s important. “Sit by yourself on your first day, and it’s social suicide.” I pause,letting my words sink in and take root. “In your case, potential legitimate suicide, since you risk getting suffocated by a swarm of Volt fangirls if there aren’t a bunch of people around to buffer the rush.”

Another check-in, but he still isn’t reacting. Tough crowd.

“If you’re looking for a general dining hall seating lay-of-the-land, though: nerds and goths tucked in the back corner, smart kids and theater kids are by the windows. And the popular kids in the center.”

“That where you sit?” he asks, shocking me because—wow—an actual question! Blow me the frick over.

“Yeah, I sit in the center.”

“Figures,” he scoffs, totally condescending, still staring out his window. He literally doesn’t even bother to look at me while he’s being a jerk.

God, he’s a piece of work.I bite my tongue. Keep from saying any number of retorts already formulating in my head and instead press play on one of my playlists, turning up the volume. The rest of the drive goes by without another spoken word.

When we pull into the school parking lot, Dylan’s hand is on the door handle before I’ve even come to a full stop. He slings his backpack over his shoulder and unfolds his tall frame from the seat, stepping out and slamming the door without a word. He strides towards the main school building like he’s been here a hundred times before and knows exactly where he’s going.

Just over his right shoulder, I watch as a whole slew of girls hanging out on the steps of the main school building perk up the moment they notice him approaching—already moving in to smother and adore him. Like they’ve been standing watch, waiting for the arrival of the infamous Dylan Braun.

Dylan falters. Just barely. Then continues undeterred, swerving his path in order to avoid them. Not even glancing in their direction. The girls all turn to each other, eyes wide,practically bouncing and mouthing variations of“holy shit, it’s him”and “ohmygod,”and“he’s even more beautiful in person”.

They’re not wrong. They also have no idea what they’re in for.

Dylan saunters up the steps, lifting a muscular arm to haul the door open, then disappears inside, totally oblivious to the fact that he just fueled the flames even more, just by being so… him.

Chapter Seven

Scarlett

Ididn’t share either of my first two classes with Dylan, and yet he’s still all I’ve heard about the entire morning. Most girls are infatuated with him or scared of him. Most guys are threatened by him or resent him, and most of the faculty pity him or assume he’s going to be trouble with a capital T.

I spot him heading down the hall towards the Civics classroom I’m waiting outside with a few friends before third period. He looks irritatingly unfazed by all the attention thrown his way—although, he must have run his hand through his hair at least a few times since the car ride to school, because several wavy locks have fallen out of the bandana, brushing against his prominent cheekbones. He keeps his eyes straight ahead, not hunched over or closing himself off in a physical sense, but there’s an intimidating look about him that warns people off—that makes it obvious he doesn’t want to engage.

As he reaches the classroom door, Trevor Albrecht steps in front of him, flanked by two of his meathead friends. “Hold up,Killer!” he calls, loud enough to attract an audience. Which is probably what he wanted—people witnessing the smack-down he thinks he’s about to deliver, hoping to cement his position among the popular elite. Trevor’s the kind of guy who’s always been on the fringes of the popular crowd, desperately clawing for a full-time position. And there’s a reason he’s never managed to scale that final hurdle—the stunt he’s pulling right now being a perfect example. There’s no foresight, no strategy… just brash, cruel arrogance. I’m not surprised he’s known more for being a dick than for being cool. He goes about everything like a bull in a china shop, leaving a mess of victims in his wake.

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