Page 32 of The Pawn

"They do." Hector winks at me. "They just don't tell anyone about it in public."

For some reason Cole is glaring at Hector, eyes narrowed, heat flushing his neck. He meets my eyes and flinches, looking away. It's strange; you wouldn't think the joke about carbs would get to him. But clearly something has crawled under his skin.

"Well." Holly looks between us and sighs. "I guess if it's no harm no foul. I mean, I thought maybe he was about to start a fight, but..."

Hector says, "Nah, no fighting. Just a little ribbing between two guys. So I have to clean sticky soda off my slacks before it dries. It's not like my dad worked extra hours to get these for me." His grin is fake, but the 'joking' way he socks Cole in the stomach is very real; I see Cole wince and hide it despite how loose and gentle Hector's motions look. "See? We're like brothers. Practically grew up together and everything."

"Okay. Well..." Seeming relieved not to have to break up a fight—or worse, I think, break up with her psychotic boyfriend—Holly glances in my direction. "Brenna, I came over here to let you know that your orientation for the Rosalinds has been scheduled for this evening at seven. Mrs. Reynolds will want to be there for you to fill out your paperwork. I'll show you to her office."

"Will I need anything?" I ask, even as around me the tension turns more and more awkward, and it's clear everyone wants for this strange encounter to just end.

"Just your social security number and permanent address so we can run a background check. It's silly—no sixteen-year-old has a criminal background. But Mrs. Reynolds says we're required to do it. All good?"

Heart beating extra fast, I smile falsely at her. "All good," I lie.

The truth is, it's not good at all.

Because the social security number I'm enrolled under here is a fake, to go along with my fake school transcripts and my fake scholarship, courtesy of the mysterious stranger Legacies II.

Myrealsocial security number is tied to a name I don't want to be known by at Coleridge at all: Brenna Wilder, sister to an accused rapist who was bullied off campus and never came back.

It's one thing to get a fake degree, knowing I'll never be able to use it because I'll never manage to afford college—or get good enough grades to land a scholarship.

I have no idea if my fake social security number will go through a background check without exposing me for what I really am: a liar and a fraud.

* * *

I can barely concentrate in World History after lunch, so it's a good thing Visual Arts is my last class of the day. The Gladius Outdoor Space is refreshing to walk through, and the large white tent set up for us to do art in looks charming rather than makeshift.

As soon as I realized my social security number might cause an issue, I emailed the previous administrator of the blog in order to see if it would clear. He's the one who got me here, and who finessed my details with admissions when I made it clear I wanted to enroll as BrennaCooke,not Brenna Wilder. There was no other way to keep my secret—even though he did warn me it might mean wasting my high school years here only to get caught and lose my degree. His warnings didn't really matter at the time, as fresh in my grief for Silas's death as I was, and as much as I wanted revenge.

Now I'm wondering if maybe I made a mistake. I entered the school as Brenna Cooke to avoid being the twin sister of the boy notoriously bullied out of school for his alleged involvement in a sexual assault. But I got the attention of the Elites just the same, and I wound up on the Cole's 'list' anyway. At least if I'd entered under my own identity, I wouldn't have to worry about being exposed now.

All of these thoughts are stirring inside me as I take a seat on one of the stools in art class, in front of an empty easel. There are only a few students in the tent; most of the rest of the class is probably taking their time getting here, since the schedule has plenty of cushion.

Staking out my spot, I set up near a small white table with a still life on it: a vase, a few sunflowers, and baubles strewn around. There are pads of paper and unopened charcoal and pencil sets on one of the bookcases calling my name, but I don't want to open anything up before the teacher gets here.

Art is the one subject I'm good at. In a competitive school like Coleridge, that's probably a bad thing. But at least this hour and a half class gives me something to look forward to at the end of the day, after having my brain mashed around in my head by calculus, English lit, and then world history. This tent, if nowhere else, is my refuge. My escape.

So of course, just after the teacher walks in, Cole Masterson struts into the tent, makes his way through the easels, and sits on the only empty stool—one right beside me.

The smile on his face as he leans over is cruel and mocking. "Guess who isn't here?" He answers his own question without waiting for me. "Your roommate. And I put you on my list. Which means no one will step in if I decide to get you back for the other day."

Despite myself, my heart skips a beat, anxiety and anger alike twisting in my stomach. It seems unfair that when I glance over at Cole and meet his eyes, all I can see is the glints of gold in their hazel, the way the sunlight filtering in through the open tent flap hits the side of his perfect jaw. I want to spit in his face—or maybe, even worse, lick him just to see what he tastes like.

Maybe Tanner was right. I really am fucked in the head.

"Do your worst," I taunt Cole, because apparently I can't stop myself. "The teacher is right there, and my Rosalind orientation is tonight. I'm not an easy target like you're used to."

"That's what you think." As the teacher comes to the front of the class, clearly about to start things up, he adds, "There are ways to get to you. Don't think you can tattle on me to my girlfriend, either."

I snort. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Because if you do, Tanner will tell the administration all about what you did to him." He cocks his head. "And I think that what they find will be of interest to them, since all it took was pulling your file for me to figure out what's wrong with you... BrennaWilder."

Chapter 17

I'm going to be sick.

---