Page 6 of Riot Rules
“Good for you. Dash must have thought you were sweet for doing that.”
“I don’t carewhatDashiell Lovett thinks of me.” What. A. Fucking. Joke. EvenIlaugh my ass off at that.Internally. I haven’t surrendered all self-respect just yet. If I openly admit that I have a crush on the guy to Presley, the charade will be over. I’ll have to acknowledge that I’m just as susceptible to his pretty face as all the other swooning morons who fall down at his feet.
Presley chuckles. She’s braiding the fringe of the throw on my bed into little plaits. “I hate to say it, but you’re obsessing over this run-in at the hospital a little hard. Like you said, this happened four days ago. D’you think Dash is in his room, stewing over his brief encounter withyou?”
Out of the all the students at Wolf Hall Academy, only three of them aren’t resident borders. Onlythreeof them are permitted to live off campus on their own. Freshmen are packed into dorm rooms, ten to a room, for the first year of their internment at Wolf Hall. Once you’ve completed your first year at the academy, you’re given your own room, thank god. But Pax Davis, Dashiell Lovett, and Wren Jacobi? They’re special cases.
Individually, their families are richer than the rest of the remaining student body’s families combined. That kind of wealth scores you crazy perks at a place like this. And so, that is how Dash, Pax and Wren came to live at Riot House, and how they, in turn, became Riot House boys. They’re supposed to have an adult guardian living in the house with them, but everyone knows it’s just the three of them, even Principal Harcourt, the head mistress of the school.
Such utter bullshit.
I can see the lights from Riot House if I turn and face east and lean out of my window a little. Not that I’d want to do that, though. That would be weird.
“Well.” Presley says, dropping the throw fringe. “It’s almost time to leave.”
“You sure you still wanna go?”
“To the party?” She glares at me like I’m planning to back out on her. “Yeah, of course I wanna go. I haven’t done anything fun in months. Plus, I really don’t think you have anything to be worried about. Dash won’t even be there. You know they hate crashing townie parties.”
Her words are supposed to be reassuring, but she sounds gloomy; she wishes what she just said wasn’t true. The Riot House boysdon’tlike crashing townie parties. Dashiell won’t be there, which means that Pax won’t, either. I’m stubborn for refusing to acknowledge my crush on Lovett, but Presley isn’t like me. She isn’t bound by the same rules. She’s as true as an arrow. When she announced that she was in love with Pax eighteen months ago, standing outsideGilbertson’s Coin Operated Laundry and Video Game Arcade,I believed her without question. Once Presley settles on something, or someone, that’s it. The end. She’ll be loyal to that person until the end of time, regardless of whether her feelings are reciprocated or not. She’s been in love with Pax Davis for nearly two years now, and I can’t for the life of me reason why. The guy needs to be lobotomized.
“If you’re so sure none of them will be there, then why are you wearing the dress?” I ask.
Ahhh, the dress. It reminds me of space—a deep royal blue, shot through with a fine silver thread that looks like shooting stars. Pres glances down at the very tight, very short garment she poured herself into half an hour ago, blushing again. Six months ago, she overheard Pax telling someone in the dining hall that his favorite color was royal blue. Pres has been wearing this dress to what she considers ‘key’ parties and social gatherings ever since, in the hopes that Pax will see her in this scrap of blue material and be brought to his knees. So far, he’s been absent from all of the aforementioned events.
“It’s my party uniform. My partyarmor. I’ve worn it so much, I can’t wear anything else now,” she says.
I sweep my eyes up and down her tall, slender frame. She’s classically beautiful, with a regal look to her. It’s pure insanity that Pax hasn’t noticed her yet.
I’ve never once tried to dress in a way that might snag Dash’s attention. What would be the point? I hear Alderman’s gruff voice in the back of my head, reciting rule number three in an adamant tone, the way he always does whenever he calls:No boys. I repeat, absolutely NO boys. No dating. No falling in love. No nonsense of any kind. I mean it, kid. NO BOYS!
I’m not supposed to fantasize about Dashiell Lovett. I’m not supposed to even think his name. The trouble is that Dashiell’s incredibly difficultnotto think about. He’s a fair-haired, hazel-eyed colonial at a private American school, and he descends from nobility, for fuck’s sake.Englishnobility.Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility-type nobility. Even if I wasn’t living under Alderman’s edict, it wouldn’t really matter what I chose to wear. I could dress in the most constricting, ridiculous Jane-Austen-approved attire known to man and it still wouldn’t matter. I’d still be unworthy and overlooked. He proved that the other day when he looked up at me like he’d never set eyes on me before in his entire, spoiled existence. Arrogant motherfucker.
Anger eats away at my insides, and as always, it galvanizes me. Setting my jaw, I jerk my chin at Presley’s dress. “Take it off, Pres. We’re getting dressed. Properly dressed. We’re going to wear whatwewant to wear andfuckthose guys.”
* * *
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”
The party’s on the outskirts of Mountain Lakes—a sprawling farmhouse, set on a plot of land south of Upper Mountain Lake itself. I’ve never been here before but plenty of the other Wolf Hall students have. I’ve always been too busy sticking to Alderman’s rules to let loose. Parties have always been a no-go. But lately, I’ve been feeling a little…suffocated. I do everything Alderman asks. I keep my head down. I don’t ask questions. I work hard. I haven’t deviated from the plan we so meticulously formulated together before I came to the school. I’ve made myself small, when everything inside of me is screaming to be BIG! And so, tonight, for one night only, I’ve decided that I can have thisone thingfor myself. A simple party. It isn’t as if I’m going to take a bunch of drugs and get arrested.
Alderman would say there is no such thing as a simple party. He’d come up with a million reasons for me to stay behind at the academy and shut myself away in my room with my little telescope. But y’know what? Alderman isn’t here. He’s back in Seattle, doing whatever it is he does in that dark office of his.I’mthe one stuck here in New Hampshire, so he can suck it.
Fog clings to our breath as we head toward the clamor of light and sound spilling out of the house. To our right, a bonfire rages in the yard, bright orange flames leaping up into the night sky. People scream, scattering away from the strengthening fire, but not me and Pres. We’re on a mission, headed for the kitchen of this godforsaken hellhole. That’s where we’ll find the booze.
“It’s purple. Andbig,” Presley moans. We’ve reached the entrance to the house. “Dude, this was a mistake.”
I pause, hand resting on the doorknob, settling an even, calm look on her. “Was it? That tutu came out ofyourwardrobe. Do you hate it?”
“Uh…no?”
“Do you think it’s hideous or something?”
“No.” A little more confident this time. “I think it’s awesome. I just…well, other people are gonna think it’s weird.”
I let go of the doorknob and face her, placing a hand on either one of her shoulders. “Listen up. I’m only gonna say this once.” I clear my throat for added gravitas. “Who…Gives…A…Fuck…What…Other…People…Think.”I really mean it, too. This isn’t just some bullshit designed to make her feel better. I couldn’t care less what anyone thinks of me. Every single person I meet on the street, in a hallway or a classroom makes their minds up about me in the breadth and space of time that it takes for a healthy heart to beat. They’re going to think whatever they’re going to think. That’s just what people do.
Alderman would prefer me to toe the line. His policy is that of all concerned parents: he wants me to conform. To fly under the radar. Preppy little cardigans and blue jeans aren’t effective armor for me, though. I tried wearing that shit and it didn’t help. I tried straightening my hair and taming it down, so that it wasn’t so wild. I wore the kind of stuff that future Yale and Harvard girls might wear to their college interviews, and the only thing I accomplished was making myself feel uncomfortable. Now, I wear whatever the fuck I feel like wearing. Presley, on the other hand, isn’t quite as impervious to other people’s judgment.
