Page 28 of Wicked Dreams

Chapter 6

Caleb

Class passes slowly. My mind drifts, not comprehending the lecture the teacher gives at the front of the room. I paste on a bored expression and hope he doesn’t ask questions.

Two girls try to pass me notes, but Theo intercepts and reads them. He scrawls crude little stick-figure drawings of people fucking doggy-style or in a sixty-nine position. He flashes them at me before flicking them back to the girls.

I don’t catch how they take it. I don’t really fucking care either.

My attention is onMargo. Filled with the sight of her, her sweet, innocent reactions when I do something obscene. Like kissing Savannah, which was risky at best.

That’s twice now that I’ve used Margo’s ex-best friend in retaliation, and an uncomfortable feeling worms down my spine. Savannah is known to get attached—especially when it comes to things she wants but can’t have.

Nothing I can’t handle, but something to be mindful about.

The second-to-last bell rings, and I unfold myself from the desk with a slow exhale.

Hockey practice has been kicking our asses lately. Coach Marzden just wants us to be ready for our first game. With a whole slew of new teammates, and us stepping up into the senior positions, it’s been an adjustment. Nothing we can’t handle, of course. I run a well-oiled first line.

Last year, at the end of the season, I was made captain. There was nothing better—except perhaps winning the championship title. Something we have our sights set on again this year.

My ribs are bruised from an ill-timed block the other night, hitting just above my padding. They’re sore, but everything should be fine by the time we hit the ice to play against Lion’s Head next weekend.

Theo follows me out the door. We go in the same direction, our classrooms for the next period in the south tower. We don’t speak, but that’s always been the way of things. He’s quiet and stoic, only lightening up when we drag it out of him. It usually takes strong-arming or ribbing him incessantly to peel away his brooding mood.

His classroom is at the base of the tower, and mine is at the top. Four stories up. I march up the spiral steps without complaint, although my ribs make sure to ache at every step.

I’ve done my best to keep this part of my life low-key. It’s not that I’m embarrassed about this class, it’s just that I don’t like to advertise it. I’d hate to get a bad rep for being soft—or worse,artsy—when I’ve done so much to protect my charming asshole vibe.

Finally at the top, I enter the room. I take a deep breath, shifting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. Up here, the scent of paint and paper is soothing. There’s faint classical music playing from the desk in the corner.

Mr. Bryan walks around the empty easels and stools. They’re arranged in a circle, all pointing inward. We’ve been working on various small projects, learning the different mediums, and sometimes our art class takes a break fromdoingto learn about the history of it.

The days that I walk in and the easels are stacked against the wall aren’t my favorite, but I put up with it for the rest. Mr. Bryan and I have an understanding. He seems to see me without any of the strings that the other teachers regard.

Mainly, my last name.

The legacy of it, plus the business I stand to inherit sooner or later. My career has been laid out for me since I was young. I’m going to finish at Emery-Rose Elite at the top of my class, go to an Ivy League college—preferably Harvard, but maybe Yale or Brown—and then go work under my uncle. Learn the ropes.

With that kind of power amassing, it’s understandable why teachers—and so-called peers, instructed by their parents—walk around me as if on eggshells. Or worse, try to get close to me for disingenuous reasons.

Mr. Bryan isn’t like that. He treats me like everyone else, which at first I loathed, but now have a grudging respect for. I took my first class with him my sophomore year. While I’ve been drawing since I was twelve, only recently has he convinced me to try other mediums.

“You might be surprised,” he said, winking.

How could I resist that curiosity?

Now, I’ve come to realize that it’s like therapy. Who needs to talk when I can mess with paint for an hour and soothe some of the wild anger inside me? It’s either that or beat people to a pulp on the regular. Since my aggression can usually be handled on the ice, we breathe a bit easier during the season.

Hockey, too, fills a void. It’s something I naturally excel at, and I am addicted to the rush of the game. It’s strictly at odds with my artistic side.

I know, I know. I’m a complex human.

The classroom slowly fills, picking their regular spots. No one pays attention to me.

Art students, I’ve learned, don’t give a shit about the popular kids. It’s a relief not to be considered a fucking royal here, in the brightly lit classroom, surrounded by other disinterested students. It’s like the art department has a mind of its own.

And then Margo Wolfe walks in.

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