Page 30 of Come As You Are

He curses under his breath, and it makes the win that much sweeter, especially when Salem says, “Damn, Skeevy.” We ante up and Matt deals again, and as soon as I see the two and three of spades, I have a good feeling. I never lose a hand when I have the two of spades, which is why I used to wear a Claire-crafted bead version around my neck. I’d even thought about putting it on tonight, because much as I wanted to, I couldn’t bring myself to leave it behind in Greentree. But I figured it probably no longer carried the luck it used to.

Clearly I don’t need Claire and her jewelry, because I end up with a flush. I raise steadily, but Archie’s already decided that I’m constantly bluffing, so he jacks up the pot, and I’m only too happy to keep going.

“How do you know how to do this?” Priya asks, fascinated.

“My dad and I used to play a lot.” True, but I don’t mention how frequently we used to play with cousins at family gatherings, using jelly beans or Jolly Ranchers as currency. Or the poker nights I used to have with some friends at Greentree I haven’t spoken to in months. Or the fact that I’m ranked in the top three hundred of my favorite poker app.

No one does better at poker than a girl being underestimated by a table of guys. Ask me how I know.

Finally, Archie calls, and curses under his breath when I display my row of spades.

“Damn, she took you, Buchanan.” Jason laughs, and the other guys whoop and cheer as I rake in his chips. Even Salem cracks a grin.

“Might’ve been worth being nicer to me that first day,” I say sweetly, and Archie’s scowl is a thing of beauty.

Everyone needs a break after that, so I grab a handful of chips and a can of Coke, then open up the window between Matt’s and Salem’s beds for some fresh air. The cool breeze feels glorious on my skin as I sink onto Salem’s (neatly made!) bed and take a drink of the lukewarm soda, the perfect antidote to the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I’ve already made enough money to cover my spending at the mall, and it feels so good to see Archie choke.

“You better not spill that in my bed,” Salem commands, but the corner of his mouth is quirked up.

“Come on,” I say as he sits down next to me, taking my can and helping himself to a sip without so much as wiping it off. “That’s not all you have to say to me, is it?”

He fixes me with those mysterious gray eyes, as if I’m offering up a riddle and the answer can be found plainly on my face, if you just search hard enough. Finally, he concedes. “I will never underestimate you again, Everett Riley.”

Satisfied, I smile smugly and take back my Coke for another long drink, burying my sock-covered toes under his warm thigh. “Took you long enough. But you know I’m not giving your money back, right?”

“Wouldn’t even dream of asking.”

And, you know, I believe him.

We’re not really a God family, so it’s hard to explain why my first thought when I wake up on Sunday morning isI should go to church.

Maybe I feel alittlebad about taking all that money off my classmates.

But only a little. Certainly, the devilish feelings don’t stop me from putting together another cute outfit and donning some makeup again. Plus, my bonus winnings from last night are burning a hole in my pocket with all sorts of thoughts on how I could spend them.

I decide to pass on church, especially since I’m starving, so I bring my remaining homework to the Beast and sit in the corner, stuffing pancakes slathered in whipped cream and berries in my mouth while I tackle geometry. People slowly trickle in while I work, but between day students being home for the weekend, the actually devout being at chapel, and everyone else doing a Sunday morning sleep-in, the room might be even calmer than yesterday. The only real sounds are the hissing of the coffee maker and the slamming of a stapler nailing new weekly announcements to the bulletin board, all of which are going to be emailed to us anyway.

The math is relatively easy, and without the distractionsof text messages or tablemates, I sail through both it and my breakfast. But I have no other plans today anyway, so I decide to stick around and nurse a glass of OJ while I move on to English.

As if just thinking about Mrs. Frank conjures him up, I hear the familiar thud of Salem dropping into the chair next to me, followed by the heavy thump of his ratty messenger bag landing on the table. Even if I hadn’t recognized the bag, “Looking so studious over there, Skeevy” would’ve given him away immediately. “Studying how to take even more of Archie’s money?”

“Would that I could. I’m surprised you managed to roll out of bed at this hour, though it’s pretty clear you did exactly that,” I say, indicating his faded black Soundgarden T-shirt and pants that have somehow been worn to colorlessness. “I see you’re also on the study-while-you-eat plan.”

“AP Psych quiz,” he confirms. “Envy me.”

I do, not that he realizes. Of course he got into the class I’d most wanted to take, which was already full by the time I enrolled at Camden. Taking a minimum of two AP classes this year was part of the deal with my parents for coming here, and chem and APUSH were two of the only ones available to sophomores. Annoyingly, Salem is in the latter with me, too, and I don’t understand it, considering this is the first time I’ve ever seen him study. “So brilliant,” I mutter, pointedly turning my focus to the thick book in front of me. “What story are you doing for English?”

“‘Masque of the Red Death.’ Haven’t started writing yet, though. I figure that’ll be Thursday night’s problem.”

“Salem.” I shut the book as quickly as I’ve opened it and fix him with a serious Look. “My part of the deal will not allow me to let you put off a huge assignment until the last minute. Come on—we can outline together.”

“Hard pass, Skeevy. I’m just here for breakfast and a quick chapter review.”

“I thought you weren’t a breakfast person.”

“I’m a black-coffee-on-Sunday-mornings person,” he says, and then he goes and gets himself some, leaving me inexplicably tempted to go through the bag he left behind. I wrinkle my nose when he returns and the bitter scent hits me. “I guess coffee is not your thing.”

“Not even a little,” I confirm. “Aren’t you, like, thirty years too young to be drinking that?”

---