Page 83 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

“Never mind.”

“What?”

He sighs, glancing away from me again. “I collect it.The Three Musketeers. I collect editions of it.” He nods jerkily at the vast oak closet in the corner of his room. “Open it.”

I do so. There are rich, luxurious clothes and accessories I crave to touch — suits, tuxedos, gleaming black dress shoes. But lining the top shelves are dozens of copies of the book. Not just different print editions in English or ones with different artwork, but international editions, too.Les Trois Mousquetaires, Los tres mosqueteros, De drie musketiers,evenSkytturnar þrjár, which I guess is what it’s called in Icelandic.

And it hits me. All of a sudden, it hits me.

The chiefs. He formed the chiefs because he loved this book so much.

And it was after the death of his mother when Rory formed the chiefs. When he was at his lowest, his most vulnerable. When he just wanted someone to be there for him.

I almost stagger into the closet from the weight of the realization. Chiefs, cheerleaders, musketeers, whatever. It’s all the same thing in the end. Strength. Power. A group, a brotherhood, a belonging — all for one and one for all.

Rory, Finlay, Luke.

At least… I thought it was Luke.

I slant a glance over at Rory, who watches me avidly from his bed. “What did Danny mean tonight?”

Rory’s expression shutters but he gives nothing away.

“Was he really a chief?” I press, because it feels important. To extol Danny, to learn the actual messy truth that no one dares to mention.

“Why don’t you ask him?” Rory asks in a bland, utterly inscrutable tone.

“Because he never discusses the two of you. He just makes vague angry gnashing sounds — both of you do.”

“Oh, well.”

“Please,” I say, and there must be something in my voice, something so pitiful that even Rory with his heart of stone decides he needs to console me. I want this to unravel, all these tight little ancient knots that refuse to budge. Knots that have existed for so long they’re now part of the fabric, they’re now by design.

“I mean, we’re talking years back,” Rory says quietly, confirming it in one single sentence. “When I was half the height I am now. Primary school stuff. It doesn’t mean anything anymore.”

“But he was. He was a chief.”

“Look… I wasn’t as smart as I am now, hence allowing Danny into my crew. Back then, I’d have taken anyone who’d have me. And I did.”

My heart hurts, because back then he’d still followed his mother. He was still kind and open to friendship with others before his father took over his life, before his father put his foot down and said no.

He chose Danny.

“Danny didn’t have anything to offer,” Rory says with a shrug.

“He was your friend.”

“So what? It was years ago.”

“You know he’s still upset,” I remind him. “Whatever happened, it seems like you really hurt him.”

“Then he needs to get the hell over it,” Rory snaps in an angry huff. He crosses his arms, scowling at the book in my hand. “Kids are callous little shits. It’s part of growing up. Just because he couldn’t find anyone to replace me for years, why should I be the one to make any kind of amends?” He shakes his head, blond strands tickling the side of his face. “What does he have to offer? He has no power. His family has no money. He’s only at Lochkelvin because his dad used to oversee the school’s religious ceremonies. I know he’s your friend, little saint, but let’s be real here: Danny-boy is a loser.”

“You’re wrong,” I say sadly. “And once upon a time, you knew it, too. You liked him enough to make him a chief.”

“I’m not talking about Danny anymore,” Rory declares in a haughty tone, shutting me down. He rolls onto his side, clasping a pillow between his head. “God, first he invades my mother’s apartments, now he’s invading my bedroom. Fuck that. I didn’t havethatmuch to drink.”

So apparently the only way to get Rory to discuss anything in any detail is to get him astoundingly drunk. It’s good to know for future reference.

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