“Stomping the Devil’s tattoo,” Ben says out of nowhere. His voice is buttery—slippery and rich, like it’s hard to hold onto, like it runs smoothly over everything it touches. Oh, God, I do not want him to have a sexy voice. In combination with his body, his eyes, and his sculpted face, it’s completely unfair. “That’s what it’s called. What you’re doing with your fingers.”
There’s no one else in the hall, so he’s obviously talking to me. I realize then that I’ve been absentmindedly drumming my fingertips on the arm of the bench. When I glance at Ben, I find that he’s closed his eyes and tipped his head to the ceiling. Napping.
That’s it? He just wanted me to stop drumming my fingers?
I tuck my hair behind my ears, take a deep breath, and very purposefully begin drumming again. Louder this time. And faster.
“I take it,” he says, deigning to speak to me again, “you’re not a music major.”
I shake my head, drumming on blissfully. “Art.”
And then I get his point: I can’t carry a beat. My drumming slows to a stop.
“I’m an artist, too. A sculptor,” he says. He must be a senior. There’s a maturity about him that can only come with age. “Tell me, do you sign your work with your full name?”
Odd question. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was being friendly. But he’s probably just talking to me because he’s bored. Rich guys are always bored so quickly. That’s what happens when you’ve had everything handed to you and have perfectly easy access to more of it at any time.
“I use my initials.”
The corners of his lips turn up ever so slightly. “A.M.”
“Yep. I guess you already know I’m a junior. Evidently, it’s headline news, though I can’t imagine why.”
At the far end of the hall, a secretary appears in the darkness. For no apparent reason, she starts pacing, darting furtive glances our way every now and then like some strangely dressed, paranoid bird. Ben turns his gaze on her and waits until her back is to us to continue speaking, now in a hush I have to lean to make out.
“Because you’re different from the rest of us,” he says.
“Yeah, well, I was different from everyone back home, too, but.”
“There are different ways to be different, Anne.”
As the secretary darts another look our way, I internally smile at the sound of my name rolling off Ben’s tongue. If I were to let myself entertain the idea of Ben being semi-decent, I would probably be lost in love with him in the time it takes to outline a pink heart on a canvas. There’s an alluring formality about him, as if he’s been raised to sit quietly at the dinner table while the chef serves him, as if he’s been wearing a tie since he was a toddler. He sits extra-straight, he holds his jaw in a tight clench, his every move seems deliberate—not robotic. Deliberate. Elegant. At least, I’d think that if I let myself think that. Which I refuse to do. Because this guy showed me his true colors when he grimaced at my crooked tooth; if I am going to think of him at all, it will be casually and with indifference.
Yes, I command myself, that’s the way it will be.
“I don’t suppose you know all that much about being different, Ben,” I say, careful to sound as indifferent as I wish to be. He arches an eyebrow, and I realize my tone may have been a little too cold.
“I’d say I know a lot about a lot, including being different,” he replies. “Are you familiar with the Big V race?”
“Outside of the fact that it’s being passionately protested?”
“It’s only being protested by Pilot Stone.” We sit in inhospitable silence for longer than I’d like—me trying not to feel consumed by the depth of his gaze, him quite likely wondering how he got saddled with my company—until Ben says, “I saw you running to school today. I passed you on my bike. You’re fast. Long legs.”
When my surprise shows on my face, he grins. His nose wrinkles charmingly. It’s far cuter a smile than I’d have expected from someone like Ben, someone who’s more of a starched-shirt guy than a funny T-shirt guy. Not that I care about his smile. Not that his extremely adorable crinkle-nosed grin really affects me, per se.
All at once, I realize who Ben is. The only way he could watch me run to school is if he was off-campus, too. Pilot had said something to Dr. Z about “his kid” shoving him.
“You’re the Zin boy next door,” I say in a breath. “And Dr. Z—that’s Dr. Zin. Your dad.”
“I assumed you’d pieced that together already.”
I shake my head. He looks disappointed.
“I’ve been living in that monstrosity of a house for years,” he explains. “No one’s lived with Gigi in all that time. I would have thought she’d have mentioned me.” Before I can continue with the small talk, Ben glances up the hall and lowers his voice. “Look, A.M., I assume Villicus is going to assign your Guardian to you and get you to declare your PT.”
Unsure why there’s this sudden air of secrecy, I reply with a shrug, “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“It’s no guess. Most kids get assigned this stuff the second they arrive on the island—”
“The second?” I smirk at the exaggeration.
“—but yours is a special case.”
“Special. Right.” Of course, I know he’s referring to my ghetto background.
“You’re going to get assigned a Guardian right away. We all have one—well, everyone that’s going for the Big V, at least.”
“What’s the Big V?”
“The valedictorian race. Listen,” his mint gaze darts to the secretary again, and when she finally turns away, the pace of his speech quickens, “Villicus will explain all that stuff soon. Don’t tell him I was talking to you.”
“Um, are you okay?”
“Just do this one thing for me, will you, Anne?”
“I just—I don’t even know you.”
He flinches when I say that. The brass knob on Villicus’s door squeals.
“Just make your Guardian happy,” Ben whispers to me hurriedly through his teeth, like a ventriloquist, as the door starts to swing open, “and you’ll be valedictorian next year. You have to.”
Then, abruptly, he leans back against the bench and closes his eyes, as if he’s been napping all this time. Pilot and Dr. Zin appear in the doorway. Pilot’s eyes are wet and red, and he looks furious as he’s ushered out. I’m hardly able to take in what’s happening—with Ben’s warning so fresh in my mind—as Pilot turns back and speaks boldly to our unseen headmaster. Ben slowly opens his eyes to join me in watching what follows.
“It’s
