Cracked Kingdom

  Me dating Easton Royal is about as likely as me hooking up with one of the members of BTS—in other words, not likely at all.

  But he showed up at the French Twist last night. He gave me his jacket when I shivered, not from the cold, but from anxiety. He looked at me in a way that’s too tender and too familiar for people who are only acquaintances. The cold that seemed to have set into my bones began to thaw under that intense blue gaze. I wanted to crawl into his embrace and ask him to hold me until this nightmare was all over.

  But when we talked about his partying and the things I’d heard him being accused of, his words all sounded like half-truths and it seemed like he was dodging a bit. I think he was lying to me about stuff. And withholding stuff. But telling the truth about other stuff. It was so confusing. Felicity’s and Kyle’s words swam around in my head until it ached and all I wanted to do was go home and hide. Since I don’t remember anything, I don’t have any way to counter their accusations.

  And he’s not here this morning. Did I really expect him to keep his promise? I rub my hands together and give myself a short pep talk.

  Rely on yourself. You can do this. It’s just school. This won’t last. You can do this.

  Maybe not everyone is staring at me, but it feels like it. It’s as if I’m standing on stage giving a big speech with no clothes on and everyone in the audience is pointing and laughing.

  Is she the one who lost her memory? Is she the one who put Sebastian Royal in a coma? Is she the one? Is she the one? Is she the one?

  Yes, I want to scream. I’m the one. I’m the one who caused you to trip on the flat sidewalk, the one who copied your geography notes, the one who stole your boyfriend. It’s me! I want to scream, because I just don’t fucking know.

  Mentally exhausted, I pin my chin to my chest and make my way up the stairs of the massive three-story structure that appears to house most of Astor Park Prep. Long wings stretch past either side of the main building. The sidewalk leading up to the front doors is wide enough to drive two semis down. Surrounding the buildings are acres of pristine, carefully cut grass that is still green despite the late November cold. The benefits of living in the South, I suppose.

  I long for a narrower sidewalk, a smaller entryway, and crowded halls where I could be just one of the hundreds of students hurrying to class. Instead, it feels like there are more lockers than students. Using the school map from my notebook, I find my way to my own locker and then stare at the lock in dismay. I don’t remember the code. I try my birthday. Nothing happens.

  I enter my zip code and the year. The lock holds. I squeeze my eyes shut and strain to recall more numbers. Dylan’s birthday pops into my head. When that fails, I enter Parker’s. A phone number floats to the top. Still nothing. I chew on the corner of my mouth in vexation. Why didn’t I think of this beforehand? I didn’t remember I went to Astor, the stupid uniform feels like it’s made for someone other than me, so why would I know my locker code?

  “Problems, Hart-lay?”

  I glance to my right to see Kyle smirking at me. I wish he’d go away. There’s no way I dated this guy. Even if I was a liar and a cheat, I had to have some standards. Standing next to him makes my skin crawl. And frankly, if we did date and we did sleep together, those are things I’m happy to forget.

  “Nope.”

  “You ready for your first class?” There’s a malicious note underlying his words, but I’ve had enough of Kyle and his not-so-helpful pieces of information. Instead of responding, I merely turn and walk away.

  “Hey, I was talking to you,” he yells at my back.

  I keep moving, ignoring the questioning faces and the way my cheeks are turning bright red in embarrassment.

  “Bitch,” he yells.

  At least he’s not acting like we’re dating anymore.

  I keep my head down and try to draw as little attention to myself as possible. At lunch, everyone’s attention is diverted by a fight. A blonde with hair the color of honey launches herself at a dark-haired girl with tight curls. I hear one of them yell about trees and houses and wonder what kind of circus Astor Park Prep really is.

  By the end of the day, I’m worn out—emotionally and physically. I drag myself to Calc, the class I supposedly cheated in. The room is nearly empty when I arrive.

  The teacher, a very pretty woman who doesn’t look old enough to have graduated from college, is standing at the front. Her red lips turn down at the corners when she spots me. Someone’s memory still works even if mine is gone. The schedule has the teacher listed as C. Mann.

  “Ms. Wright, how nice to see you back in class.”

  If awards were given for snideness, Ms. Mann would get a big trophy. I dip my head and survey the desks. Which one did I sit in? The few students who are already in their seats avoid my gaze. They don’t want me to sit by them. I opt for one in the far corner. I’ve had enough eyes on my back to last a year.

  “That’s not your seat,” a curly-haired brunette informs me when I start to slide behind my chosen desk.

  Ass half onto the chair, I blink dumbly. “We have assigned seats? Where’s mine?”

  This wasn’t a problem in any of the other classes today.

  “No, dumbass. That’s Landon’s seat. He’s sat there the entire class.”

  This is frustrating. “Okay, then where should I sit?”

  Instead of answering me, the brunette raises her hand. “Ms. Mann, Hartley can’t go back to sitting in her old seat. It wouldn’t be fair to the Royals.”

  The Royals...plural? Easton’s in this class? Maybe he meant wait for him in class. He might’ve thought I would remember.

  “I know, right?” a boy pipes up. “They’ve got enough on their plate.”

  I twist around to stare at the boy whose spindly arms look about as frail as my pencil. “I was in a car accident and landed on my head. I don’t have rabies.”

  He makes a face.

  “Sit there.” Ms. Mann points to a desk in the front right, near the door.

  “Fine.” I stomp up to the desk and throw myself down in the seat. I make a big deal out of unzipping my backpack and slamming my notebook onto the desk, because I’m tired of trying to hide.

  I’m here. Deal with me. I cross my arms and glare at every student who comes in. Some are taken aback. Some don’t look at me, and others shoot daggers in return. None of them are Easton. One pretty blonde pauses as she enters, looks at me under her eyelashes, and then takes her seat after another student enters behind her and gives her a small shove.

  Curious, I track her to her desk. As the students trickle in, a steady buzz of conversation starts humming. There’s a lot of discussion about a dance that took place and who came with whom. There’s debate about whether it’s institutional misogyny that props up attendance for the terrible boys’ basketball team as opposed to the small crowd that watches the really good girls’ team. And there’s talk about a party at Felicity’s house. She’s bringing in a band—a band so big that even these rich kids are semi-awed.

  “I heard she paid half a million.”

  “For what?”

  “New Year’s Eve. We’re seniors so we might as well go out with a splash.”

  “Easton, are you going? Oh, he’s not here.” The student hadn’t realized. She moves on. “Ella, what about you?”

  “It depends on how Sebastian is doing,” the pretty blonde who eyed me earlier says.

  Ella. She’s the foster sister. The one that Kyle and Felicity said Easton wanted but couldn’t have. I can’t remember why. It had something to do with one of his brothers, but maybe I’m mixing that up with another girl.

  “Oh sure, of course. I’m sorry,” the student stammers and quickly changes the subject. “Anyway, man, it’s cold, isn’t it? I hope the party is inside.”

  The hum of whispers doesn’t stop when the lecture starts, and Ms. Mann makes no attempt to quiet anyone. She writes a few notes on the board about the limits at infinity and orders us to solve problem
s in section 3.5. There are fourteen of them, which makes the entire class groan in dismay.

  She ignores the pleas to cut the assignment in half and takes a seat behind her desk, where she proceeds to glare at me every five minutes or so. Felicity says that I cheated, which would explain those pointed stares, but I don’t feel like a cheat—however a cheat feels.

  Ms. Mann starts talking and I fix my eyes forward, trying to concentrate on the topics at hand. The equations aren’t easy, but I understand the base principles, and the new concepts simply build on those. I catch on quick. When we’re given free time to solve a set of problems, I finish before anyone else and without errors. While waiting for the rest of the class to complete the in-room homework, I flip to the earlier sections of the textbook looking for the areas where I must’ve struggled.

  But I don’t come across any. Derivatives, the extrema values, the open and closed intervals and the critical numbers all make sense. I take a sample problem finding the extrema of f(x) = 2 sin x – cos 2x and solve it, checking my work in the back.

  There isn’t a past section that stumps me. What’s confusing is why I would’ve cheated in this class at all. I know this stuff.

  Baffled, I decide I’m going to confront this head on. After class is over, I loiter in my chair until only Ms. Mann and I are left in the room.

  “What is it?” Ms. Mann asks impatiently.

  “You probably heard, but I lost my memory.”

  “I have heard. It seems very convenient.” She eyes me dismissively.

  “Not for me,” I mutter to myself. To her, I say, “I heard I was accused of cheating in this class, but I feel like I understand the material.”

  “Then don’t cheat next time.”

  “How was it that I cheated before?”

  She huffs out a noise—half laugh, half grunt of disgust. “Are you asking me for advice on how to cheat?”

  “No. I’m trying to fill in the blanks—”

  “You better leave before I start suspecting that you cheated on your homework today. The best advice I have for you, Ms. Wright, is to keep your head down and make as little noise as possible. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to prepare for tomorrow’s lessons.”

  In other words, get out and don’t talk to me again. A little stunned, I gather up my pencil and notebook. I didn’t expect my first day back at school to be a picnic, but I didn’t think it’d be a nightmare like this, either. At the door, I turn back. “I’m sorry. For whatever I did, I’m sorry.”

  She doesn’t even look my way.

  After the last bell rings, I hurry to the bus line. I find a small group of students toward the end of the wide boulevard in front of Astor Park and join it, standing behind a girl wearing cute white boots with her Astor Park uniform. The boy in front of her pokes the girl’s shoulder. She peeks behind her and meets my eyes.

  I smile. She frowns and scuttles forward.

  Being an outcast is not fun, I decide. I wonder what bus I take home. I know that the girl in front of me doesn’t want to talk, but if I get on the wrong bus, that’ll be worse than being bitched out here on the sidewalk where only a couple of people are watching.

  “Excuse me, can you tell me which bus goes to West and Eighty-Sixth Street?” I ask, naming an intersection near my house.

  “What are you talking about?”

  I repeat myself. “I’m not sure which bus I should take.”

  The girl rolls her eyes. “What are you, dumb? There are no buses at Astor.”

  “She’s not dumb; she’s pretending she can’t remember nearly killing Sebastian Royal,” supplies her male friend.

  “Why did they even allow her to come back here? What if she gets into a car? She could kill us all.” The girl shudders.

  “That’s why she has to take public transportation. The cops took her license away.” The boy declares these lies without hesitation. I gape at him.

  “Thank God,” the girl says. “Let’s go. I don’t want to stand here anymore. The air pollution is making me sick.”

  The boy grabs her hand and the two jog toward the parking lot. Shame, deserved or not, paints the tops of my ears red. At this rate, someone’s going to smear a scarlet letter across my chest and I’ll have to start answering to the name Hester. Tears prick at the back of my eyes.

  Whatever I’d done in the past must have been terrible to have to endure this. I’m blinking back the tears when a car honks, and I look over to see a good-looking face peering out from the driver’s window.

  “Hartley? I guess you don’t remember me, but I’m Bran. We were friends. I can drive you home.”

  On a different day, I probably would’ve said no. I don’t know this guy. I’ve already got a shit reputation and climbing into a car driven by a strange boy isn’t going to help, but I’ve reached the end of my rope. I grab the door handle and climb in.

  Chapter 12

  Easton

  I arrive at the hospital a little after eight, but Seb’s not in his room. “In testing,” is the hurried response one nurse throws at me. His twin is slumped over the end of the bed, drooling onto his arm. I lever the two-hundred-pound kid onto the mattress and try texting Hartley again.

  Classes going ok? We still talking about the gender equity in Feminist Theory? My fave class, u know.

  She must think that’s a bad joke.

  How abt calc? Anything new and exciting?

  I read over my texts. Man, these are dumb as hell. I shove the phone in my pocket and go lie down on the uncomfortable sofa. I don’t know how much Dad donated to get this wing of the hospital built, but I don’t think any of it was spent on this furniture. The sofa’s as hard as granite.

  I rifle through my backpack and pull out the Sports Illustrated I brought from home. We’re supposed to be reading to Seb these days. Apparently while you’re in a coma, sometimes you can still be aware of your surroundings. Comas sound like one of those night terrors where you’re half asleep but feel awake, and someone is standing at the end of your bed but you can’t move. I play music for Seb, tell him some shitty jokes, read some memes off the Internet, and quote The Godfather to him.

  After a while, I push to my feet and find something to eat. Halfway through my club sandwich, my phone pings. It almost flies across the room in my haste to pull it out of my pocket. But it’s not Hartley. Instead, it’s a video from Pash, and features two of our friends having a hair-pulling contest in the middle of the lunchroom.

  He captions it with: Where’s the mud pit when you really need one?

  I zoom in and out, trying to locate Hartley, but I don’t see her. I text Pash the fist-bump emoji and ask where Hart is.

  Me: Where’s Hart?

  Pash: Dunno.

  Me: Take a pic of the lunchroom. Send to me.

  Pash: I’m not there anymore. It’s 5th period now.

  I get a picture of his feet and the tile floor. Pash has no classes with Hartley, so this isn’t helpful. I send him thanks anyway and tuck my phone back into my jeans. I’ll go see her tonight when Ella comes to sit with Sawyer.

  When I return to the recovery wing, I check in at the nurses’ station.

  “Is Seb back yet?” I lean over the counter and scan to see if his chart is lying out—not that I’d be able to understand it.

  The nurse on duty spreads her arms over the confidential records. “We finished testing twenty minutes ago.”

  “Any update?” I ask hopefully.

  “I’m sorry, but there is no change.”

  That fucking sucks. I make my way down to Seb’s room, but before I go in, I take a couple calming breaths. Seeing Seb lying motionless in his hospital bed is fucking awful. Each time I go in I’m torn between wanting to shake him until his eyes pop open or throw shit around the room until the sick feeling in my gut dissolves. But Sawyer’s upset enough for the entire family. He doesn’t need to see me losing my cool. I’m here to bring a little levity to the situation, otherwise we’re all going to drown.

&nbs
p; I crack my jaw, paste on a grin, and push the door open.

  “We missed a fire school day. Pash texted me a video of Margot Dunlop and Dian Foster getting into it over Treehouse. He’s been doing both of them at the same time and neither of them knew it.”

  Sawyer doesn’t look up from the hospital bed where Seb is now lying. I toss my backpack in the corner and drop into one of the empty chairs.

  “Go shower and then eat,” I tell my brother. “You look like you’re two steps away from trading places with Seb.”

  Sawyer still doesn’t move. I push out of the chair and walk over to him. He doesn’t acknowledge me. I snap my fingers in front of his face a couple of times until he blinks.

  “What?” he asks sourly.

  “You smell like ass.”

  “So?”

  “So go use the shower. Seb’s probably in his coma because every time he wakes up it smells like a garbage can and he figures he’d rather be in his perfect dream world where everything is sunshine and fucking roses.”

  “Fuck you.” Sawyer folds his arms across his chest and digs his butt into the chair.

  “I’m not into incest, kid.”

  “Oh, and I am?” Sawyer explodes. “Is that what you’re saying? That this is some kind of punishment because of that?” He points a shaky finger at the bed.

  I back up with my hands up in the air. What in the hell is he ranting about? “No. It was a joke.”

  Sawyer and Seb have been dating the same girl for over a year now. There’s always been a lot of commentary on it because, well, it’s weird and different and, probably, in some eyes, wrong. I could care less.

  “Did someone say anything?” I look around for a target. What my brothers do with their dicks is no one’s business.