Sloth (7 page)

And there was Kane, towering above them, intense
brown eyes sparkling under his chiseled brow, and his smile ... that smile was going to destroy her, Miranda often thought. It filled her daydreams—all her dreams, in fact— and rendered her powerless.

She was no better than any of these girls, except that she kept her simpering to herself. And look where it got her: They fluttered around the flame, and she lurked in the shadows, just passing through, nothing to see here but dull, drab Miranda.

She would just keep her head down, she told herself. Walk quickly and quietly down the hall and slip into study hall without anyone noticing her.

“Yo, Stevens! What’s the hurry?”

She turned toward the syrupy smooth voice and at the sight of his familiar smirk was helpless not to favor him with one of her own.

“Looks like you’ve got your hands full at the moment,” she told him, flicking a hand toward the girls.

“Beauties fit for a king, don’t you think?” He gave them a magnanimous wave. “Ladies, you can take your leave for the moment—”

“But Kane, we’re here to serve you,” one of the blondes reminded him in a throaty voice.

“What if there’s something you need?” another asked.

“And we can provide
anything
you need,” the first reminded him.

“I’m sure Stevens here will take good care of me while you’re gone.”

The pom-pom posse looked her up and down. “Doubtful,” one of them grouched. But they knew their role in this little drama: They followed orders and disappeared.

“That,” Miranda began, shaking her head, “may be the most disgusting display I have ever seen.”

Kane shrugged. “Give them a break—they’re young, impressionable, and hey, it’s hard not to go weak in the knees when you’re in the presence of greatness.”

“I’m not talking about them, your highness,” Miranda snorted. “I’m talking about you. Could you be any more of a pig?

He curled an arm around her shoulders and tugged her toward him. “You know you love it.”

“How do you fit that huge ego into that tiny car of yours?” she teased.

“How do you fit that huge chip on your shoulder into that teeny tiny T-shirt?” he retorted.

Miranda blushed, pretending not to notice that
he’d
noticed her unusually snug shirt—though, of course, why else had she worn it?

“Don’t give me that modest act,” he chided her. “You know you look good.” His hand glided down her back and Miranda caught her breath. “Sure you don’t want to . . .

God, did she want to. “We talked about this,” she reminded him. She patted him on the shoulder and shook her head sympathetically “It’s so sad—no impulse control. Good thing I’m around to remind you of the rules.”

“Rules are made to be—”

“Followed,” she cut in. “Otherwise, why make them?”

And she was the one who’d made them, of course, much as she hated them. It was funny: She’d spent years hoping that Kane would notice that she’d grown past the tomboy phase and had actually sprouted a chest (sort of)
and a healthy sex drive (at least when he was around). And now that he had finally noticed her—finally
kissed
her— she spent half her time fighting him off.

Okay, not so funny—more like tragic. But his brilliant friends-with-benefits plan had a few holes. One gaping hole, actually—the one that would appear after Miranda’s heart shriveled up and disappeared, as it surely would after a few weeks, when Kane got bored of his no-strings-attached foreplay and moved on to his next conquest. She wanted more than that—she
deserved
more than that, she told herself, though she wasn’t quite sure she believed it. She’d like to think she was pushing him away to preserve her dignity, but really, it was just self-protection.

So when he’d made a move, she’d made a rule:

No kissing.

Also: No fondling, flirting, or foreplay. No stroking, no tickling, no grabbing.

No fun, he’d pointed out. But then he’d shrugged and laughed. Your game, your rules, he’d said.

Since then, they’d gone back to their default mode of snarky banter—with a twist. Now half the time the banter was tinged with sexual innuendo, and occasionally, when bored, Kane seemed to enjoy testing their new boundaries. “Does this count as a kiss?” he’d ask, playfully whispering in her ear with his lips against her skin. “Is this stroking, or just heavy petting?” he’d tease, smoothing down her long, reddish hair.

Sometimes, she suspected that knowing she was off limits actually made him want her more; sometimes she suspected that had been her plan all along.

In the meantime, she pretended it was all a game, one
whose outcome didn’t faze her one way or the other. She pretended that, like him, she was putting aside lust for the good of their growing friendship; hoping he’d never suspect the true four-letter L word that lay behind it all. It was torture, but the sting was sweet and sharp, like when you bit your tongue and then couldn’t stop worrying the tender spot against your teeth, half enjoying the taste of pain.

“When are you going to loosen up, Stevens?” he asked, heaving a sigh that she knew was all for show.

“As soon as you grow up, Geary”

“Never!” He leaped back with a look of horror, then whipped out a pen and posed, brandishing it as if it were a sword. “Just call me Peter Pan.”

Miranda grinned despite herself. “My very own lost boy. Aren’t I lucky?”

“And you, lovely lady, can be my Wendy ... or perhaps you’d prefer Tinkerbell?”

“Tinkerbell? Give me a break.” Miranda winked; then, in a single, lightning-quick gesture, snatched the pen out of his hand while circling behind him, wrapped an arm around his waist, and pressed the edge of the pen against his neck as if it were a blade. “More like Captain Hook.”

“Mr. Morgan,” the secretary said, eyeing him suspiciously, “she’ll see you now. Go right in.”

Adam sighed and stuffed his iPod back into his backpack. Secretaries used to love him—but then, that was back when he only got called down to the administrative wing to pick up his latest trophy or talk to some local reporter about breaking an all-school record. He was even trotted out at the occasional school board meeting, an example for
the community of Haven High’s “exceptional athletic organization.” But ever since starting an on-court brawl and getting suspended for a week, Adam had noticed a definite chill in his relationship with the administration, including the secretaries.

That’s all behind me now,
Adam reminded himself. He’d been angry—
too
angry—for a long time. After everything had happened, he’d resolved to get some control over himself. Forgive, forget, chill out. Get his act together. And it was working ... so far.

He slung his backpack over one shoulder and stood up, trudging slowly toward the guidance counselor’s door. Of all the doors in all the offices in all Haven High, this was his least favorite. Ms. Campbell didn’t care if he’d broken the butterfly relay record or led the basketball team to its first regional championship in a decade. All she ever wanted to talk about was his classes, his work, his SATs— and all she ever wanted to know was how he could accept being so subpar. She wouldn’t accept it, she always promised him. What she didn’t get was that
he
didn’t accept it, either. But he didn’t know what else he was supposed to do.

“Come in, Adam. Sit down.” She waved him in, offering him a decrepit hard candy from the overflowing china dish at the edge of her desk. He waved it away. An elderly, overweight woman whose gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses gave her an unfortunate resemblance to Ben Franklin, Ms. Campbell served as a part-time health teacher, part-time English teacher, part-time PTA liaison, and full-time busybody. She’d been the Haven High guidance counselor for thirty years—which made a fair
number of students question her guidance-giving credentials. Not to mention her sanity. Three decades in Haven s hallowed halls wouldn’t represent a bright future; it sounded more like a prison sentence.

Ms. Campbell pushed a mound of clutter across her desk—Adam caught a snow globe moments before it crashed to the ground—making room for his permanent file. She flipped it open and peered at him over the rims of her glasses.

“How are things going, Adam?” she asked, frowning. “Anything happening in your life? Any concerns you’d like to express?”

Was anything happening? Aside from his two best friends teaming up to ruin his life? Aside from breaking up with one girl, falling in love with another, then breaking up again, all in the space of a month? Aside from one of those girls almost dying in a car crash and then refusing to speak to him?

And, oh yeah, aside from the fact that the girl to whom he’d lost his virginity had ended up
dead,
and he was still having dreams about the night he’d spent with her— dreams that turned into nightmares as her flesh burned away in his arms?

Aside from that?

“Nothing much.” Adam shrugged. “Just, you know, the usual.”

“Well,
I
have some concerns,” she said. “Maybe we can talk about that.” She began flipping through the file. “Your grades have never been . . . let’s just say you’ve never worked up to your full potential.”

Guidance counselors loved that kind of talk. Potential.
Aspirations. Opportunity. None of it meant anything to Adam. It was all just a bunch of abstract bullshit designed to make you play along with their game and do whatever they said. He didn’t need the stress; he was happy just hanging with his friends and playing ball, and the rest would take care of itself.

“But this year, your teachers have alerted me to a distinct dip in your grades,” Ms. Campbell said. She looked up from the file and fixed him with a sharp gaze. “Are you aware that you’re failing most of your classes?”

“Uh ... no.” He began to tense up, realizing this wasn’t going to be some generic meeting he could just ignore. He’d never had the best grades—but he’d never failed before, either. Of course, in the past, he’d had Beth by his side, forcing him to get the work done, and to do it right. Now he was on his own.

“What are your plans for the future, Adam?”

“The future?” Another one of those words guidance counselors liked to toss around, as if the future was really something you could plan for. If he’d learned anything this year, he’d learned that was a joke.

“Next year. We’ve only got a few months until graduation. Have you thought at all about what you’re going to do?”

Adam shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He preferred not to think about graduation, and the gray space that lay beyond it. He’d ignored the whole college applications thing. There was always community college, down the road in Ludlow, or the state school in Borrega. More school just seemed like a waste of time. He liked being outside. He liked playing ball. He liked working with his hands.
College wasn’t going to help much with any of that.

“There’s plenty of time,” he muttered.

“Too many people your age don’t consider the future,” she lectured. “You’re just aimless wanderers, stuck in the moment, as if nothing’s ever going to change, as if you’ll never have any responsibilities. These days it’s all about instant gratification, what can I have
right now.
And what with all the drugs, alcohol, sex . . .”

After an uncomfortably long pause, Adam wondered whether she was waiting for him to respond.

“Uh ... Ms. Campbell?” She nodded expectantly. “I guess, I’m, uh, not sure where you’re going with this?”

She snapped the file shut and stood up. “Where I’m going is this,” she said in an unusually firm voice. “Your grades are atrocious, and you’re in danger of failing the year. I’m assigning you a tutor, and with some hard work, I hope you’ll be able to dig yourself out of this hole.”

“A tutor?” He was aware of the whiny note that had crept into his voice, but couldn’t help himself. How lame could you get? “Do I have to?”

“You don’t
have
to do anything, Adam.”

He smiled in relief.

“But without a tutor, your grades won’t improve. And if your grades don’t improve,
soon,
you can stop worrying about your future. Because you’re not going to graduate.”

Miranda was about to open the stall door when she heard their voices. Mini-She’s was a bit higher than Mini-Me’s, but otherwise, they were interchangeable. Just like the rest of them.

“She’s such a bitch.”

“Totally.”

“Do you think she even knows what people are saying about her?”

A sigh. “It’s tragic.”

“Totally.”

“I mean, she was the shit.”

“Definitely.”

“But all that crazy stuff last month?”

“Total meltdown.”

“And poor Kaia . . .”

“She probably went crazy and ran them both off the road.”

A moment of silence.

“That was all really sad.”

“Yeah.”

“That was kind of a hot skirt she was wearing today, though. Think it would look good on me?”

“Totally And I was thinking I might pick up one of those tank tops—”