Victoria Schwab - The Unbound

And he does. That first day, and for the rest of the summer. And I remember every word.

When the bell rings again, I’ve aced a pop quiz—the other students didn’t even have the decency to look annoyed when Ms. Wellson announced it—and gone a whole class period without a nightmare, thanks to Cash and his coffee. I expect to find him waiting for me in the hall, but there’s no sign of him. (I’m surprised to feel a small pang of disappointment as I survey the stream of students in black and green, silver and gold, and come up empty.) The silvers and golds, however, all seem to be heading in the same direction, and since I know from the brochure that juniors and seniors all have Wellness—which as far as I can tell is just a pretentious way of saying gym —together before lunch, I decide to follow the current.

It leads out and across the lawn, beyond the ring of buildings to another majestic structure, this one all ancient stone and gothic accents. I finally catch sight of one of the sculptures Cash mentioned, a stone hawk perched on the mantel over the doors.

“The Hyde School hawk,” he says, appearing beside me out of nowhere, and a little out of breath. “It’s our mascot. Said to represent insight, initiative, and ingenuity.”

A cluster of junior girls are on the path several feet ahead of us; as Cash talks, one of them looks back and rolls her eyes. “Cassius Arthur Graham, I keep telling you, you can’t woo girls with school facts. Hyde history is never going to be a turn-on.”

I feel my face go warm, but Cash doesn’t color at all, only smiles broadly. “It may surprise you, Safia, but not all of us open our mouths with the sole intention of getting into someone’s pants.”

Her friends laugh, but the girl’s eyes narrow with the kind of irritation usually reserved for exes and younger siblings. Judging by her features—she has the same dark hair as Cash, hers pulled back into a ponytail, and the same gold eyes—I’m guessing she’s the latter. Cash’s comment seems to have hit a nerve, because Safia links her arm through her friend’s, shoots back a short string of nasty words, and hurries into the Wellness Center. Cash shrugs, unfazed.

“Sister,” he confirms as we pass through the doors. “ Anyway , sorry I was late. Mr. Kerry went off on one of his tangents—be glad you’ve got a year before you’re subjected to him—and kept us after. Have I sacrificed my knighthood? Or did my valiant display in the face of fire-breathing dragons just now win me some credit?”

“I think you can keep your shield.”

“What a relief,” he says, nodding toward his sister as her ponytail vanishes into the locker room. “Because I think I’ll need it later.”

By the time I find my locker, preassigned and prestocked with workout shorts and a T-shirt—I cringe at the sight of short sleeves, thankful I’m largely bruise-free (if not scar-free) at the moment—I’ve knocked into three different girls by accident and managed to avoid several dozen others. School is like a minefield: so many people, so little personal space. Locker rooms are even worse, but I make it through with only a dull headache.

I watch the other girls peel off their necklaces and rings—what little jewelry Hyde allows—and stash them in their lockers before getting changed. I’m not about to relinquish my ring, but I fumble with the key around my neck, knowing it will draw more attention. If someone calls me out on the necklace, they’re bound to demand the rest of my jewelry comes off, too. I slide the key over my head and set it on the shelf, feeling too light without it.

I’m just tugging on my workout shirt when I hear someone shout, “Come on, Saf!”

“I’ll be right there,” comes a now-recognizable voice. I look over to see Safia lacing up her sneakers at the end of the bench. She doesn’t look up, but there’s no one else around, so I know she’s talking to me when she speaks.

“You know it’s his job, right?” she asks, cinching her shoes.

“Excuse me?”

She straightens, tightening her ponytail before leveling her gaze on me. “My brother is a school ambassador. Showing you around, making you feel welcome—it’s just another one of his duties. A job . I thought you should know.”

She wants it to sting, and it does. But hell if I’ll give her the benefit of letting it show.

“Well, that’s a relief,” I say brightly. “He’s been so clingy, I was starting to think I’d led him on.” I shut my locker firmly and stride past her. “Thanks,” I add, patting her shoulder as I go. (It’s worth the sound of ripping metal in my head to feel her tense beneath my touch.) “I feel so much better now.”

The outside of Hyde’s Wellness Center may sport the same old stone-and-moss facade as the rest of campus, but beyond the locker rooms—which act as gatekeepers to the gym—the inside is all whitewashed wood and glass and steel. There are smaller rooms branching off to one side and a pool branching off to the other, but the main training room is a massive square. It’s subdivided into quadrants by black stripes on the floor and ringed by a track. I can’t help but brighten a little at the sight of the glittering equipment. It’s a pretty big step up from my makeshift gym on the Coronado roof.

I hug the perimeter, taking in the scene. A group is playing volleyball, another jogging around the track. Half a dozen students are breaking into fencing bouts; Safia stands with them, fastening her glove and flexing her sword. I’ve never fenced before, but I’m half tempted to try, just for the chance to hit her. I smile and take a few steps toward her when a shout goes up from the far side of the room.

On a raised platform near the edge of the massive center, two students are sparring.

They’re standing in a kind of boxing ring minus the rope—both seniors, judging by the gold stripes that mark their gym clothes where the fabric peeks out from behind the pads. The gold is all I can see, since the rest of them is buried beneath padding; even their faces are masked by the soft helmets. A handful of students—I can just make out Cash among them, a fencing mask tucked under his arm—and a burly middle-aged teacher stand around, watching as the two boys bounce on their toes, punching, kicking, and blocking. The shorter of the two seems to be working a lot harder.

The taller one moves with fluid grace, easily avoiding most of the jabs. And then, between one blink and the next, he acts instead of reacts, thrusting one foot forward and low before planting his shoe at the last moment, turning on it, and delivering a roundhouse kick to the other boy’s head.

The boy ends up on his back, dazed but unhurt. I doubt anyone else noticed his opponent slowing his motion just before his foot connected, easing the blow. The teacher sounds a whistle, the students applaud, and the victor helps the defeated to his feet. He gives the shorter boy a quick pat on the back before the loser hops down from the platform.

I’ve managed to make my way across the fitness hall while watching the bout, and I’ve just reached the edge of the group of spectators when the victor gives a theatrical bow, clearly relishing the attention.

Then he tugs his helmet off, and I find myself looking up at Wesley Ayers.

WESLEY AYERS is the stranger in the halls of the Coronado.

He is the Keeper in the garden who shares my secret.

He is the boy who reads me books.

He is the one who teaches me how to touch.

And today, he is the guy on the stone bench, wearing a tux.

It’s the end of summer, and we’re sitting in the Coronado garden. I’m perched on one of the benches in workout pants and a long-sleeve shirt pushed up to the elbows, and Wesley is stretched out on the other in his best black and white. There’s only an hour or two left until his father’s wedding, but he’s still here.