“Your parents aren’t able to just buy your admission?” I ask.

He grits his teeth. “That was the plan,” he says. “I don’t know if you’ve paid attention to anything outside of your books lately, but the FBI caught on to that arrangement for a lot of people. Now I have to get in on merit.”

That last sentence seems to be particularly unpleasant for him to say.

“Sinking down to the level of the rest of us,” I say. “How’s that feel?”

In the few minutes of this conversation, Dylan has rubbed off on me. It’s strange to actually be talking to him instead of slinging insults before stomping off. I’m gloating, and I’m surprised how good it feels.

“Are you going to help me or not?” Dylan asks, finally cutting straight to the point.

I pause to consider it.

I’m sure it comes off as malicious from his point of view, that I’m silently dragging out the inevitable, but really, I’m working out the logistics of the reading, weekly essays, and argumentative unit essays. It’s a lot to handle for my own workload, let alone trying to repeat it for someone I’m not exactly on the friendliest of terms with.

It’s not part of the plan, but it might be easy enough to block out chunks of time here and there to help. We could always partner up and work on it together, which might actually not be too taxing.

This isn’t the first time someone has asked me for help.

Last year, I spent some time tutoring seventh graders doing a poetry unit, but in my experience, those my own age just want to pay me off and have me do everything for them. That’s not going to fly now.

“I’m not doing your work for you,” I tell him.

“Did I ask you to do my work for me?”

“Not exactly, but you’re asking me to help you and offering up no plan or parameters, so I just assumed that was the arrangement you were interested in.”

“You want money?” Dylan asks, but I can hear the disbelief in his voice.

“No,” I tell him quickly.

The last thing I want is some weird monetary debt or charity handout from Dylan Archer.

His jaw ticks. “Just figure out how to get me an A in this stupid class, tell me the terms, and name your price.”

“I just told you I don’t want money,” I remind him.

“Everyone has a price,” he says, looking up from his fingertips to scowl at me. “What do you want more than anything in this world? That you’ve never been able to afford or otherwise have in your possession?”

Without thinking, my gaze moves forward, eyes landing on James.

Judging by how he alternates writing and chewing on the end of his pencil, he has moved to the essay portion of the test. His inky black hair is more disheveled than usual, a result of him tangling his hands in his hair in frustration.

Beside me, Dylan curses.

I turn back to him, and his expression fixes into something on the brink of erupting into chaos.

“James Lawson, of all people? Come on.”

He says it like I’m one of a million girls in line, but I don’t think that’s the case. Even if it was, I can’t imagine it’s all that surprising. We’re practically joined at the hip most days.

I laugh nervously, ready to brush it off, but the two girls in front of me turn around and are surprised to see Dylan and me interacting. Their gazes stay fixed on us, and they’re both extremely suspicious of what we’re discussing. I squirm under their scrutiny.

“Shut up, Archer,” I say to him with a sweet smile plastered on my face.

He turns and follows my eye line, understanding why I’m acting like an insanely cheerful alien.

The two girls gape at him, but when he makes eye contact with Serena, something in his expression makes her turn back around and start whispering to the girl beside her.

“Your head is so far up your own ass, Reed,” he says. “Or maybe it’s up Lawson’s? I don’t know. I’m having trouble seeing it with all that hair in the way.”

I glare at him.

“If you think I can be manipulated by whatever game you’re playing, you’re wrong,” I tell him.

He considers it. “Everyone has a price. I’m just not sure what yours is yet.”

I grind my teeth.

James looks up finally.

He takes in my expression and glares at how close Dylan is to me, and he turns back to his test with renewed tenacity, like he wants to finish it as soon as possible so he can come defend me from Dylan.

It’s not necessarily for my sake.

I don’t know if it was that moment on the playground in fourth grade that triggered the intense rivalry between them, but it’s the first time I was conscious of it existing.

The tension between them increased when they both tried out for track, made it, picked the same sprinting events, and regularly finished within a half-second of each other.

I’d never admit it to James, but one of the few moments of enjoyment I got from sitting on the hard metal bleachers for hours was to watch them face off.

The Dylan across the table from me now doesn’t put as much anger into their competition as James does. He seems more interested in using his domineering and manipulative nature on more important things like spending his parents’ money and hooking up with girls in the parking lot.

“So?” Dylan asks, picking a non-existent piece of lint from his blazer. “Are you going to help me or what?”

“You think the world is all about using people, Dylan. It’s not.”

“You say ‘using’ like it’s a bad thing.”

I don’t have a response for that, and I’m not necessarily upset about it. I don’t exactly know what he was trying to prove with his insults and arguments, but all it does is confirm that I want to spend as little time with him as I can in the days we have left of school.

I don’t care that his cheekbones look like they were carved from marble, that his hair is perfectly styled, or that he has an extravagant life. None of those things have any effect on me directly, but they all add up to an overconfidence that grates on me. I’m not one of those people who can be bought or charmed into doing his bidding, no matter how much he thinks otherwise.

“How desperate do you think I am?” I balk.

He cocks an eyebrow. “Do you actually want me to answer that?”

Despite his attitude and the indignation inside me, I gather up my belongings and laugh. “I guess not.”

Judging by his relaxed stance and smirk, he thinks he has me. “There are many things you don’t understand that I can help you with, Reed.”

He thinks he owns the world and everyone in it because his family has money. Even if he can’t put that cash and influence he has to use, manipulation is also a well-practiced tactic, and I, for one, am not falling for it.

“Funny, coming from the person who can’t even pass a class in our own native language,” I say.

I clutch my planner to my chest, holding onto it as a reminder that Dylan Archer is the kind of guy who would take a wrecking ball to all of my best laid plans, with no remorse, and storm out as the bell rings.

3

I’m trying to get away from the library and to my Physics class without interruption, but a hand yanks on my elbow. I feel like a rag doll, pulled to the side with no choice in the matter, which is infuriating.