K. Ancrum

Jack punched him in the arm and grinned back. “Quit showing off. Race you inside?”

“Thank you, August, for getting us in. I don’t know what I would do without you. Oh, you’re welcome, Jack. Anything for you, princess,” August deadpanned.

Jack pushed him. “Why are you such a dick? Just get inside.”

August handed it over miserably.

Jack turned it on, the dim light bringing out the hollows of his face. “Oh yeah. Ha ha ha, wow. Yeah, this might be the best place in the whole town. We are definitely coming back here in the morning.”

And even though Jack’s word was pretty much law, August fervently prayed that they wouldn’t go back ever again.

It was August’s third night in the asylum, and already he had learned several things:

1. It was never a comfortable temperature. Ever. It was always too warm or too cold.

2. Only roughly half of the rules made logical sense. The other half seemed deliberately designed to be broken accidentally.

3. You ate when they told you to and you ate what they told you to, or you didn’t eat at all. (Then you got punished for that, too.)

4. No one had real blankets.

5. No one had real friends.

6. This was maybe worse than jail.

His roommate was terrified of him and wouldn’t speak to him because they’d brought him into the hospital in handcuffs, straight from court, and the orderlies didn’t have the kindness to explain to everyone that he wasn’t actually a crazed serial murderer.

He wasn’t allowed to have pencils or be unsupervised, because for some strange reason he was on suicide watch. They also made him wear a red uniform to separate him from the rest of the
patients so it was clear he was a special prisoner-patient. As if the “handcuffed prison-guard parade” wasn’t enough.

And worst of all—he had never wanted a cigarette more in his goddamn life.

But it would be a cold day in hell before that happened. They don’t give lighters to arsonists.

He probably would have gotten off easier if he hadn’t been so sarcastic.

It was just—they kept asking the stupidest questions. You know how small-town cops are. It was way too difficult to hold it in.

like he hoped August would say yes.

But, of course, August didn’t. He’d just narrowed his eyes and said something rude. Then they slammed him into the holding cell so fast, it was as if he’d been begging to go.

Honestly, though. He was standing there with accelerant drying on his jeans and second-degree burns on his hands. It was a waste of everyone’s time to try lying.

It was mostly his own fault for getting dragged in. But August supposed if he could blame anyone else for his current situation, it would be Jack.

They didn’t hang out at school, Jack and him. They were on stratospherically different popularity levels.

Jack rode the edge of the Popular Crowd just by virtue of his involvement with sports, while August found himself smack between the Lit Nerds and the Druggies—roughly near the middle of the totem. It wasn’t exactly glamorous, but running drugs for Daliah meant that he was part of a group of Providers of Services—notable figureheads of the high school economy—and that he could make a month’s worth of “minimum wage part-time job” wages in a week. Which was important because he really needed the money.

He didn’t brag about it, but the way he looked really helped with not getting caught. August was horribly neat and organized.
He wore fashionable, expensive clothes that he saved up for months to buy, and he was intense about personal hygiene. He didn’t like people to know that he was poor. So he was never on a suspect list because of his obvious fastidiousness, spotless record, and absolutely perfect slicked-back hair.

August didn’t even like rugby, but he went to every game anyway. Jack was ridiculously athletic and first line this year, so August couldn’t make an excuse not to care. He never cheered, because that was too much work. But he went, and that seemed to be enough.

After games, they usually met up in the locker room before taking Jack’s shitty Camaro out to the plains to fuck around in the grass.

Wrestle and run. That sort of thing.

It was tradition. It made it all right that they didn’t see each other during the day. It was worth people not knowing that they knew each other better than anyone knew anyone, really. They were so far apart on the social spectrum that it wouldn’t make sense to people if they started openly hanging out together. It would be a spectacle, and August didn’t like spectacle. Some things were just meant to be private.