Double Clutch - Реинхардт Лиз (хороший книги онлайн бесплатно .TXT) 📗

“That’s weird. I saw him put a guy in a headlock for saying you were hot after German yesterday.” Devon scribbled over the squares on his paper.

I know my face flushed red. “We’re…not dating,” I said finally.

“Anyway, you aren’t a goody-goody. You aren’t pathetic like Piggy. That’s what people like me represent.”

“You aren’t pathetic,” I said without much conviction. I just felt pity when I said it. Which was pretty pathetic.

“Yeah, I am. I know, I’m a little weird. I always have been, socially. I just can’t figure it all out. Like Piggy. Or Simon. Maybe I’m like a combination of them.”

I cringed. The two who were totally bullied through the entire book.

“You aren’t like Sam and Eric because there’s no one you’re that close to. You aren’t that popular. And you’re not Roger.”

“If you meet someone like Roger, run the other way fast,” I said. He smiled at me. It was an awkward, nervous, wary smile, but it was a smile. “You’ll know him. He’ll have a stick sharpened at both ends.”

He laughed out loud, a kind of donkey bray mixed with a wheeze, but it made me laugh too.

“So I think we should do whatever we agree on first.” Devon took out a fresh, non-doodled piece of paper. “What about Piggy and Simon?”

“Don’t lump them,” I warned and took out my own paper. “Piggy is thoughtful and believes in leadership. Simon is more of a free spirit, and he’s the only one who communicates directly with the Beast.”

Devon and I broke the school down, agreeing on groups and assigning. We gave Piggy to the Righteous Whiners/Social Misfits, those aggravating kids in your AP class who remind the teacher there was supposed to be a pop quiz when everyone else was praying the teacher forgot. Simon, we decided, was the Achieving Pothead group; still socially present, but nervous, panicked and prone to seeing more than was there. Sam and Eric were the jocks and their groupies, happy together, likable, not many real thoughts of their own. Ralph was the Moral Intellectuals, those do-gooder achievers who aced every test and worried over the fate of everyone in the world. Roger was the Quiet Rage group, the ones who loved horror flicks, made lists of people they wanted to kill and were gleeful about torture and little else.

That left Jack.

“Jack is Saxon, your not-boyfriend.” Devon wrote Saxon’s name next to Jack before we had even discussed it.

“Hey, Devon, I think that’s a little bit of a leap.” I tapped my pen on his book.

Devon looked at me with his eyebrows raised. “You think that’s a leap? He’s arrogant, right?” I nodded. “Kind of charming? Kind of inspiring? Kind of evil? Kind of manipulative?” I was nodding so much I felt like a bobblehead.

“But that’s just a list of some of his traits,” I argued lamely. Why was it bothering me so much? It was an English assignment. Didn’t I just want it done with? Wasn’t it better to just let Devon fill in whatever and finish?

“Well, there’s also the core of Saxon.” Devon put his pencil down and looked at me. He was bright and likable. I wondered why he had become the Piggy of the class. Why wasn’t he better liked?

“What do you think the core of Saxon is?” Devon Conner had secrets I’d never imagined, and I was suddenly interested in knowing him better.

“That he can take a totally normal situation and twist it until it’s whatever he wants. That’s what Saxon’s all about.” Devon picked his pencil back up and started to write again. “Oh, we need a code name. Dawes said we could use the person for description’s sake, but not to use any real names.”

“Okay.” I wasn’t really listening to Devon. Was Saxon’s mind-gaming that obvious? “Devon?”

“Yeah?” He looked up from his scribbled notes.

“Is this all stuff you just noticed about Saxon?”

“Well, yes, but not really.” I raised my eyebrows, demanding an explanation. “He got the kids in middle school to gang up on me and exclude me.”

“What did he do?” I wanted to know so badly, but I had a feeling the answer wouldn’t really surprise me.

“It sounds so stupid.” Devon shook his head and shrugged. “He just said ’fag’ every time he walked by me. Every single time. Always. Even if there was a teacher right by us. He never laughed or said anything else. But it made me into a misfit, and then everyone else just decided to hate me.”

“That sucks.” I imagined the horror Devon must have gone through day in and day out, battling a master of manipulation.

“Yeah, I know it sounds dumb. Don’t ask how it worked. That’s Saxon’s magic. He can really subtly bring total havoc.” Devon drummed his pencil on the desk frantically.

“Like Armageddon.” I echoed Jake’s words from that morning. I looked at Devon; smart, sensible, friendly Devon. How was he still a misfit? “But didn’t Saxon stop?”

“Oh yeah.” Devon drummed his pencil with more force. “One day instead of saying ‘fag,’ he just completely ignored me. I never really knew why he started. He’s never even talked to me since, like, seventh grade. But whatever he did stuck like a curse.”

“Devon.” I grabbed his hand and the pencil fell from his fingers. He looked up at me with panic all over his face. “He’s just full of shit. His bullshit can’t define your life.”

He looked at my hand on his and smiled. “But it’s already defined my life. Don’t look so upset. It’s not so bad.”

He was different now, comfortable with me. A few days before he had a wild rabbit look to him and he blurted out stupid things with an edginess I knew now was just nerves. He was still under Saxon’s curse, even if everyone else had forgotten.

“Do you hang out?” I knew I was venturing into dangerous territory.

“Nope, and I like it like that.” His jaw tightened at his lie.

“There’s a concert on Saturday. A bunch of us are going.” I made sure my voice was casual.

“Folly?” He avoided looking directly at me, but I could see he was interested.

“Yeah. You want to go? My boyfriend can pick you up.” I felt like any wrong word would send him running in the opposite direction.

He looked at me, not quite trusting me. “I don’t know.”

I shrugged. “It’s no big deal. You have a cell?” He nodded. “Here.” I wrote my number on a piece of paper. “It’s my number. You can call if you feel like it. Oh and have this.” I pulled one of the Folly shirts I designed and made myself at home. I planned to give them all to Chris so he could consider them for future sales, but it seemed like a decent good faith gift, to let Devon know I wasn‘t inviting him out to get a bucket of pig‘s blood dumped on him at a concert full of his peers. “I designed it for the show, but it’s the first, so no one else has one yet.”