“He’s smart,” Miles continued, “he’s really smart. But he doesn’t put it to use. He could have as much leverage as I do, but he sits around with his stupid conspiracies and does his little chemistry equations and obsesses over girls who won’t look twice at him.”
“Like who?”
“Like Ria.”
“Tucker likes Ria?” How did I not know that?
“Since I’ve known him. If he had any sense, he would’ve tossed out that romanticized idea of her he’s had for so long and gotten to work doing something useful.”
“So you ditched him,” I said.
“Well . . . yeah.”
“You ditched your friend—your only friend—because he didn’t want to help you control the school.”
Miles’s lips tightened into a thin line. “No, not that . . .”
“Because he’s got no ambition? No ‘end goal’?”
“Yeah.”
I scoffed at him. He looked over at me with the Magnificently Quirked Eyebrow, but I could tell his heart wasn’t in it.
“You’re a jerk,” I said, walking off.
Miles went ahead to the pool while I searched the storage rooms behind the gym for extra towels for the swimmers. I had to walk past the gym doors to get there, and I stopped when I heard voices inside.
“You’re not giving her the support she needs,” said a sickly-sweet voice.
“I’m trying. I swear, I’m trying.”
McCoy. Talking to Celia’s mother.
So there was a connection between them. I couldn’t let this pass me by. I ducked into the gym and under the bleachers, checking the scaffolding for microphones as I climbed through to the other side. McCoy stood before the scoreboard, his gray hair disheveled, his suit wrinkled. I crouched down as far as I could and turned my camera on, pointing it toward McCoy and the woman who stood with her back to me. Today, her blond hair was done back in a tight braid.
“I know she’s your daughter,” McCoy said, “but she’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer. She’s not like you were.”
“Celia is as smart as any of these idiots. She needs more focus, is all,” drawled the woman. “She needs to get her head out of the clouds and see what’s really important. What I’m handing her on a silver platter.”
McCoy raised his hands pleadingly. “I want this to be easy. I want to be there for her.”
Celia’s mother scoffed. “Please, Richard. If you really want to help her, you’ll show her this is about her future. Continuing the legacy I left her. She has potential to be the best.” She paused, chewing on her words. Her bright nails tapped against her arm. “She failed in cheerleading. Surely you can do something about that?”
“I can’t give Celia that spot just because she threw a tantrum. It’ll have to be something else.”
“Fine, then do something about the boy! Remove the distractions!”
“Richter is a problem. I don’t understand what she sees in him. Or what she thinks is going to happen. He wants nothing to do with her.”
“It doesn’t matter what he wants. As long as Celia wants him, we have problems.”
McCoy sighed. “I can only help as long as she doesn’t try to fix the problem on her own. I have everything she needs.”
“I’m glad you’re putting that principal position to good use.” Celia’s mother’s voice went sweet again. “Thank you, Richard. For everything.” She reached out to stroke his face. Then she strode past him, out of the gym. He waited a minute, then followed.
I retreated underneath the bleachers, shut my camera off, and tried to make sense of what I’d just heard.
McCoy knew Celia’s mother.
McCoy really was helping her with some strange destructive plan to make Celia the queen of the school.
They were going to remove the distractions.
That meant Miles.
Chapter Twenty-four
“Quickly, another.”
“I’ve got one.”
“Do you play a sport?”
“Goddammit, you already know it, don’t you?”
“You’re Pelé.”
Evan had been running his hand through his hair, and he ripped it away so fast he tore some out. “How? How did you get it without even asking me any questions?”
Miles laced his fingers together on his chest and stared at the ceiling of the gym, not answering. The rest of us sat in a circle around him while the boys’ basketball team practiced on the court below. Jetta pulled a single grape out of her lunch box and dropped it in Miles’s mouth. He took his sweet time chewing his reward.
“Last week, you said you had started getting really into football,” he finally said.
“Soccer,” Ian said.
“Football,” Jetta hissed, kicking Ian in the shin.
Miles ignored them. “Don’t pick one of the most celebrated players in the sport next time.”
“I have one, Boss,” Art said.
“Are you alive?”
Miles started with that question when he wasn’t quite sure where you were coming from. At least that’s what I thought at first. After watching him play this game with the members of the club over a few months, I’d noticed a pattern. He smashed Theo, Evan, and Ian under his mental heel because it encouraged them to try to beat him, but he always gave Jetta and Art some leeway.
“Yes.”
“Are you male?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a TV show?”
“No.”
“Did you have a TV show at any point in your life?”
Art’s smile never got very big, but it gave away every single thought in his head. “Yes.”