Harley
Nine Years Ago
"What are you reading?" I ask the moment the door clicks shut behind me. It's time for one of our unofficial secret meetings—the kind that will eventually become official.
"Go away." His response is flat, uninterested. He doesn't even spare me a glance. He's sitting at the same table as last time, the one right in the center—the only table without another beside it, meaning he deliberately chose to sit alone.
"Come on, it wouldn't kill you to be a little polite." I try again. And, okay, as embarrassing as it is to admit now, the way I carried myself back then was heavily influenced by my mother. I was a miniature version of her, confident, persistent.
"Go away," he repeats, flipping the page without so much as acknowledging my presence. His posture is upright, his uniform crisp and perfectly pressed—unlike the other boys, who show up looking like they've wrestled with their bedsheets.
