I HEAR THE MONARCHY THROWN around in conversation about ten times before I realise that they're talking about me. Or Brittany. The five of us.

The nickname existed ever since the carwash competition Carsonville hosts annually, when her so-titled team won the prize for washing the most cars: a brand new one for themselves. But since I never indulged in pointless gossip, I never realised who the codename referred to. Now I know.

This is the third year that the Monarchy is entering the carwash, and it seems a shoo-in for the winner. In freshman year, Brittany got Madison's older brother to be the team leader on paper because she wasn't old enough to be given a whole car, even though she was the one that walked away with the Commodore. In sophomore year, the prize—a shiny black Jeep—went to Reece. This year, there's a motorcycle that has Derek's name on it.

And, it turns out, none of us works to win it.

I just asked Brittany what time we should meet up tomorrow for the car wash, and she levels an amused expression my way, glossy lips stretching but not parting. "No, Terry. You don't have to show up tomorrow," she chuckles. "I got some teammates from lacrosse and volleyball to help me out."

My eyes narrow. One thing I know about Brittany is that her teammates aren't her friends. They get along and work well enough together to win games, but I never see her spending time with them off the court or field.

"So you'll be there tomorrow?"

"Of course," Brittany returns smoothly. "Watching over them—since they're all freshmen, bless their hearts—and making sure everyone's working hard. I'm looking forward to pitching in."

I shoulder my backpack higher on my back and move to walk to class. "So I guess I'll see you on Monday then."

"Yep," Brittany chirps. Her locker door slams shut with a reverberating clang. "Oh, wait. I do have something I wanted to ask you."

I turn around and smile accommodatingly. "What is it?"

"There's this guy—Martin—he promised he would write some essays for me and he reneged on the deal. I'm fine with letting him go after this, but he's already written the latest essay I wanted. He just won't hand it over. He's a sophomore."

Brittany shows me the social media profile of a kid, sophomore like she said, on the screen of her phone.

"And how is that my problem?"

In some ways, Brittany is exactly who I thought she was when I first met her in freshman year, and in others, she is much, much more. When it comes to that essay-writing scheme that she roped Suki into, I have never quite made up my mind. Sure, Suki was paid and claimed it was easy labour, but I can't imagine anything truly good would have to be kept secret.

It occurs to me that I was kept secret the whole time we dated, and my chest tightens anew.

"Terry," she mumbles, looking hurt. "Come on."

Brittany said she loved me last weekend.

"Not like that," she had snorted, seeing my stricken expression, nearly hanging off the couch drunk.

She dragged me to yet another party, and I had been drinking beer while she drank spirits. She was well on her way to being wasted.

"You're so moody, I love that. And you're clever, but you find that embarrassing." At the word embarrassing, she leaned over to where I slumped at the other end of the couch, and poked my cheek. "I love you," she said again, and this time the light-hearted, slightly sarcastic intention was clear.

Then she went on to say that she knew I didn't love her—or even like her, as a person—and that it was fine for her. "I'm used to it. I know I'm not what people expect. I have an ego. I'm confident in myself, and I make it known—my Japanese relatives are scared of me, I think," she said, tracing the rim of her solo cup pensively.

"I don't think your ego is what makes people scared of you."

Brittany laughed, leaning her head back against the brown cushions. "Yeah, you can talk."

"What?" I laughed, jabbing her knee. "I don't have an ego."

"No, I mean—me vs. Suki. She's got the anime girl aesthetic down pat. Did you like that?"

"Um..." I never really considered Suki's looks outside of the simple fact that they're good—stunning.

And I didn't know what to say at the time.

I pretended to be entirely focused on finishing my bottle of beer, all the while my head was pounding, heart racing. Brittany said I was clever, but I wasn't clever enough to know what she was talking about. It was like she was reflecting on plants or rocks or landscapes that were invisible to me—operating on another plane of existence entirely.

"We talked about it once, how American boys are too racist to like me and how Japanese boys are too sexist to like me."

"I didn't peg you for the type to complain about boys not liking you." She gasped and slapped my arm, but it didn't hurt. "Besides, don't you have a new boy toy every season?"

"Being wanted is not the same as being liked," she hummed, eyes bloodshot. "Or seen."

To this day, I don't know if she ever meant to let me into those thoughts, or if she'd just been that drunk during the party. After having that conversation, realising that she was as preoccupied with being liked as everyone around me—a startling discovery in someone so...above everyone else—I started noticing things that backed up her inebriated ramblings.

Since the day she found Suki at the clinic, she'd been on the other side of my girlfriend—ex-girlfriend, shit—going through appointments with her, meeting with her at school, comforting her in ways I still don't fully understand. Brittany gets heavy-handed and draconian with the carwash because she wants to give those prizes to her closest friends, albeit at the expense of people who don't matter much to her.

And in those days after Suki left Carsonville...

Brittany pulled me out of the icy water. Repeatedly. In more ways than one. She took me to parties; she filled my summer with social outings so I couldn't idle in depression; she folded me into her friendship group when school started again.

I've never met someone who can be so conditionally kind, and so conditionally cruel.

I sigh and put my foot against the locker, leaning back. "Have you sent Reece to talk to him?"

"Yes. Martin said if Reece lays a hand on him, he'll nark on my whole system to Principal Fisher. I'll obviously pretend I don't know a thing about it, but that will destroy any chances of him handing it over peacefully."

"So you want me to liberate the essay without exposing your little scheme."

"Exactly."

I glance towards the ceiling, pretending to think. In reality, I've already mapped Brittany's motives and intentions and formed a list of my options. I can steal the essay without letting Martin catch on. I could confront him and convince into giving it up. Or I might have to resort to violence. I've done all three before.

"And have you paid him already, or do you want me to exchange the cash, too?"

"I've paid him."

I let the breath out of my lungs, slowly, so she doesn't think I'm sighing at her. "Which one's his locker?"

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

I'm elbows-deep in Martin the Sophomore's locker when a croaky voice says, "What are you—"

I turn around mid-sentence, and when the boy sees my face, his question dies in his throat. His eyes widen immediately, and his wiry frame stiffens up like a deer in the spotlights. I'm not surprised. All of the Monarchy have nothing but bad reputations, and mine was not great even before I associated with Brittany.

His gaze slides past me towards the locker, checking for damage.

"Don't worry," I croon, waving the stapled sheets of paper in my hand. "Just came to collect. You have a nice day."

"H-hey!" Martine yells after me. "You can't take that. I told Brittany I wasn't writing for her anymore."

"And she listened. But since you already commissioned this essay, I—"

"What are you talking about?" Martin croaks, lunging for my hand. Having a few inches on him, I hold the essay high about his head and frown disapprovingly. Don't even try it. "I quit because she wouldn't pay me anymore!"

The ache in my gut is like I've been sucker-punched. The paper in my hand feels tainted, burning, telling me to drop it and let the kid get on with his day. Why am I not surprised? It was bad enough, the things I've already done for her, now she's basically forcing kids to cheat for her.

Is money still coming in from the seniors' side? Is Brittany just pocketing it?

"I'll talk to her," I manage to mutter, starting to walk away.

"Excuse me! The essay?" But I keep strolling, shoving the papers deep into my pocket and trying to swallow the lump in my throat.

I find Brittany after her volleyball practice and fling the essay into her hands. "Not paying them anymore?"

I think about Suki last year. She was in Martin's position. A sophomore, looking to make some extra cash. The workload was manageable for Suki, but if she ever thought it too demanding and wanted to walk away, I would have encouraged it. I would have protected her.

And now I'm doing Brittany's dirty work. Forcing her minions to keep pumping out writing that they clearly no longer want to produce. How did I get here?

"Think of it like volunteer work," Brittany explains in a sotto voice. "They get experience writing academic essays, which is great practice for college, and the seniors get their workload lightened. It's a win-win even without money involved." She clicks her tongue derisively. "Makes it so transactional."

"What are you doing, Brittany? Why does this matter to you? Can't you just let it go, and let these kids focus on their own studies?"

"Wow, what a crusader," she awes, sucking on the nozzle of her drink bottle. She side-steps me, ponytail swinging, and starts through the hallways, toward the car park, but I'm hot on her trail.

"Brittany. Seriously."

"What? You didn't care when you stole things and told kids to jump off rooftops, but now you do? I know you hate this school more than anyone else," Brittany points out lightly. Her smile is carefree, but her eyes have narrowed dangerously on me. "This is about Suki, isn't it?"

"Not everything in my life is about Suki."

"Except it was. She had cello lessons, her academics, ballroom dancing, friends from her homeroom class, and her family life. What did you have? No friends, mediocre grades, no hobbies. From what she told me, it seemed like you just waited around for her to call. Your life was on pause without her giving you attention."

I flinch back, unused to hearing this side of Suki—the one that talked about me behind my back. The one that was willingly friends with Brittany. Did I airbrush parts of her, parts of our relationship, just because I loved her so much? Brittany said that she never knew the exact identity of Suki's boyfriend until I walked up and accused her last year, but that doesn't mean they did not discuss other aspects.

"She was ready to abort Cassie, and I talked her down. She was ready to leave you, and I talked her down—"

"What?"

"—tried to stop her from leaving Carsonville. I've actually been on your side for months, Terrence, way before you and I even knew it."

I always wonder if something I did differently could have convinced Suki's family to stay in Carsonville. She must have been so frightened that day she found out the gender of the baby, the day she ran into Brittany, and yet I know she wouldn't have shown it. Suki would have kept it all inside, walking staunchly into the clinic and never letting on the terror she felt.

In hindsight, I was a fool to think she could shoulder it alone. I was a fool to let her, even for those few weeks at the beginning. This was all my fault.

"If you want to cut ties with me over a little essay, after everything I've done for you, I'm not going to stop you." Brittany stabs her finger into my chest. "You can go back to the life that pleases you."

My first instinct is to call Suki. I will ring her up, ask her to tell me exactly which details of myself and our relationship she divulged to Brittany, to determine how much of this bullshit is bullshit. But, squirming for words under Brittany's expectant stare, I realise that would just prove her right.

She and I aren't dating anymore. She lives thousands of miles away, and she's a mother, and I would start a conversation just to ask her about some petty high school drama that she doesn't care about? It's true, how little I had outside of Suki until I got to know Brittany better.

And if I wasn't her friend, whose friend would I be? I started high school on a neutral playing ground, but every prank or incident I caused only lowered my reputation. It's not that I cannot be alone—I wouldn't mind being alone and driven, or alone and talented, or alone with goals for the future.

But I'm none of those things. I would just go between school and my empty bedroom, in my father's empty house, making him dinner and pulling him out of the worst of his drunken stupors—and even those haven't been happening as frequently.

I don't want to go back to having nothing.

"I just don't want to see it." I step closer to Brittany, glaring at her. "If you ask me to do something, I don't want to see the people involved. No violence. Get Reece or Derek to handle that."

"That's fine," Brittany hums, taking another swig from her water bottle. "Totally doable. Thanks, Terrence. You're a good friend."

I scoff and walk away, taking an alternative route to the car park just so I don't have to spend another second beside Brittany.

I'm about as good a friend as I was a boyfriend.

Which was not very good, apparently.