E.N.E.M.Y.

E is for ENEMY

(It also stands for enormous ego, which is something Jace Kennedy has always had. Okay, wait. I’m getting ahead of myself...)

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Courtney: Back Then

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“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA how much goddamn trouble you’re in? Do you, boy?”

I hear my principal, Mr. Thompson, railing against someone through his closed door and I can only hope that he’ll go easier on me. I’ve never been summoned here before, so I’m not sure what to expect. Then again, last night was the first time I’ve been arrested, and instead of the cops hauling me off to jail, they dropped me off at my parents’ house.

The look on my mom’s face when she opened the door is still kind of fuzzy, but I’m pretty sure she thought they were dropping off some foreign object. My dad’s first words, however—“What the fuck were you thinking?” are far clearer.

Breathe, Courtney. Breathe.

“I’m disappointed in you, son,” Mr. Thompson says. “Utterly disappointed.”

The door to the office suddenly swings open and a senior guy I’ve seen around a few times before walks out. Hands-down the most attractive guy at Blue Harbor High, his name is Jace Kennedy. Always dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that clings to his muscles, he drives a black pick-up truck that he parks across two spots in the student lot. It pains me to admit it, but he’s capable of leaving most girls speechless with a single glance in their direction or a smile. He also has the most stunning blue eyes I’ve ever seen. His irises are a deep-sea blue with specks of stormy grey.

Running his hands through his dark brown hair, he steps in front of me. Then he raises his eyebrow and smirks. “See something you like?”

“Never.” I roll my eyes and start to turn away from him, but I can’t help but notice that he stares at me for a while before leaving the office.

“Miss Ryan?” The principal calls my name. “You can come in now.”

I take a deep breath and stand to my feet. I make my way to his office and look around before taking a seat.

It doesn’t look as prison-esque as I was expecting. The walls are bright blue, and white bookshelves align the walls. There’s also a huge smiley face poster tacked to the window behind the desk. It reads: “Sometimes a smile makes everything okay!”

I tuck that advice into the back of my mind just in case he starts to yell at me, and then I sit down in front of Mr. Thompson’s desk.

“Well, well, well,” Mr. Thompson says finally, running his hands through his salt and pepper colored hair. “Christina Courtney Ryan.”

“It’s Courtney Christina Ryan, sir,” I say. “My mom never got my official birth certificate changed, but all my friends here know it’s Courtney Christina. Besides, the other way sounds really weird if you think about it, but now that you’ve said it that way—”

“Stop talking.” He cuts me off. “Now.”

I lean back and feel my heart racing against my chest.

“Now, before we get to why you’re here, I’ll have you know that I asked around about you, Miss Ryan. All of your teachers and even your debate team coach had nothing but kind things to say about you. Half of them couldn’t even believe that you would ever get into any trouble.”

I look down at my hands. I’m still having a hard time processing this myself.

“Nonetheless,” he says, his voice is still firm. “Rules are rules. I’m going to ask you some questions, Miss Ryan. Your degree of honesty will determine the degree of punishment. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Whose plan was it to break into the school pool after hours?”

My best friend, Genevieve. “Mine, sir.”

“Whose idea was it to bring the beer, weed, and alcohol?”

Genevieve’s boyfriend. “Mine, sir.”

“And how did you, a seventeen-year-old junior, get access to these things?”

“I have some friends at Blue Harbor University, sir.”

“Hmph.” He shakes his head. “Some friends. Then again, maybe I should be commending you for being a good friend since you’re the only one here taking the blame for this and acting as if you did this alone.”

“I did sir.” I swallow my lie. “It was my idea.”

He slides a sheet of paper across the desk. It’s a medical report about my “friend” Brynn Michaels, a guy I’d never met until last night. “The medics said his system was two shots away from needing his stomach pumped, so thank God you called 9-1-1 when you did.”

I sigh and avoid looking directly at the paper. I’m trying to block as many of last night’s memories from replaying in my mind for as long as I can.

“They assumed that he drank anywhere between eight beers and six shots,” Mr. Thompson said. “Would that be correct?”

Ten shots. Six beers. “That sounds about right, sir.”

“Well, that’s quite interesting. When they gave you a Breathalyzer, your alcohol level was clear. Why is that?”

“I don’t drink, Mr. Thompson.”

“Good.” He narrows his eyes at me. “So, if you weren’t drinking and your friend Brynn only had eight beers that night, why were there over fifty empty beer cans around the pool, Miss Ryan? Why were there tons of empty jello-shot containers and cigarette butts?”

I don’t answer.

I know the truth is written all over my face, but I’ve promised my best friend that I would cover for her. That I would take whatever is coming so she won’t be punished twice in the same school year.

“I see.” Mr. Thompson shakes his head. “Well, I’m disappointed in you, Miss Ryan. Given your stellar grades and your excellent track record with our debate team, I would’ve thought that you would be completely honest with me. That’s what a real aspiring lawyer would do.”

No, that’s what a real snitch would do...

“Since the police found fifty beer cans and twenty-two jello shots, you’ll spend seventy-two days in after-school detention, and you’ll complete every Saturday service with the janitorial staff here in the mornings until you decide to tell me the truth.” He scribbles a few words onto a green pad. “You’re assigned to Detention Group D, and you’ll need to report to Room 221 every afternoon at three thirty. No exceptions.”

“What about my debate team practices?”

“You’re more than welcome to attend all of your debate practices in their entirety, Miss Ryan.” He stops writing and glances up, giving me a look of sympathy. “Just tell me the name of every person who was here with you that night.”

“I already told you.” I sigh. “It was just me...And Brynn.”

“Um hmmm.” He rips the sheet off the pad and hands it to me. “Room 221. Three-thirty. Enjoy.”

I take the paper from his hand and stand to my feet. I leave his office without another word and walk to my locker.

“So, what was the sentence?” My best friend, Genevieve, is suddenly next to me. There’s a look of worry etched on her face. “Remember, if he threatened you with a suspension or expulsion, you were supposed to give the guys and me up. No exceptions.”

“He didn’t threaten me with either of those.”

“Oh?” She hands me a bottle of my favorite tea. “What did he give you?”

“Detention every afternoon, and on Saturdays,” I say, sighing. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

I pull my yellow notebook from my locker. “Can you drop by my debate practices after your cheerleading practices every day and write down whatever topics are on the left side of the board? I’m going to talk to my coach tomorrow morning, but I think he’ll let me stay on the team if I make up for my studying by doing the topic research after hours.”

“Of course,” she says. “Wait. You have to start detention now?”

I glance at my watch. “Yeah. It’s three fifteen.”

She hugs me. “I’m sorry. I can’t thank you enough for taking the fall for me. I’ll find a way to pay you back.”

“I know.” I smile and pull the pack of Twizzlers that’s sticking out from her purse. “I’ll call you later tonight.” I walk down the hall—toward the part of Blue Harbor’s campus I’ve never needed to go to, the part where all the detentions and behavioral counseling classrooms are. (It’s also, according to the rumors, where all the guidance counselors secretly smoke weed after school.)

218, 219, 220, 221...

Letting out a breath, I twist the doorknob and open the door—revealing an empty classroom. The only words on the whiteboard are:

3:30-6:30

Detention Hours

Group D

I take a seat in the back, right near the windows—watching other students talk and laugh in the parking lot.

“Is your last name Ryan?” A man in a tracksuit opens the door, making me look over.

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, good.” He bites into a donut. “Don’t leave this room until six thirty. Don’t even try. Me and the other detention leaders are in the hallway, so we’ll see you if you do.”

“What if I have to pee?”

“Do you have to pee?”

“Not right now.”

“Okay, well when you do, we’ll talk about it.” He takes another bite of his donut and steps out of the room.

Confused, I pull out my notebook and start to write a list.

Things I Need to Bring to Survive Weeks in Detention:

1. Music Player

2. Headphones

3. Books

4. Donuts (For Bribes Maybe?)

5. ???

As I’m thinking of number five, the classroom door opens again, and Jace Kennedy walks into the room. His eyes meet mine and he stops, looking as if he can’t believe that I’ve been subjected to criminal punishment.

A smile slowly crosses his lips and he steps closer.

I look around at all the rows of empty seats—hoping he’ll get the hint, but he doesn’t. He plops down on the desk right next to me.

“Seriously?” I say. “Out of all the empty seats in this room?” I don’t give him a chance to respond to that. I grab my folder and move to a front row I can enjoy myself.

I return to making my list—deciding that a collection of “PLEASE DO NOT SIT HERE” signs will be a good thing to start making tonight.

“I didn’t catch your name,” Jace says, sitting next to me again. “I’m Jace Kennedy.”

“Do you know the rules of personal space, Jace Kennedy?” I ask, hating that his smile is making me blush against my will. “Like, if you’re not friends with someone, it’s rude to just impose your presence upon them.”

“Why do I hardly ever see you around this school?”

“Probably because before today, I wasn’t a criminal like you.”

He smiles. “Are you a senior, too?”

“No, I’m a –” I stop myself. “You’re bypassing the conversation about personal space.”

“I am.”

I open my mouth to say something else, but The Donut Man walks into the room and slams the door shut.

“Now, listen up.” He walks to the whiteboard and then he looks at us. “Wait, there’s only two of you for D-level detention this year? Wow. You must have done something beyond stupid for Mr. Thompson to insist on sending you here this early in the school year.”

He picks up a blue marker and writes our names on the board, circling them for effect. “So, I’m technically supposed to make you write three, five-paragraph essays every day about new life lesson topics. Then I’m supposed to sit here and listen to you read them, but look.” He lowers his voice. “I don’t get paid enough for that. If you don’t tell, I won’t tell. Clear?”

We both nod.

“Good,” he says. “Now, every now and then, I will need you to help me with a few things in the athletic department, but most of the time I won’t. So, be sure to bring your books and stay in the room until I come and dismiss you at six thirty.” He looks at me. “When you have to pee, use the restroom across the hall. I’ll pop in every hour or so to make sure neither of you has gotten any ideas about leaving early, but until then...” He looks at his watch and walks to the door. “See you in an hour.”

When the door closes, Jace turns toward me again.

“Since we’re going to be seeing a lot more of each other, what exactly did you do to get in here?” he asks, tilting his head to the side.

I blink. “That’s personal. Besides, I’m only obligated to talk about things like that with my friends.”

“And I take it that your friends understand the rules about your personal space?”

“Yes.”

“So, why aren’t your friends in here with you right now?”

I try to fire back something sarcastic, but I can’t. He’s pushing his desk so close that it’s touching mine and my heart is flipping in my chest again. I’ve been attracted to plenty of guys at this school before, but not like this. Never like this.

Before I can come up with my next line, he pulls the green detention slip from my notebook and holds it away from me.

He stares at it for a long time—far longer than necessary to read Mr. Thompson’s messy handwriting.

“If you need help reading, I can bring you some remedial aids from my debate club,” I say. “We have letter blocks, and we even have some in color.”

He smiles and sets the paper down. “I have no problems reading, Courtney Ryan. But from the looks of things, you’ve been sentenced to the same amount of days in detention as me. So, contrary to what you’ve previously said, we are definitely going to be friends.”