But I keep that opinion to myself, too.

I adopt a tactful tone. “Are you afraid that if you disagree with his ideas, he’ll renege on the date?”

She winces. “It sounds pathetic when you phrase it like that.”

Um, how else does she want me to phrase it?

“I just don’t want to make any waves, you know?” she mumbles, looking uncomfortable.

No, I don’t know. At all.

“This is your song, MJ. And you shouldn’t have to censor your opinions just to make Cass happy. If you hate the choir idea as much as I do, then tell him. Trust me, men appreciate a woman who speaks her mind.”

Yet even as I say the words, I know Mary Jane Harper is not that woman. She’s shy and awkward and spends most of her time hiding behind a piano or curled up in her dorm room writing love songs about boys who don’t return the sentiment.

Oh shit. Something suddenly occurs to me. Is our song about Cass?

I’m icked out at the thought that the emotional lyrics I’ve been singing for months might actually be about a guy I loathe.

“I don’t hate the choir idea,” she hedges. “I don’t love it, either, but I don’t think it’s terrible.”

And in that moment, I know without a doubt there’s going to be a three-tiered fucking choir standing behind Cass and me at the winter showcase.

13

Garrett

I’m working at the kitchen counter tonight, frustrated as fuck as I read over the practice essay Hannah “graded” for me earlier. She left my house with orders for me to redo the paper, but I’m having a tough time with it. The answer is simple, damn it—if someone commands you to murder millions of people, you say no thanks, I’ll pass. Except going by the criteria laid out in this bullshit theory, there are pros and cons for both sides, and I can’t wrap my head around it. I guess I suck at putting myself in someone else’s shoes, and that’s kind of disheartening.

“Question,” I announce as Tuck wanders into the kitchen.

“Answer,” he replies instantly.

“I haven’t asked the question yet, asshole.”

Grinning, he washes his hands at the sink and then ties a neon pink apron around his waist. Logan, Dean and I gave him the frilly monstrosity as a joke for his birthday, on the argument that if he was going to be our mother hen, he might as well look the part. Tucker countered by insisting he’s masculine enough to pull off any item of clothing we throw his way, and now he wears the damn thing like a badge of macho honor.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” he says as he heads to the fridge. “What’s the question?”

“All right, so you’re a Nazi—”

“Fuck that,” he interjects.

“Let me finish, will ya? You’re a Nazi, and Hitler has just ordered you to commit an act that goes against everything you believe in. Do you say, cool beans, boss, I’ll kill all these people for you, or do you say fuck off, and risk getting killed yourself?”

“I tell him to fuck off.” Tuck pauses. “Actually, no. I put a bullet in his head. Problem solved.”

I groan. “I know, right? But this asshole—” I point to the book on the counter “—believes that government exists for a reason, and citizens need to trust their leader and obey his orders for the good of the society. So in theory, there’s an argument to be made for genocide.”

Tuck pulls a tray of chicken drumsticks from the freezer. “Bullshit.”

“I’m not saying I agree with that line of thinking, but I’m supposed to argue this guy’s point of view.” I drag a frustrated hand over my scalp. “I fucking hate this class, man.”

Tuck unwraps the meat tray and places it in the microwave. “The redo is on Friday, huh?”

“Yup,” I say glumly.

He hesitates. “Are you going to play in the Eastwood game?”

I brighten up, because this morning I received official word from Coach that I’ll definitely be on the ice on Friday. Apparently the midterm grades aren’t entered into the system until the following Monday, so at the moment, my average is still what it needs to be.

Come Monday, if my Ethics grade is a D or lower, I’ll be benched until I turn things around.

Benched. Jesus. Just thinking about it makes me queasy. All I want to do is lead my team to another Frozen Four victory and make it to the pros. No, I want to excel in the pros. I want to prove to everyone that I got there on my own merit and not because I happen to be a famous hockey player’s son. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, and I feel sick knowing that my goals, that everything I’ve worked so hard for, is in jeopardy because of one stupid class.

“Coach said I’m playing,” I tell Tuck, who high fives me so hard my palm stings.

“Hell yeah,” he exclaims.

Logan enters the kitchen, an unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

“You better not smoke that in here,” Tucker warns. “Linda will ream your ass.”

“I’m going out back,” Logan promises, because he knows better than to piss off our landlady. “Just wanted to let you guys know that Birdie and the guys are coming over tonight to watch the Bruins game.”

I narrow my eyes. “What guys?”

Logan blinks innocently. “You know, Birdie, Pierre, Hollis, Niko—if he can stop being pussy whipped for long enough to leave his dorm—um, Rogers and Danny. Connor. Oh, Kenny, too, and—”