Filed To Story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
Maybe the next day or the next week, they go for a walk, and you don’t see them again.
I shiver. The almost invisible hairs on my arms prickle from goosebumps.
Finally, Cadoc makes a pronouncement. I can’t hear what he says, but everyone quiets with expectation. Mr. Arnold blows his whistle and shouts, “Get down from there, Nevitts!”
Mr. Arnold is one of the instructors who calls us by our last names for some reason. It’s dumb. He hollers Nevitts or Kemble or Scurlock, and he could be talking to any one of a dozen of us from the Bogs. We generally don’t respond. If he bitches, we say we thought he meant our cousin.
Bevan, of course, ignores the command. He hoists himself back onto the rafter and walks it like a tight rope, staggering a few steps and wobbling for effect. The humans gasp.
You’d think after four years with us, they’d have a sense of what we can do. A three-story fall is nothing.
Bevan begins to bounce the ball. It hits the rafter funny, goes off at an angle, and he reaches for it. For a second, it looks like he’s going to lose his footing. A human female screams.
I guess freaking out the humans is the line.
Cadoc Collins shakes his head, and without a hint of urgency, he jogs for the climbing rope, lifts himself hand-over-hand, his legs a dead weight, and then swings himself onto the rafter. The whole sequence is one seamless sequence.
He catches Bevan in three strides. Bevan squawks, and Cadoc hoists him bodily over his shoulder like an errant pup. It’s like a Great Dane’s got a pug.
Cadoc steps off the rafter and lands on the court so lightly that his sneakers don’t even squeak.
“My hero!” Bevan shouts from upside down.
“Idiot,” Nia mutters.
“What’s Cadoc gonna do?” I ask, but I know. My stomach is sloshing. Now it feels like there’s a rock in there, rolling around.
“Kick Bevan’s ass.” Nia’s face goes hard. Her hands clench, but her claws stop her from making a fist. “Bevan’s been a bad wolf.”
Brody’s crew eyes Cadoc, not bothering to conceal their glee. They love to watch a scavenger get put in their place. The Hughes family and their faction don’t consider us pack. We’re parasites. They’re always proposing that alpha drain the Bog and relocate us to the foothills. Or exile us to Last Pack territory. Or just stop feeding us until we leave on our own accord.
To their way of thinking, we can’t pass for human, and we’re not into the money thing, so we’re useless. No, worse—we’re a liability. An embarrassing reminder of what shifters used to be before the Great Alpha civilized us.
I hate the Hughes’, but it’s somehow worse when we get it from a Collins. The Collins faction doesn’t enjoy keeping us in our place. They do it for our own good.
Right now, Cadoc is squaring his shoulders, resettling Bevan and carrying him out of the gym through the side door to teach him a necessary lesson.
“I don’t want to watch,” I whisper under my breath.
“You have to.” Nia holds out her hand.
I don’t take it. “You go. No one’ll notice I’m not there.”
The entire class streams behind Cadoc. The nobs buzz with excitement. The scavengers trudge after, slow and silent, and the humans bring up the rear, uneasy, dragging their feet.
Nia cocks her head. I fold my arms. She shrugs and hops down from the bleachers to join the other scavengers.
Mr. Arnold hangs back. He frowns at the metal door for a few seconds after it swings shut. For a minute, he seems at a loss—like maybe he thinks he should do something—but then he must remember who he works for. He hikes up his athletic shorts and ambles for his office.
The gym falls silent. Whistles and shouts drift in through the tilted windowpanes. Then the crowd quiets, and there is the thud of fists on flesh, a few desperate snarls, and finally, a whimper and a high-pitched whine.
I hate this pack.
I hate this place.
I hate that I have to spend six hours a day in these buildings, wasting the daylight when I could be foraging, just so the pack won’t cut off the family benefits. It’s not like I’m going to need anything they teach me here, and they know it.
Only nine more months until graduation. Then I won’t have to set foot on this campus ever again. I won’t even need to come to this side of the lake.
I can’t wait.
It’s weird. When I started in the upper school, I felt like I was so close to the end of the slog. Now I’m in my last year, and it feels like the months are longer than the years ever were.
I hop down the bleachers to the court. There are only ten minutes left in class. I might as well go change. It’ll be nice getting in and out of the locker room before the ranked females. They gawk at the female scavengers while we change and make remarks about our boobs and stuff.
We aren’t that much curvier than the average shifter. Like Nia always says, expectation is reality. Since most of us end up presenting for cash at some point, the pack sees us as tits and ass.
I’m not ashamed of my body, but I don’t like Brynn Owens and her alpha female wannabes leering at it, either. It’ll be nice, dressing in private for once.
I’m almost to the locker room when my attention is yanked to the side.
Oh, wow.
A sizzle zings through my veins. I stop in my tracks and my soles squeak.
At the end of the stands, on the bottom row of the bleachers—just sitting there—is a line of phones, wireless earbuds, and smart watches. More than a dozen of them.
It’s a good thing Nia, Pritchard, and the other scavengers are outside watching Bevan get his ass kicked. There is no way on earth that any of them would be able to resist this much booty. It’s a feast. Like someone left the bank vault wide open.
The phones and watches are all the latest models. The only differences are the cases and the bands.
They’re smooth. Sleek.
Ifound them.
I mean, I didn’t, really. I knew they were here. It’s not a surprise. It’s just—I’m alone with them.
When I started at the upper school, nobs were still putting their gear in lockers, but at some point, they realized that scavengers can pick any lock and stuff is actually safer out in plain sight of everyone. This was their solution.
But no one’s here now. Mr. Arnold is at his desk on his computer with his back to the door.
The shouting outside is still going strong. I guess Bevan caught a second wind.
It’s just me and the pretties.
I sidle closer, and very slowly, I dust my fingertips across a phone. It lights up, and a thrill scrambles down my spine. On the lock screen, there’s a picture of three pretty blonde girls posing for the camera. It’s Brynn Owen and her best friends Teagan and Lowry. Not sure whose phone it is. Could be any of them or a mid-rank wannabe trying to claim friendship to gain status.
I take a quiet, small step forward and let my fingers graze another screen. Nothing happens. I don’t want to click the button. That feels too close to wrong.
I have a messed-up sense of that sort of thing. On the one hand, I’m a scavenger. We’re thieves. Borrowers, our elders would say. Foragers. We share in common. We don’t believe in ownership. The nobs have never been able to change us, no matter how many Ethics and Pack Law courses we have to take.
On the other hand, I’m different than my kin. I always have been. Auntie Madwen says I have the temperament of a Quarry Pack female. I don’t know what that means, but it’s not a compliment. I don’t feel comfortable taking.
Finding, that’s a different story.
I skim my fingertips over a third screen. A human band logo appears. The next two don’t flicker on. I leave them be.
I’m not taking. I’m just touching. Seeing.
The last one in the row lights right up. The lock screen picture is a brand-new matte black Land Rover. My racing heartbeat kicks up another notch.
This is Cadoc’s phone.
Last year, he drove some kind of fast car, but he went away to train at Quarry Pack for the summer, and when he came back, he had the Land Rover.
My fingers linger on the glass. There’s a prompt for a code. I type 1-2-3-4. Wrong pin.
I gently flip the phone over on the wooden bench. The case is utilitarian. It’s plain black. He set his watch and earbuds close to the phone. The watch has an aluminum green band, and his earbuds are in the same smooth white box that all the nobs have.
Scavengers don’t have this kind of gear. You need a bank account to pay a monthly cell phone bill, and since we don’t do real work, at least not regularly, we don’t make human money. Tech doesn’t come in the allotment basket or the donation box.
A shout wafts in the window, and I startle. Shit. I shouldn’t be lingering here. I sure as hell shouldn’t be messing with the nob’s stuff. If someone sees, I’m the one getting the next smackdown.
And it’s not like I want a phone. What would I need it for? Who do I want to talk to that isn’t in my trailer or across the way?