cool shit.”
Jack peered at George.
“What?”
“Waiting to see if your face will crack after saying ‘shit,’ Cursed Prince.”
“Whatever.” George waved his hand.
Jack turned the corner. Ahead, a long street rolled into the distance, bordered on the right by a tall, dense hedge. The scent of the car continued up the street. Jack followed it.
“The point is, Gaston fights the Hand, he gets weapons, and he hasn’t spent a day stuffed into a boarding school,” George said.
“You like school.”
George stopped and gave him an icy look. “I don’t.”
Jack turned on the ball of his foot to face George. “You rule that damn school.” While he could do no right.
“I know the rules, and I follow them. It doesn’t mean I like it. I can’t just punch everyone who calls me Edge Trash, because both of us can’t screw up all the time. The more you throw your fists around, the less freedom I have to make mistakes.”
Oh, really? “Exactly how is it my fault?”
“We’re the two brothers from the Edge. When the bluebloods look at us, they lump us together. If we both screw up, then they’ll completely despise us.”
“And this way they just despise me.” Jack stopped. A short side street sliced through the hedge. Through the break, he could see a parking lot. Whatever Kaldar drove, he had taken it in there. Why steal a car to drive it only a mile?
Jack turned into the parking lot. George followed. Rows of cars greeted them. To the left, five older boys loitered on the edge of the lot.
“Yes, please, do feel sorry for yourself.” George rolled his eyes. “Oh, poor Jack. Oh, he just doesn’t understand.”
Jack growled.
“When he grabs a guy by his hair and smashes his face into the wall, he is just reacting to being bullied. He is sensitive.”
Jack spun and launched a quick jab, aiming for George’s stomach. George blocked and danced aside.
“And then he runs and hides in his room, and his poor sister has to go and take his plate to him because he is brooding there . . .”
Jack snapped a quick hook. George dodged, and the blow whistled past his chin.
“. . . Crying into his pillow . . .”
Jack veered left, right, rocking on the balls of his feet, and sank a quick powerful punch. George saw it, but too late. All he could do was turn in to it, and Jack connected with his brother’s shoulder. Ha! Landed one. And then the heel of George’s left hand slammed into his nose. Jack staggered back. Ow.
“That’s right, solve all your problems with violence.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t hit your pretty face.” Jack stood on his toes and bowed, twisting his hands as expected before you asked a girl to dance. “We wouldn’t want to mar that delicate beau—”
George’s fist slammed into his face. Pain exploded in his jaw. The world blinked. He locked his fingers on George’s wrist, jerked his foot up into his brother’s stomach, and rolled back, heaving George over him. George slapped the asphalt with his back. The air burst out of him in a loud gasp. Jack rolled up, clamped George’s right arm between his legs, scissoring it, and leaned over George’s torso with his back, pinning him down, right forearm across the windpipe.
George squeezed out some hoarse noises.
Jack leaned closer and grinned. “Hi. How are you doing?”
George tried to jab the fingers of his free left hand into Jack’s neck. Jack ducked out of the way. He could still remember, five years ago, when George was dying, and he fought all of his fights for him. Jack had the upper hand now, but there was a second or two back there when, if they had been playing for real, George could’ve won. He had been practicing, and not just with the rapier. Jack had to figure out what George was doing and do that, or he’d be left behind.
Jack leaned a little harder.
George growled.
“You know I can lie here all day. It’s not hurting me at all. How long do you practice every day? Two hours? You should practice
Jack peered at George.
“What?”
“Waiting to see if your face will crack after saying ‘shit,’ Cursed Prince.”
“Whatever.” George waved his hand.
Jack turned the corner. Ahead, a long street rolled into the distance, bordered on the right by a tall, dense hedge. The scent of the car continued up the street. Jack followed it.
“The point is, Gaston fights the Hand, he gets weapons, and he hasn’t spent a day stuffed into a boarding school,” George said.
“You like school.”
George stopped and gave him an icy look. “I don’t.”
Jack turned on the ball of his foot to face George. “You rule that damn school.” While he could do no right.
“I know the rules, and I follow them. It doesn’t mean I like it. I can’t just punch everyone who calls me Edge Trash, because both of us can’t screw up all the time. The more you throw your fists around, the less freedom I have to make mistakes.”
Oh, really? “Exactly how is it my fault?”
“We’re the two brothers from the Edge. When the bluebloods look at us, they lump us together. If we both screw up, then they’ll completely despise us.”
“And this way they just despise me.” Jack stopped. A short side street sliced through the hedge. Through the break, he could see a parking lot. Whatever Kaldar drove, he had taken it in there. Why steal a car to drive it only a mile?
Jack turned into the parking lot. George followed. Rows of cars greeted them. To the left, five older boys loitered on the edge of the lot.
“Yes, please, do feel sorry for yourself.” George rolled his eyes. “Oh, poor Jack. Oh, he just doesn’t understand.”
Jack growled.
“When he grabs a guy by his hair and smashes his face into the wall, he is just reacting to being bullied. He is sensitive.”
Jack spun and launched a quick jab, aiming for George’s stomach. George blocked and danced aside.
“And then he runs and hides in his room, and his poor sister has to go and take his plate to him because he is brooding there . . .”
Jack snapped a quick hook. George dodged, and the blow whistled past his chin.
“. . . Crying into his pillow . . .”
Jack veered left, right, rocking on the balls of his feet, and sank a quick powerful punch. George saw it, but too late. All he could do was turn in to it, and Jack connected with his brother’s shoulder. Ha! Landed one. And then the heel of George’s left hand slammed into his nose. Jack staggered back. Ow.
“That’s right, solve all your problems with violence.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t hit your pretty face.” Jack stood on his toes and bowed, twisting his hands as expected before you asked a girl to dance. “We wouldn’t want to mar that delicate beau—”
George’s fist slammed into his face. Pain exploded in his jaw. The world blinked. He locked his fingers on George’s wrist, jerked his foot up into his brother’s stomach, and rolled back, heaving George over him. George slapped the asphalt with his back. The air burst out of him in a loud gasp. Jack rolled up, clamped George’s right arm between his legs, scissoring it, and leaned over George’s torso with his back, pinning him down, right forearm across the windpipe.
George squeezed out some hoarse noises.
Jack leaned closer and grinned. “Hi. How are you doing?”
George tried to jab the fingers of his free left hand into Jack’s neck. Jack ducked out of the way. He could still remember, five years ago, when George was dying, and he fought all of his fights for him. Jack had the upper hand now, but there was a second or two back there when, if they had been playing for real, George could’ve won. He had been practicing, and not just with the rapier. Jack had to figure out what George was doing and do that, or he’d be left behind.
Jack leaned a little harder.
George growled.
“You know I can lie here all day. It’s not hurting me at all. How long do you practice every day? Two hours? You should practice
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