The Unbound by Victoria Schwab Page B

and steer with the other. As I ride, something fills my chest. Not fear or fatigue, but something lovely and light: hope. I was beginning to think I’d never find dreamless sleep again; but if I could find it in Roland’s daybed, then it’s possible to find it elsewhere, too. Right now, high on those four small hours of rest, possibility is enough.
    When I get to Hyde, I find Cash leaning up against the bike rack, holding two coffees and shooing freshmen away like flies from the spot he’s saving me near the front gate. He smiles when he sees me, a broad grin that brightens the morning and helps push any lingering thoughts of Mr. Phillip from my mind. He scoots aside so I can park Dante.
    “I wasn’t going to wait for you,” he explains, “but you see, the schedule flips. I showed you the route for the A block, but not the B block.”
    “Isn’t it just the A block in reverse?”
    “Well, yes,” he says, offering me one of the coffees. I take it, even though I just finished mine. “But I wanted to make sure you knew that. I didn’t want you to think me a negligent ambassador.”
    “That would be a travesty,” I say, tugging off the workout pants beneath my skirt.
    “Truly,” he says, sipping his drink. “I’m going to lose points as it is for not being able to show you to your morning classes. I’m on the opposite side of campus, and the teachers around here will lock you out if you’re late.”
    “I won’t fault you.” I get the first pant leg off.
    “Good. There are feedback cards around here somewhere, you know.”
    “I’ll be sure to fill one out.…” My shoe catches on the second pant leg; when I try to tug it free, my backpack shifts from my other shoulder and my balance falters. Cash’s hand comes up to steady me, and his noise—all jazz and laughter and pulse—pounds through my head, loud enough to make me flinch and pull away, toppling the other direction, straight into the metallic rock band sound of Wesley Ayers.
    He smiles, and I can’t tell if it’s my rare moment of clumsiness or the fact I lean into his noise instead of away from it that makes his eyes glitter.
    “Steady there,” he says as I finally free the fabric from my shoe. I get both feet back on the ground, but his touch lingers a moment before sliding away, taking the thrum of music with it.
    “Morning, Ayers,” says Cash with a nod.
    “Where did you come from, Wes?” I ask.
    He tips his head back down the sidewalk.
    “What, no fancy car?” I tease.
    “Ferrari’s in the shop,” he shoots back without missing a beat.
    “And the Lexus?” chirps Cash.
    Wesley rolls his eyes and shifts his attention to me. “Is this one giving you trouble?”
    “On the contrary,” I say, “he’s been a perfect gentleman. One might even say a knight.”
    “In shining armor,” adds Cash, gesturing to his gold stripes.
    “He brought me coffee,” I say, holding up my cup.
    Wes runs a hand through his black hair and sighs dramatically. “You never bring me coffee, Cassius.”
    And then, out of nowhere, a girl swings her arm around Wesley from behind. He doesn’t even tense at the contact—I do—only smiles as she puts her manicured hands over his eyes.
    “Morning, Elle,” he says cheerfully.
    Elle—a pretty little thing, bird-thin with bottle-blond hair—actually giggles as she pulls away.
    “How did you know?” she squeaks.
    Because of your noise, I think drily.
    Wesley shrugs. “What can I say? It’s a gift.”
    “All the cool powers were taken,” mutters Cash, half into his coffee.
    The girl is still hanging on Wesley. Perching on him. Like a bird on a branch. She’s chirping on about some fall dance when the bell finally rings, and I realize I’ve never been so happy to go to class.
    It’s a good thing I’ve had two coffees to go with my four hours of sleep, because Mr. Lowell kicks off the day with a documentary on revolutionaries. And whether it’s the healthy dose of caffeine or the strange way the