Five Stolen Rings

Chapter 12

JACK

There were two reasons I started calling Stella Princess. One was that she turned into a little snob when she came to Windsor in the ninth grade.

But the other reason I called her that—the deeper reason, the one I would never admit...well. I watched her coming into her own, watched her light up with joy in my presence, watched her do good in her own way?—

I watched those parts of her blossom. I fell in love with them. And although things changed, although Stella changed…I think I called her Princess because I had one day planned to make her my queen.

FOURTEEN YEARS AGO

Stella has some nerve, creeping onto my porch to play with my cat when she thinks I’m not home yet.

The shortcut to her neighborhood leads her through mine; every day after school she walks down the winding, neatly manicured lane of Windsor Heights, past my house, all the way to the end of subdivision and through a little patch of woods. The woods spit her out into another neighborhood; she walks through that one too until finally she reaches her own.

It’s kind of a long way to go on foot, but she’s not a kid anymore. She’s sixteen, almost seventeen—a year younger than me—and I happen to know for a fact that she likes taking long walks.

Or—well. She used to. These days…I don’t know.

But it seems she still likes to play with Chutney, my family’s fat silver tabby. She’s crouched on the steps of my front porch, her crisp white shirt coming untucked from her uniform skirt in the back as she leans forward. Her blonde hair is tied in a perfect ponytail, shiny and soft-looking, and one arm is outstretched, scratching Chutney under the chin.

Chutney is a traitor and doesn’t know that Stella has changed, become someone she’s not, trying to find acceptance and popularity.

It wouldn’t suck so much if I didn’t still see hints of the girl I’ve always known. But I do; I catch glimpses of her from across the lunch room when she’s not forcing herself to laugh at the stupid jokes of the junior football captain, her smile flickering, her eyes tired. I pass her in the hallways, part of a flock of giggling girls but nonetheless looking lonely and lost.

I’ll graduate at the end of this year, and then I’ll be gone. Who knows if I’ll ever see her again? The thought brings both pain and a savage sense of satisfaction.

A twig snaps beneath my feet as I approach, and Stella startles, standing up. I sling my backpack off my shoulder and onto the grass.

“Hi,” Stella says breathlessly, her eyes meeting mine.

And I’m hit, for the millionth time, with the sensation that’s become all too familiar—a low swoop in my stomach, a crushing sensation in my chest, the unbearable need to hold her and protect her and tell her that she doesn’t have to laugh if a joke isn’t funny, that she doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone.

That she’s perfect the way she is, and nothing will change that.

I ball my hands into fists and look away instead. “What are you doing here?” I say.

“Just—saying hi.” She gestures to Chutney. Then her gaze flicks over me, and her brow furrows. “You should wear your uniform properly,” she says, her lips twitching with disapproval.

I snort, looking her over too—the white button-up shirt, the short plaid skirt in black and red, the matching plaid tie. I’m convinced girls’ school uniforms were designed by gross old men; Windsor Academy’s is no different.

My own tie is loose around my neck, my shirt untucked and unbuttoned with a black tee underneath, and that’s the way I prefer it. I feel like I’m suffocating otherwise.

“Worry about yourself,” I tell her curtly. “And wear your blazer. It’s getting chilly.”

“You’re not wearing yours,” she points out, and I roll my eyes.

“I brought a hoodie,” I say, nodding to my backpack. “Go home, Princess. Do your homework. Hang out with your pretty friends.”

Her cheeks flush a delicate pink as her hands reach up to smooth her hair. Red fingernails, I notice for the first time; glossy pink lips, lashes dark with makeup.

Perfect. She’s perfect.

And I hate it.

They came about gradually, my feelings for her, and subtly enough that I don’t know when they began. I only know when I recognized them, and that memory is crystal clear in my mind.

We were at the local pool last summer, though not together; I was there with some of my friends, and she was there with hers. I turned and saw her unexpectedly, our eyes meeting, and for just a moment, I got a genuine reaction—a surprised smile that blossomed into something full of light and joy.

It had been a while since I’d seen her smile like that, and even longer since it was directed at me.

She smiled at me from the other side of the pool, but I felt it like she was standing right next to me. It hit me in the solar plexus, something warm that made my heart trip and then speed up as she looked away again, pulling her hair up, exposing her neck, and I knew in that moment that she was the most radiant, most beautiful girl in the world—inside and out.

I never looked at her the same again, and it all started with that freaking smile—the real one, bright and easy and free, stripped of pretense and radiating joy.

She doesn’t smile like that anymore, but no one else seems to notice. She’s everything she wanted to be now, popular and accepted by students and teachers alike.

“I’m going to college in the fall,” I say now, drifting toward the porch steps and sitting down on the top one. I look up at her. “You gonna miss me?”

“I don’t know,” she says lightly, sitting next to me. “You haven’t been much of a friend lately.”

“You haven’t been much of a friend for years,” I shoot back, and she doesn’t deny it.

It was just little things at first; she wanted to hang out with new people instead of me. I wasn’t her only friend; it would’ve been weird if she didn’t hang out with other people sometimes.

But then she didn’t want to see me at all—unless no one else was around. She pretended she didn’t know me unless I pushed it. And when I overheard her words to her new friend…

I shake my head. It doesn’t matter what she said. Her reputation matters more to her now than our friendship; I don’t need someone like that in my life. I really don’t.

“I’ll miss you,” she says quietly, pulling me back to the present.

I blink at her, surprised. “Will you?”

“Yeah,” she says, sounding sad. “I will.”

“Finally getting your head on straight, then?” I say. The words come out more harshly than I intend, but I don’t apologize or try to soften the blow.

“Maybe,” she says, and she sighs. “I’m tired.”

“Living a lie will do that to you.”

“I’m not living a lie,” she says, her cheeks turning a deeper pink as she looks at me. “People change, Jack. I’m allowed to be a different person than I was.”

“Sure you are,” I say with a nod. “If it’s how you really feel. But it’s not. You don’t even like most of the idiots you hang out with these days. The girls are dumb and the guys are gorillas?—”

“They’re not gorillas?—”

“You deserve better,” I snap, standing up. “Who you really are deserves better than what you’re settling for.” I grab my backpack and then return to the porch steps, clearing them all with one leap and heading to the front door. I sneak a peek over my shoulder as I grasp the door handle, only to see her standing up, running an affectionate hand over Chutney’s little head but looking miserable nonetheless.

I don’t speak, even when tears well in her eyes and slip down her cheeks.

She deserves better.

But then again, so do I.