Four Of A Kind

Chapter 160: [3.62] Three Feet

“You’re really nice, you know that?” She grabbed my hand without warning and squeezed.

Before I could figure out how to respond to that, Felix appeared with a paint-splattered apron and a manic grin.

“Angelo! You ready to make art?”

“I’m ready to question my life choices.”

“Same thing.” He tossed me an identical apron. “Come on. The gym awaits.”

The gym had been transformed into what I could only describe as organized chaos. Cardboard coffins lined one wall, half-painted and leaning at dangerous angles. Fog machines sat in boxes with instruction manuals scattered around them like casualties. A group of juniors argued about whether the maid costumes should be black and white or purple and black.

Marin Tanigawa stood in the center of it all, wearing cat ears and holding a clipboard like a weapon.

“Felix! Isaiah! You’re late!”

We weren’t. It was 3:32.

“Sorry, Marin. We were emotionally recovering from Calculus,” Felix called back.

“Whatever. Felix, you’re on backdrop painting. Isaiah…” She looked at me with that assessing expression I’d seen approximately nine hundred times since starting at Hartwell. “Think you can figure out these fog machines?”

“Probably.”

“Good enough.” She thrust a manual at me. “Make them spooky but not fire-hazard spooky. We don’t need another incident like last year.”

I didn’t ask what happened last year.

Harlow bounced over wearing her own apron covered in paint stains and what looked like glitter. “Isaiah! You’re here! Okay so I need your opinion. Should the serving trays be black or purple? Because black is classic but purple matches our hair and I think thematic consistency matters.”

“Purple.”

“See!” She turned to the girl beside her. “I told you purple was the right choice!”

I found a relatively clear spot on the floor and opened the fog machine manual. The instructions were in that special combination of English and corporate gibberish that made you question if the writer had ever actually used the product.

Step 1: Ensure the fluid reservoir is adequately filled before initial operation.

Translation: put the fog juice in the hole.

Step 2: Allow the heating element to reach optimal temperature before activation.

Translation: wait for the light to turn green.

I could work with this.

Someone sat down next to me. I glanced over and found a girl with shoulder-length brown hair and glasses, holding her own manual.

“You’re Isaiah, right? I’m Rebecca. We have History together.”

“Hey.”

“These instructions are terrible.”

“They’re written by engineers who hate humanity.”

She laughed. “Fair. So, you actually work for the Valentines?”

And there it was. The question everyone wanted to ask but most people were too polite to voice.

“Yeah.”

“That’s wild. What’s that like?”

“Complicated.”

“I bet.” She flipped through her manual. “Harlow seems really nice though. We’re in Fashion Club together. She helped me with a pattern I was stuck on.”

“That sounds like her.”

Rebecca hesitated. “Is it true you’re dating Cassidy?”

My hand stopped turning pages.

“Where’d you hear that?”

“There’s photos online. You two at a bubble tea place? People are talking.”

Of course they were. Because privacy didn’t exist when you worked for billionaires.

“We’re not dating. I tutor her.”

“Oh.” Rebecca looked relieved. “That’s good. I mean, not good. Just, you know. Good.”

I had no idea what that meant.

“Anyway.” She stood up. “I should go help with the costumes. But hey, if you ever want to study or whatever, let me know. AP History is kicking my ass.”

“Sure.”

She walked away before I could say anything else.

Felix appeared above me, covered in gray paint. “Was that Rebecca Ashworth? As in, daughter of Karina Ashworth, the lady who tips you like three hundred percent?”

“Apparently.”

“Bro. She was totally into you.”

“She asked about study groups.”

“That’s code for ’I think you’re hot.’” Felix crouched down beside me. “You’re collecting rich girls like Pokémon cards. It’s actually impressive.”

“I’m not collecting anyone.”

“You say that. But the evidence suggests otherwise.” He pointed at the manual. “How’s the fog machine coming?”

“It’ll work. Probably won’t kill anyone.”

“That’s the spirit.”

I spent the next hour assembling two fog machines, testing them in short bursts that filled the gym with artificial mist and made everyone cough. Harlow directed traffic like a tiny general, moving people between stations and solving conflicts about decorations with the kind of diplomatic skill that would’ve made the UN jealous.

By 4:15, we’d made actual progress. The coffins were painted. The fog machines worked. The costume committee had settled on black and purple with white aprons.

Harlow gathered everyone in a circle. “Okay! Great work today everyone! Monday we’ll finish the booth setup and do a dress rehearsal. Remember, the festival is two weeks away and we need to make this perfect!”

Everyone cheered except me. I was busy checking my phone.

Still nothing from Cassidy.

That hollow feeling in my chest got worse.

I drove to the manor with my stomach doing weird things. Mrs. Tanaka met me at the door. “Miss Cassidy is in the tennis courts.”

“Thanks.”

“Mr. Angelo.” She stopped me with a hand on my arm. “Good luck.”

I changed direction and headed around the east side of the manor, following the stone path toward the courts. The sound of a tennis ball hitting the ground echoed before I even saw her.

Cassidy stood at the baseline in athletic shorts and a black sports bra, her hair pulled back in that messy ponytail she wore when she didn’t care how she looked. She served the ball hard enough that it cracked against the back fence. Then she grabbed another ball from a basket and did it again. And again.

Her form was perfect. Professional-level. The kind of technique you didn’t get from casual playing.

But her face was wrong. Tight. Angry. Like she was trying to hit the ball hard enough to make it disappear.

I stood at the fence and watched her burn through six more serves before she finally noticed me.

She froze mid-serve, the ball still in her hand.

“What are you doing here?”

“Checking on you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve been hitting tennis balls alone for two hours. That’s not fine.”

“It’s called practice.”

“It’s called avoidance.”

Her jaw tightened. “I don’t need a lecture. I get enough of those from Vivienne.”

“Not lecturing. Just observing.”

She turned away and grabbed another ball. “You can observe from somewhere else.”

I watched her serve three more times before making a decision.

“Fine. We don’t need to talk.”

I walked onto the court and grabbed a racket from the equipment bin near the net. The grip felt worn in, molded by hands that had held it more hours than I could count.

Cassidy turned, her purple eyes wide. “What are you doing?”

“Playing tennis.”

“You don’t play tennis.”

“I’m learning.” I moved to the opposite baseline and bounced on my toes like I’d seen her do a thousand times. “Serve.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re hitting balls anyway. Might as well hit them at someone.”

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

Then she smiled. Not her usual smirk. Something sharper. Meaner. The expression of someone who’d just been given permission to commit violence.

“Your funeral.”

She served.

The ball came at me like a bullet.

I swung. Missed by approximately three feet.

The ball smacked into the fence behind me hard enough to rattle the chain link.

Cassidy’s laugh echoed across the court. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”