Smart

Always Second

Her phone rang late one Saturday afternoon in May.

"Abby," his voice, taut and bitter, as if he was disgusted at having to stoop to calling her. "I need help studying for the AP test next week. Come over and help me."

It was the first time she'd heard Bahir Salib speak since the day before in their final class, Advanced Placement world history, and the asshole was all but unchanged. He still spoke to her in harsh demands, chauvinistic and snobbishly superior, as he believed he was to everyone. It was truly amazing what wealthy parents and a high threshold for intelligence could do to a boy's ego—especially for one that was apparently a devout follower of Islam. Abby Hull wasn't too terribly worldly, having been stuck in Midwestern America for all of her eighteen years, but from what she remembered, the Muslim faith was one of diligence and respect for one's friendly rival.

Bahir seemed to have missed that aspect of his religion.

"How about no, you rude jerk?" Abby snarled. She was sick of his crap and had been for well over two years. Her mother had informed her in eighth grade, when she was moved from her compact, bedroom-community middle school to the high school in city limits, that she was not the only clever child in the world. There would be competition, she told Abby, and she needed to stay on her toes if she wanted to remain on the pedestal her teachers and peers had put her on for her entire life up until that point. What Abby neglected to tell her mother was that she hated being alienated for her brains—she had only a handful of "friends," and an even smaller number of genuine companions. Unfortunately, her parents expected her to rise above the rest, and she was not going to destroy her mother's picturesque little dream of Ivy League schools and doctorates, even though she truly didn't give any shits.

Abby really didn't have any problem with antagonism, for she figured she'd have to deal with it at some point or another. What really irked her was the antagonist himself—Bahir, whose family had migrated to the United States from war-torn Iraq not long after he was born. He definitely appeared to be his namesake; coffee-colored skin and eyes nearly pitch black, an ominous tone that matched his short but stringy hair. In spite of his racial heritage, however, Bahir was just as American as everyone else. He commonly employed in the use of slang, slurs, and general insults, and actively did his best to piss everyone off. Bahir Salib was the reason that teachers never curved their tests or gave struggling students anything less than the maximum amount of homework every night. Abby certainly didn't mind the extra workload, but she detested Bahir's holier-than-thou haughtiness, especially regarding the class ranks—every year since they were fourteen, Bahir's test scores placed him at number one.

Abby was second. Always second.

Not only was she sick of Bahir's crap, she was also sick of being number two.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Bahir snorted. "I forgot about what a raging bitch you are. I'm not calling to mock you, Abby. I'm actually having trouble with this class. History isn't my strong suit."

Abby huffed and crossed one long, slender leg over another on her bedspread. She was working on some anatomy and physiology homework that she'd missed from being ill with strep throat earlier in the week. She'd intended to use the weekend for playing catch-up, but it seemed that wasn't going to be the case anymore. "Can't I just help you over the phone?" She bartered, desperate to finish her own schoolwork—and also desperate not to see her rival on her down time. "You live out of town, and it's a pain to drive out to your house. Not to mention a waste of gas." Both Abby and Bahir were seniors, but Abby was the only one that had her own car. It was a rusted piece of junk, but it ran, and that was all she needed. Bahir, regardless of being rich, was not allowed one. His parents were misers—a quality which Abby assumed great wealth offset, but clearly not in the Salibs' case—and they feared either pricey accidents or high gas bills. Bahir and Abby were legal adults, but still not yet out of high school; thus, they continued to rely on their parents for monetary support. Abby's were simply more trustworthy, and she appreciated this as something she had that Bahir did not.

"I'll reimburse you," Bahir assured. When Abby grimaced at that phrase, he sensed her distaste. "And no, I'm not being an ass about money, either. I really will pay you back for gasoline. Just... I need assistance, okay? I know I never say that, but it's true. I swear."

For a moment, Abby was silent as she picked at a loose string hanging from her denim shorts. She considered his offer—at first bitterly, until it dawned on her that

the great Bahir Salib was asking for help,

and she would get front-row seats to his groveling. The taste of victory in her mouth was brief but sweet, an esoteric chocolate, but she refused to let this small triumph get to her. She was going to win this battle, but Bahir was far ahead of her in the war. Still, she relished in the thought of getting to see the ideal bookworm grovel at her feet for her intellectual input. Sure, maybe ignoring him and hoping he'd fail the AP test was better in the long run, but Abby preferred to live for the "now" instead of the dreaded "later." Besides, Bahir would probably pull another high score out of his ass as he always did, whether or not he was closely acquainted with the topic at hand.

Abby slid off her bed, proudly and excitedly convinced. "All right, Bahir, I'm coming," she said, trying to mask her anticipation. Her make-up work quickly flouted, she nestled the cell phone between her shoulder and ear as she reached her black sneakers, perched by the door in wait. "Are your parents home? Will they mind if we study together?" She pulled on her right shoe and began to fumble with the strings.

"No," Bahir responded, nearly throwing a kink in the knot Abby was tying from her surprise. "My parents are rarely home. They're usually on call or out of the state for medical conferences." He sounded surprised, as if intrigued that she didn't know, though Abby was floored at the thought of Bahir's hovering relatives leaving him alone for days on end. They hardly trusted him with a vehicle—why would they hand over the control of the family home to a teenage boy? Abby was momentarily confused, but she shrugged the notion off and finished putting on her shoes.

"Really? They leave you alone in the house?" She chortled as she reached for the car keys resting on her bedside table. "Do you throw massive parties while they're away or something?"

"Funny, Abby," he grunted. "Because we both know how many friends I have."

Abby flinched. His tone was rough, but she was aware that he was right. Bahir, due in part to his aptitude, had minimal social skill. As a result, he had few people to truly call his companions. Abby saw him sitting at lunch with a handful of other misfits, but to her knowledge, he wasn't very close with any of them. She herself had a number of good friends, but understood his alienation. She often forgot that while she had been placed high above everyone else on a pedestal, Bahir was there with her.

And it was lonely at the top.

*****

Two-thirds of the way to Bahir's house, Abby began to wonder why her longtime opponent had waited so long to ask for help. Initially, she pegged it on his arrogance and his inability to solicit anything, but she decided something else was up. The AP world history test was that coming Wednesday, after all, and the five-hour-long exam would be a huge strain if he understood nothing that was being taught in the class. Surely, being Bahir Salib, he had a firm grasp on

something

—but even if he didn't, why invite her aid? Why not be tutored by a teacher? Bahir wasn't in any after-school clubs or sports, so there was no doubt in Abby's mind that he was able to seek out an instructor. Asking her was definitely mysterious, especially regarding the animosity between them.

She was full of questions, but there were no answers to be found.

The buildings in town gradually trickled from the concrete thicket of downtown, where Abby's family lived in a relatively comfortable apartment, to the suburbs that ringed the outskirts. It took ten minutes or so of braving heavy city traffic, but she passed from the focal point of income to the slums in the middle, dodging the suspicious eyes of dark-clothed gangs that hung around on the graffiti-drowned street corners, waiting for unsuspecting young women like her. Finally, she passed through the grim danger of the inner city into the golden-gated community of the enormously affluent, where manicured lawns and large mansions were spoken for and even considered poor in this neighborhood. As Abby drove deeper into the intimidating area, searching for Bahir's street, she felt horrendously out of place. She hadn't washed her old car in weeks, and a thin layer of grime was prominent on the red paint. Her model was manufactured ten years in the past, and she was driving by gleaming Ferraris and McLarens that were probably taken off the belt a month ago.

Hunkering down—as she did in the slums, but for an entirely different reason this time—Abby tried to hide her embarrassment as she pulled into the wide circular drive at Bahir's enormous house. Naturally, his family's sprawling, four-story mansion was infinitely more chic than the ones she'd passed by, only reminding her of the entitlement Bahir lived with. She pulled up and picked a spot fairly well-removed from the sidewalk that led to the gigantic oak front door and parked, fairly disgusted at the fact that her car was still making a vile presence against the hot rods parked in Bahir's neighbor's driveway. Would they notice she was here? Would they tell his parents? Her stomach hurt all of a sudden and she slunk down in the driver's seat, not wanting to get out and show her face.

Ugh, whatever, Abby,

she told herself as she finally pushed her way out of her vehicle.

It's just to study. No big deal. No need for butterflies.

Stiffly, Abby stalked up to the front door, trying not to be coerced by the yawning crystal window directly in the center of the too-big entrance. She rang the doorbell and paused, glancing into the casement to pass the time until she realized it was one-way—disappointing, she thought, as she couldn't get an advanced peek of the foyer. A minute after she rang, her patience was rewarded with an unlatching sound coming from inside. The door—which Abby was now certain she wouldn't be able to move on her own—swung open in a wide arc, revealing a pair of dark, assessing eyes that met on an even level with hers. Bahir, she remembered, was no taller than she, though Abby was far above the average teenage girl in height at nearly five feet, ten inches tall. His thin lips pursed together, as if blatantly annoyed by her presence. Distinctly, Abby felt a physical sting at his aloofness.

You summoned me here, you prick.

Shifting the collar of his aqua-striped polo, Bahir assessed her with his dark, smoldering gaze. Abby briefly wondered how much that shirt had cost. "Hey, Abby," he said, cold as winter in Siberia.

Abby gave him a plastic smile. "Hello, Bahir," she responded.

They stood there in a state of bitterness, the air around them dense with a thick fog of hatred, before the rich boy finally capitulated and opened his front door wider with a sigh. "Come in, I guess," he said. "I've got the books in the kitchen. We can sit at the table and study there."

Calmly, Abby stepped in, pretending not to be fazed by the yawning lobby of Bahir's gigantic house, silently worried the building would swallow her whole. Shedding her shoes by the horsehair welcome mat, she shuffled in and skimmed her eyes over the shimmering granite tile and the bright white wallpaper, a crystal chandelier dangling dangerously nearly a story above her. A wraparound spiral staircase led to the upper floors, widely-set and reminding Abby of a flight of steps one might see in a castle.

No, Abby,

she told herself tartly as Bahir closed the door behind them.

You are not in a palace. You are in goddamned Bahir Salib's house, and he is full of shit. Therefore, his house is full of shit. You are not impressed.

Bahir, sensing her uneasiness, opened his mouth to comment snidely, but a glare from his female counterpart made him choke it back. "This way," he instructed, haughtily familiar with the fact that she had never been in a mansion this large. He walked into a compact hallway to the right of the stairs, consumed by the looming, unfeeling walls. Reluctantly, Abby followed him, expecting the trek to the kitchen to be arduous. However, she found that the small passage led directly to the room. In spite of her false indifference to the stainless steel countertops and three-basin sink, Abby found herself truly intrigued with the size of the refrigerator. Her mind meandered as she daydreamed about the delicious, exotic foods that were hiding inside.

Caviar? Expensive cheese? Goat milk ice cream? Oh God, yum.

"Can we eat something if we get hungry?" Abby inquired as Bahir pulled a chair up to the glass kitchen table in the center of the exceptional clusterfuck of counters and appliances, one of the twelve seats available. A slew of various objects—AP study guides, their world history textbook, and a few slips of paper and pencils for taking notes—were strewn about on its clear surface.

Bahir frowned at her cheeky inquiry, but took it in stride. "Sure, whatever," he said, shrugging. "It's almost dinnertime. You didn't eat before you came?"

"No," she said. "It's only four. I don't usually eat until six or so."

"I'll order us some food when we're done," Bahir promised, and Abby almost couldn't believe her ears. Bahir, being

nice

? Yet another shock to add to the piling confusions of the day. She considered raising protest and offering to pay for her meal, but immediately retracted that notion. If Bahir was going to make decent attempts at kindness, she figured she might as well ride the wave the entire time. She wasn't normally the type of person to take advantage of others, but this was too good to pass up. Besides, his family had more money than God, so she doubted it would even be a dent in his savings.

"Okay," Abby accepted, trying hard to mask her excitement. She made her way to the table, pulled up a chair, and sat down. "Let's get to work, then, so we can work up an appetite. What exactly are you having trouble on?"

"The Renaissance," Bahir said. He flipped to that particular section of the world history textbook, licking his thumb and deftly fingering through the pages. "I know we learned it a while ago, but I never got a grasp on the major artists. Fine arts isn't really my thing. I'm more of a... science and logic kind of guy." Abby was unnerved by his cavalier attitude and offhanded tone. Yes, he spoke reproachfully to other people, but when it came to academics, he was usually stone-faced. He was surprisingly cool about having no idea what the hell he was doing in a class, and that utterly mystified her.

I smell a rat,

she internally quipped.

"..." The pause between them was short but noticeable in its strained character. Bahir glanced up from the textbook, having reached the chapter on artists, and arched one dark eyebrow in an arrogant sort of curiosity. Numb to his conceit, Abby shook her head and stifled the mounting sense of suspicion within her. "Let's get started," she relented, reaching over to take a peek at the pages, gauging what needed to be covered. She leaned over far enough to thumb through the material that she realized she was fairly close to Bahir—close enough to catch a whiff of his presumably expensive cologne, an unmistakable pine scent that made her wonder if he was a tree instead of a miserable excuse for a human being. She froze for a second when she swore she heard Bahir's breath hitch at the base of his throat; a soft rumble, barely perceivable.

Before she had time to mull too deeply over her position, Abby rested an elbow on the glass table and spoke, balancing her knees on the chair to keep herself from toppling over. "The four major artists," she said. "We'll start there. Can you name them?"

Bahir cleared his throat. "Well..." he began, losing his voice to some unseen force—confusion?—before moving on. "Donatello, da Vinci, Michelangelo, and Raphael. That's easy. I just can't quite grasp their separate contributions. I'd appreciate it if you explained that to me." Straightaway, Abby felt the ghost of his gaze travel across the plane of her figure, from her dollar-store flip-flops to the ruffled sleeves of her scarlet blouse. Suddenly, Abby remembered this shirt was exceedingly low-cut, curving down to the deep valley between her full breasts. Her best friend had purchased it for her as a birthday gift the year before, trying to convince Abby that she needed to attract more men in her life.

It came to Abby that she wasn't trying to entice one such Bahir Salib.

As if jolted by a cattle prong, Abby fell back into her chair, adjusting herself to a less comfortable and casual arrangement, aligning her back so that her chest was tucked in just enough to project virtue. Bahir watched her with feigned interest, confusion flashing by briefly in his eyes—or was that amusement? With this sociopathic asshole, Abby could never tell.

"You done?" He asked, still unsmiling but with a detectable note of mirth in his tone.

Abby frowned deeply and pursed her thick, m-shaped lips, refusing to take his bait like a clueless fish and answer. At that moment, hardly overpowered by Bahir's snooty glee and the suffocating wealthy atmosphere overall, she tartly recalled the yawning rift between them—in terms of money, status, race, and most of all, personality. The only thing that could potentially bridge that chasm was their shared intellect, and Abby knew from experience that smart people hated each other by default. There was too much competition; in spite of the accompanying loneliness to superiority, there was nothing a talented individual disliked more than a worthy adversary. Even Abby, who swore differently to herself, sometimes fell plague to jealousy. It was an illness that consumed her—especially when it came in the form of Bahir.

The brief peep show was a stinging slap in the face of the reality of her situation with him. Her guard was down, and it needed to be brought back up.

You are the Berlin Wall, Abby, and Bahir fucking Salib is East Germany. He's the Berlin airlift. You keep that shit out.

Clearing her throat and crossing her arms over her chest in a further attempt to conceal herself, Abby chose to move on with their lesson. "Da Vinci is the best known, so we'll begin with him," she said, only now aware of the sharp edge to her voice. "He's renowned for his artistic and scientific works as well as multiple inventions that advanced generations. You're familiar with the

Mona Lisa

?" Her throat was so dry a sidewinder could have traveled across her skin. She swallowed audibly and was all but aware of Bahir's silent and assessing eyes, dark as his skin and his spirit, watching her neck shift.

"Of course," he murmured. He spoke very lowly—a hum so indistinct Abby swore she'd have to be a dog to hear it. "Painted between 1503 and 1519. It now hangs in the Louvre in Pairs."

Abby's scowl was etched deeper on her face. "Bahir," she said, now thoroughly displeased. Well, more bitter toward him than she had been prior, if that was even possible. "How much do you

not

know?"

Bahir was quiet. Somewhere, perhaps in another room, Abby heard the measured ticking of a clock, followed posthaste by a series of four chimes, then another to indicate that it was a quarter past the hour. For some strange reason, her surroundings bottomed out at her feet, and she was left sitting uncomfortably upright in her chair, wondering how many clocks Bahir had in his home. Those were her only thoughts—clocks, and why the hell Bahir was staring at her with such grave intensity, a black fire erupting behind his solid irises. As if a demon summoned by the invisible flame, an uncertainty bounced off the sides of Abby's skull, refusing to relent until answered: