Read Online The Only Thing Worse Than Me Is You by Lily Anderson - Free Book Online

same town. We’d had the exact same education. And, apparently, we had the exact same IQ, give or take an unknown decimal.
    This was so much bigger than the monkey bars. This was the Rebels versus the Empire. This was the Doctor versus the Daleks. This was Ripley versus the Xenomorphs.
    This was a real, true, full-scale war.
    With the strap of my messenger bag slung across my chest, I slipped my sunglasses on and stepped into the open-air quad in the center of campus. Dozens of other students were zigzagging across the mosaic M emblazoned into the concrete, some scurrying out of the chemistry labs, some heading toward the library for lunchtime studying.
    I spotted Kenneth Pollack shoving a small dark-haired boy against one of the many decorative sycamore trees that dotted the edges of the quad. The smaller boy went rigid as Kenneth’s hands braced into his shoulders. There was a rolling backpack toppled on the ground beside them.
    Swerving slightly, I moved toward them. Hazing was, of course, forbidden at the Mess, but that didn’t mean that meatheads like Kenneth didn’t occasionally rough up the freshmen. As my shoes tread against the grass, the frosh made a pathetic whimper of dissent, his round face pinched.
    â€œI didn’t,” the frosh protested. “I don’t even know—”
    â€œKenny,” I said, coming up behind them. There were only about a hundred people in our class and Kenneth had gone to Aragon with us, so I was fairly sure he at least knew who I was. “Isn’t it a little hack to push around the freshmen? It’s so expected.”
    If we’d had a football team—instead of basketball, cricket, and chess—Kenneth would have been a linebacker. As it was, he’d taken Peter’s place on the basketball team, but he lacked the natural grace that the sport required.
    â€œHe told Cline that I cheated,” he snarled at me.
    â€œI don’t know who that is,” the frosh protested, remaining against the tree as though he hadn’t realized he’d been released. “I don’t even know my lunch number.”
    â€œKenneth,” I said, resting my elbow on top of my bag. “Cline doesn’t have any contact with the lowerclassmen. He doesn’t even have office hours this year. He went back to teaching poetry at the university.”
    â€œThe email came from this kid’s account,” Kenneth blustered. His cheeks were blistered with impotent fury, pushing a whitehead on his chin into the foreground. “B. Calistero at Messina Academy. There aren’t any other Calisteros on campus.”
    â€œWe have school email?” B. Calistero asked.
    â€œHow do you know he sent the email?” I asked Kenneth. “Cline wouldn’t have told you.”
    â€œI just know,” Kenneth said darkly. “He emailed Cline and said I copied Mike Shepherd’s Ellis Island essay. They’re threatening to bench me.”
    Of course his outrage was unrelated to the sullying of his academic record—a mark of cheating would almost undoubtedly revoke any incoming college acceptances. No, it all came down to basketball. Why did his parents even bother writing his tuition checks?
    â€œB. Calistero,” I said, peering over Kenneth’s shoulder at the frosh. “Can you name the gentleman who introduced the back of your skull to that tree trunk?”
    The frosh’s eyes were wide and raced between me and Kenneth as though trying to figure out which of us was more likely to hurt him in the event that he gave the wrong answer.
    â€œI don’t,” he spluttered. “I mean, this is only my second week here. I was in public school before and—”
    â€œIt’s okay,” I said, mostly to keep him from vomiting down the front of his polo. I looked back at Kenneth. “See? He doesn’t know anything. And the freshmen are still turning in hard copies of all of their