Page 8 of Depraved Boys

“Do you mean sexual harassment?” I asked.

“That’s the overt form.” Cormac gestured at the spot the boys had occupied. “Leopold Brunswick is one of the worst perpetrators, and he seems to have a mission to defile every girl in the school above the age of consent. It’s the covert form that’s more worrying.”

“How can sexual harassment be covert?” asked Ashley.

“There’s a game the mainstream students like to play. I won’t repeat its name, but it involves faking a romantic interest in the victim and stringing them along until a big reveal.”

My mouth went dry. “Reveal?”

“It takes many forms. Nude photos on social media. A public announcement that the relationship was fake all along. Sometimes the perpetrator will combine this with an exposé of the victims love letters or intimate moments.” He shook his head. “It’s hideous.”

“Like catfishing,” said Ashley.

“But with emotions.”

“Does Leopold Brunswick do that, too?” I asked.

“Not to my knowledge, but it doesn’t mean his friends aren’t culprits.”

Ashley huffed. “If that’s true, then the men here are shits. Gorgeous, back-stabbing shits.”

Cormac rubbed the back of his neck. “Female students are among the worst offenders, I’m afraid.”

I bit down on my lip. Based on the aggression toward those boys, he had probably fallen victim to one of those sick games. Maybe the boys and girls were in it together, like the male and female villains in Dangerous Liaisons who colluded to seduce two innocent women for their amusement.

“Did someone do it to you, then?” asked Ashley.

He dipped his head. “Not to me.”

Ashley and I exchanged confused glances. If the girls didn’t do it to him, who did the bullies victimize? Even Ashley didn’t have the nerve to ask further questions. Anyone could tell he wasn’t ready to reveal to a couple of strangers what had happened. I raised my brows, prompting her to say something to break the uncomfortable tension.

“Why do we have lessons on Saturdays?” she asked.

He raised his head and smoothed his expression. “Those are prep times.” At her blank look, he added, “Prep is a form of homework we do before classes. The basics that we can grasp on our own by reading through textbooks or journal articles online or in the library.”

“So we can skip it, then?”

“Only if you want to fall behind in classes.”

The bell rang. We both pulled out our schedules to check where we were supposed to go.

“Ashley, you have English at the end of the hallway, and…” He peered at my schedule. “Advanced Calculus is upstairs in the attic.”

Our Advanced Calculus teacher reminded me of Mr. Floo, the tutor Mom and Dad had hired in London to help me win the Nautilus prize for infinitesimal mathematics. Except Miss Weil was female while Mr. Floo had been male. She was young, fuzzy-haired, and bright-eyed about her subject, even though there were only two desks in the room.

“Miss Evergreen?” The teacher gestured with both hands. “Come in, come in, and sit next to Mr. Kashaayah.”

My stomach dropped. In a school of hundreds of students, why did I have to sit next to the boy with a perpetual scowl?

As Miss Weil turned around and scribbled on the blackboard, I took the only unoccupied desk and turned to Prakash. “Hi.”

“Stay away from Cormac Gibbons,” he said from the corner of his mouth.

“Why?”

“Mrs. Benazir made him a prefect after his twin sister died, and it’s turned him into a tyrant.”

“Because he stands up to you?”