The Raven Boys

And that was when the vision had ended.

Gansey had always felt as if there were two of him: the Gansey who was in control, able to handle any situation, able to talk to anyone, and then, the other, more fragile Gansey, strung out and unsure, embarrassingly earnest, driven by naive longing. That second Gansey loomed inside him now, more than ever, and he didn’t like it.

He punched the key code (Helen’s birthday) into the pad by the garage door. The garage, as large as the house, was all stone and wood and arched ceilings, a stable housing several thousand horses tucked away under hoods.

Like Dick Gansey III, Dick Gansey II also adored old cars, but unlike Dick Gansey III, all of the elder Gansey’s cars had been returned to elegant perfection by teams of restoration experts who were familiar with terms like rotisserie and Barrett-Jackson. Most had been imported from Europe and many had right-hand drive or came with owner’s manuals in foreign languages. And most important, his father’s cars were all famous in some way: They’d been owned by a celebrity or been part of a movie shoot or had once been involved in a collision with a historical figure.

Gansey settled on a Peugeot the color of vanilla ice cream that had probably been owned by Lindbergh or Hitler or Marilyn Monroe. Leaning back in the seat, his feet resting on the pedals, Gansey thumbed through the cards in his wallet and eventually dialed the school guidance counselor, Mr. Pinter. While the phone rang, he conjured up that in-control version of himself that he knew lurked inside.

"Mr. Pinter? I’m sorry to call you after hours," Gansey said. He ran his pile of business and credit cards over the steering wheel. The interior of the entire car reminded him a lot of his mother’s kitchen mixer. The gearshift looked like it might make a serviceable meringue when it wasn’t moving the car from first to second. "This is Richard Gansey."

"Mr. Gansey," Pinter said. He took a very long time to say the syllables, during which Gansey imagined him struggling to put a face to the name. Pinter was a tidy, motivated man that Gansey called "very traditional" and Ronan deemed "a cautionary tale."

"I’m calling on behalf of Ronan Lynch."

"Ah."

Pinter didn’t need any time to put a face to that name. "Well, I can’t really discuss the specifics of Mr. Lynch’s imminent expulsion —"

"With all due respect, Mr. Pinter," Gansey interrupted, fully aware that he was not allotting any due respect to him by so doing, "I’m not sure you’re aware of our specific situation."

He scratched the back of his head with a credit card while he explained Ronan’s fragile emotional state, the agonizing trials of sleepwalking, the affirming joys of Monmouth Manufacturing, and the strides they’d made since Ronan came to live with him. Gansey concluded with a thesis statement of just how successful he was certain Ronan Lynch would be, once he found a way to patch the hemorrhaging, Niall-Lynch-shaped hole in his heart.

"I’m not entirely convinced that Mr. Lynch’s future success is the kind that Aglionby nurtures," Pinter said.

"Mr. Pinter," Gansey protested, although he was inclined to agree with him on this point. He spun the knob on the window crank. "Aglionby has an incredibly varied and complex student body. It’s one of the reasons why my parents selected it for me."

Really, it had been four hours of Google and a persuasive phone call with his father, but Pinter didn’t need to know that.

"Mr. Gansey, I appreciate your concern for your frie —"

"Brother," Gansey interrupted. "Really, I’ve come to see him as a brother. And to my parents, he’s a son. In every sense of the word. Emotionally, practically, fiscally."

Pinter didn’t say anything.

"Last time he visited, my father thought the Aglionby library looked a little sparse in the nautical history department," Gansey said. He stuck the credit card in the air vents to see how far it would go before meeting resistance. He had to grab the card before it disappeared in the bowels of the car. "He remarked that it looked like an, oh, thirty-thousand-dollar-sized gap in the funding."

Pinter’s voice was a little deeper as he said, "I don’t think you understand why Mr. Lynch’s time at Aglionby is being threatened. He utterly flaunts school regulations and seems to have nothing but contempt for his academics. We have given him leeway considering his extremely difficult personal circumstances, but he seems to forget that attending Aglionby Academy is a privilege, not a chore. His expulsion is meant to be effective Monday."

Gansey leaned forward and rested his head against the steering wheel. Ronan, Ronan, why …

He said, "I know he’s screwing up. I know he should’ve been kicked out a long time ago. Just give me to the end of the school year. I can get him through his finals."

"He hasn’t been to any classes, Mr. Gansey."

"I can get him through his finals."

For a long moment there was silence. Gansey heard a television playing in the background.

Finally, Pinter said, "He has to make Bs in all of his finals. And toe the line until then or he’s out of Aglionby immediately. He doesn’t have any more chances."

Sitting up, Gansey let out his breath. "Thank you, sir."

"Also, don’t forget about your father’s interest in our nautical history section. I’ll be watching for it."

And Ronan thought he had nothing to learn from Pinter. Gansey smiled grimly at the dashboard, though he was as far away from amused as he’d ever been. "The boats have always been a big part of our life. Thanks for picking up the phone after hours."

"Enjoy your weekend, Mr. Gansey," Pinter replied.

Gansey clicked END and tossed the phone onto the dashboard. Closing his eyes, he breathed a swear word. Gansey had dragged Ronan through his midterms. Surely he could do it again. He had to do it again.

The Peugeot rocked as someone got into the passenger seat. For a breathless moment, Gansey thought, Noah?

But then, his father said, "Are you being seduced by this French beauty? This makes your mullet car seem pretty coarse, doesn’t it?"

Gansey opened his eyes. Beside him, his father ran a palm over the dash of the car and then inspected it for dust. He squinted at Gansey as if he could determine the state of his son’s health and mental facilities merely by looking at him.

"It’s nice," Gansey said. "Not really me, though."