by Jenna Scott
At the end of the hall is the master bedroom, the door wide open. I’ve been in here before with Harry, quick dashes to look for toys or speak briefly with Mr. or Mrs. Beck, but it’s the view of the pool that I’m after as I cross the empty room and go to the sliding glass balcony doors. If Hunter and his female friend are still down there, I can slip out the front door in a hurry without crossing paths with them again. The last thing I need tonight is more harassment from a couple of privileged trust fund babies who’ll probably never have to work a day in their lives.
When I look down, I see them in the hot tub, facing the view of the ocean. The girl is drinking from a bottle that I hope doesn’t contain actual alcohol, but then again, I’m sure she can afford an Uber home. I’d better get going while the going’s good.
As I hurriedly cross the room back toward the door, I see a walk-in closet to my left, full to bursting with designer clothes and shoes, a low sofa, and a full-length mirror that dimly reflects my shabby jeans-and-T-shirted self right back at me.
I also see Mrs. Beck’s makeup and jewelry strewn all over the dressing table, her diamonds shining in the stray moonlight coming in through the balcony doors. Everywhere I look, thoughtless luxury looks back. Standing there in my ratty Chuck Taylors, I feel exactly like what I am: a dirt-poor girl who doesn’t belong in this space.
Without wasting any more precious time, I go down to the first floor, grab my backpack from the coat closet, and rush out of the house.
Chapter Two
Camilla
The whole bus ride home, I can’t stop thinking about what I saw: Hunter and his flavor of the week, going at it in the family pool. The humiliation I felt when he called me “servant girl” is still there, raging under the surface, but as the indelible image of his athletic, tanned body comes back to me, I’m faced with one question I still can’t answer. Why was he looking at me and not the girl he was literally inside of? Because I’m pretty sure I didn’t imagine his eyes locked on me while he was finishing.
As I fumble for my keys outside the door of our tiny apartment, I’m relieved to find the lights are out, but any hope I have that my mom is asleep gets dashed as soon as I step inside and the stench of cheap bourbon invades my nose, carried on a warm wave of musty old carpet and the bleach-and-lemon smell of cleaning supplies that always lingers around my mother.
Thoughts of having a quiet evening at home quickly scatter when my mom, sitting on the couch in complete darkness, speaks from across the room.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” she slurs as I drop my bag and set my house keys in the bowl by the door.
“Harry went to bed a little late,” I tell her, holding up my phone—a.k.a. my emergency flashlight—and she hisses, throwing up an arm to cover her eyes.
She’s slouched against the worn cushions with a glass clutched in her hand, and I don’t need to look at the floor to know there’s an almost-empty bottle sitting there.
“Turn that thing off. I have a migraine,” she says. “And get me more ice.”
“Sure,” I say. It’s easier than arguing.
I walk into the small galley kitchen, feeling like I’m enabling her, but I already know nothing I say or do will convince her to stop drinking—believe me, I’ve tried. For years I tried, until eventually I got tired of having her yell and slap the effort out of me. Hopefully my ice-fetching will be the extent of our interaction tonight. It’s always hard to see her like this, no matter how many times it’s happened before. Because I’ve seen her in the brief periods where she gets herself under control, and she’s vibrant and energetic and present. So it hurts even more every time she backslides into…this.
Setting my phone on the counter, I flip the light switch, but the bulb stays dark overhead. I try the switch for the garbage disposal, and that’s dead too. Lovely. The power’s out. With a sigh, I grab a clean glass from the cupboard, but when I turn around, I realize the fridge has also gone silent thanks to our localized blackout. Shit.
As soon as I open the freezer door, water pours out. With a single touch, I realize all our frozens—which is most of our food—have defrosted.
I swallow the growl rumbling at the back of my throat. The water is dripping from the open freezer down the front of the fridge, so I soak up what I can with kitchen towels, then twist them out in the sink, then repeat.
As I clean, I think about how I’m going to have to grab some groceries this week, maybe cereal and canned goods to get us by for a few days. I’ll need to use savings from my secret stash again. I hate dipping into my college fund, but when it’s between that and starving, I don’t have much choice. These are all things I shouldn’t have to worry about, but someone in this house has to.
Lucky for Mom, the ice tray in the back of the freezer still has a few chunks of ice in it, so I drop them into the clean glass, then head back out to the living room.
“This is all that’s left of the ice,” I say, handing her the fresh glass and taking her empty one.
“Hmm,” is all she musters, pouring the rest of the bourbon into the glass.
“So…what happened to the electricity?” I ask as gently as I can. “And why are you still up? It’s after ten.”
It’s her daily ritual to drink herself senseless as soon as she gets home from her long hours of cooking for other people and cleaning their houses, and her shifts start so early that she’s usually passed out in bed long before now.
“I didn’t pay the bill, and it’s too hot to sleep without the AC,” she says.
Then she shrugs, like it’s no big deal she ruined the majority of our food supply, like we don’t need things like light and ceiling fans and alarm clocks.
“Okay,” I say. It’s not worth fighting over it. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”
“I don’t have the money,” she murmurs. “For the bill.”
I take a long breath. The whole reason we moved to La Jolla—a ritzy seaside community where we can barely afford even the crappiest, most run-down apartment—is all the mansions. Mom had bragged she was going to be making major bank cleaning houses here. But what she didn’t factor in was how much higher the cost of living would be, how often her piece of crap car would break down, and that no matter how good her paychecks are, she always manages to drink away the majority of them.
“Fine. I’ll take care of it,” I tell her. “Just try to get some rest soon, okay?”
She obviously can’t afford to miss work, but I still feel like a brat for telling her what to do. As I grab my backpack from the floor and then walk past her to go to my room, I feel her eyes following me.
“Are you gaining weight, Milla?” she asks.
In the hallway, I freeze. “I don’t know,” I say, trying to deflect. “I’m tired.”
“You need to exercise more. Men don’t marry thick women,” she reminds me, as if I haven’t heard it all before. As if the cheap processed food and ninety-nine cent drive-thru menus we live off of should have turned me into a supermodel by now.
She may be skinny, thanks to a strict diet of booze and Diet Cokes, but she definitely isn’t healthy. And if she’s so concerned about my body, she should start caring about hers too and how the alcohol is ruining whatever’s left of it, inside and out. But those words won’t ever leave my lips.
There are fights worth getting into and fights you walk away from. This is the latter. Especially because we’ve rehashed the subject so many times that I know exactly how she’s going to turn everything around on me, and then I’ll just end up apologizing.
“Maybe someone will love me for me,” I finally tell her softly, tugging at the hem of my shirt so it covers the curve of my belly.
She laughs, and it feels like a kick in the gut. It takes everything I have inside to just clench my jaw, go in my room, and lock the door behind me.
My room is smaller than any of the Becks’ walk-in closets, but at least it’s mine, and I’m grateful for that. Most of the apartments we’ve lived in have only
had one room for me and Mom to share, and sometimes all we could afford was a one-room studio. As shabby as this place is, it’s a palace compared to some.
I sink onto my twin bed in the dark, hot tears stinging my eyes. Anger is what I should be feeling, but instead I just feel worthless.
The criticism feels especially cruel coming from someone as stunningly beautiful as my mom. There’s no way I’ll ever measure up to her. Even with the alcohol taking the soft curves out of her cheeks and hips, she still turns heads wherever we go with her dark hair, long legs, and pouty lips. She’s the kind of mom who wears high heels and hoop earrings to go to the grocery store. The kind that teenage boys call a MILF. I have her same hair and deep brown doe eyes, but where she’s always somehow glamorous and edgy-looking, I’m just…me. A mousy, mostly average teenage girl.
She’s never understood why school matters so much to me or why I always have my nose in a book. In her point of view (which she swears is supported by actual scientific study), the world is easier on attractive people—and it’s stupid not to take advantage of your natural assets. The thing is, I don’t want to perpetuate that. Even if I could get ahead in life simply by being beautiful (which, ha), I’d rather know that my successes are the result of my own hard work. Beauty isn’t everything to me the way it is to her, and I refuse to believe that only a rich guy can rescue me from poverty.
It makes me wonder what kind of chip she has on her shoulder from her own parents, whom I’ve never met. Maybe they tried to drill that Prince Charming crap into her head too, and when it didn’t pan out, she decided it should be my life goal.
Or maybe she truly and honestly believes that marrying rich is my only viable prospect for a stable future. You’d think she’d support my college plans more, given my stellar GPA and the fact that my eventual job prospects could mean more money for the both of us, but no. She has zero faith in my ability to make something of myself on my own terms. The reminder is like a sledgehammer to the chest every time.
Of course, it hasn’t escaped me that she isn’t married to my own father, whoever he is—his identity is a topic that’s completely off-limits, though I’m not sure if it’s because he didn’t do right by her when she got pregnant or because she actually has no idea who he is. Either way, I can understand why she’d want me to avoid the same lonely fate. I just wish she’d back off and let me figure out my life on my own.
With a deep breath, I wipe my cheeks, pick up my bag, and set it on top of the desk in the corner. Then I use the ugly streetlight coming in through the window to take a look at my class schedule for tomorrow. I practically have it memorized by now, but my anxiety keeps me checking on it every single day anyway, as if it might rearrange itself behind my back when I’m not looking.
I start to build out a mental picture of my day as I go over each time slot. Classes start at 8:00 a.m., which means I have to be up at 6:00 a.m. to get to school on time to see my counselor, earlier if I want a shower. Which, after tonight, I definitely do. In fact, I’d be taking one right now if Mom wasn’t outside my door ready to pounce.
I switch out my jeans for sleep shorts in the dark, but when I go to set an alarm on my phone, I see the remaining battery—a whopping eight percent—and start to panic. What if my phone dies in the middle of the night and I don’t wake up in time for school? There’s no way I’m showing up late on my first day at Oak Academy.
Knowing me, I won’t sleep a wink now. Though with all the pre-school jitters, I doubt I would have anyway.
The truth is, I’m not looking forward to tomorrow at all. But how can I waste such an amazing opportunity? I can only chalk up the generous scholarship that OA offered me, supposedly from “an anonymous benefactor,” to an actual act of God—especially after the Incident I don’t even want to think about got me kicked out of my last school. And Oak Academy has the kind of pedigree that will go a long way toward getting me into my dream college: Stanford. I’d be a fool to turn down a free ride at this place, regardless of how much I’m not looking forward to going.
A fresh wave of panic rolls through me, and I press my palms to my eyelids, forcing myself to breathe. I need to get it together. This is my future on the line.
One last to-do on my list before bed. The uniform.
Popping open one of the Rubbermaid bins that acts as my dresser drawers, I pull out my new clothes and drape them over my desk chair. Because of course the fancy private school has a mandatory uniform, just like you see in every movie adaptation of a YA novel that involves a boarding school.
But although Vampire Academy had cute black skirts and jackets, and Hogwarts had cool robes and ties in striped house colors, Oak Academy…well,we get a white shirt, a navy tie, and a navy jacket on top. The khaki pleated skirt is knee-length, and girls are required to wear tights underneath, lest the sight of our bare knees lead anyone’s dirty mind astray. The whole ensemble is completed by non-descript dark flats with short heels (no taller than an inch and a half) allowed if desired.
As I slide my collection of stuffed animals aside—a plush Hedwig, old Mr. Bear, and the even older Rudolph—and slip under the comforter and my scratchy old sheets, I take a final look at the uniform I’m going to be wearing every day. At least I won’t have to worry about being dressed in my worn Target brand jeans and a thrift store button-up while everyone else is walking around in Ralph Lauren or Gucci. The only thing they can ream me for are my shoes. My gut tells me they’re going to.
On top of that, Hunter Beck may already be planning to sabotage any chance I have at fitting in anyway. Maybe the whole school will be calling me “servant girl.”
Just like that, the image of him in the pool earlier tonight comes back to me full force. I should be thinking about nothing except what a scumbag he is, but instead I’m stuck on the way he groaned when he came, breathless and desperate, stirring something in me that I can’t put words to.
The scene plays out in my mind, over and over again, in minute detail. Why can’t I stop thinking about it? About the way he moved, slow and then faster, harder, grinding into that girl until she was moaning his name. The way his mouth parted, his lower lip full and soft, the way he never took his eyes off me.
The lust and hunger I saw in his gaze stays with me, and soon I feel a deep ache between my legs that won’t go away. Hunter Beck, pumping into that girl, groaning softly, dark eyes burning into mine.
It’s all I can think of as I drift into a restless sleep.
Chapter Three
Camilla
First days of school are always the worst. And I’d know—with all the moving I’ve done in my life, I’ve had plenty.
After a quick shower (thankfully, the landlord pays for our heat and hot water) and a breakfast of cold strawberry Pop-Tarts, I run to the bus stop in my brand new uniform with my stomach in knots. Mom somehow got up on time for work without an alarm clock this morning, which is a blessing.
As I wait for the bus, I make a mental note to call San Diego Gas & Electric about our overdue bill as soon as my phone is charged. I grabbed two hundred dollars from my secret stash this morning, which I’ll have to deposit at my mom’s bank after school in order to make the payment. I hope it’s enough to cover what we owe.
Forty minutes later, I get dropped off down the street from the most prestigious school in a two-hundred-mile radius, and as I walk toward it, a sense of awe hits me all over again. Though I’ve passed the Spanish-style, red-roofed complex many times, I never thought I’d be crossing the hallowed marble steps of the main entrance. The uniform helps me blend in, but I can feel several pairs of eyes on me, which I try to ignore as I follow the signs to the counselor’s office.
When I get there, I see a shiny plaque next to the door that reads Alaine Warren, PhD, and underneath, in much smaller letters, Guidance Counselor.
My knock is as frantic as my breath, which I’m trying to catch after running up the stairs and across two corridors. I shift my weight from foot to foot until I hear a �
�Come in.”
Stepping inside, I see a youngish woman in a tailored pinstriped blazer with a wristful of chunky gold bracelets sitting behind the desk, an expectant look on her face.
“I’m sorry I’m late, Ms. Warren. I got—”
“Dr. Warren,” she pointedly corrects while she motions for me to take a seat. “I didn’t spend all those years in college for nothing. Camilla Hanson, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I look over the desk that separates us, taking in the gold-framed diplomas on the wall, the fancy pens, and the neat stack of files at Dr. Warren’s elbow.
I wonder if one of those is my student file. The thought makes me feel sick.
If she knows about the Incident, however, she makes no mention of it as she looks over my transcript from La Mesa High, and if she’s surprised at my straight As and high standardized testing scores, it doesn’t show on her face.
“Do you need a copy of your schedule?” she finally asks.
“No, thank you. I already printed it out,” I say.
She cracks a smile, and for the first time today, I feel myself relax. “You come prepared. I like that. Did you get all your college applications in for the January deadlines? Where did you apply?”
“A few UC schools, a few CSUs, and Stanford, which is my dream,” I tell her, knowing the question was probably her polite way of asking if I was even considering college, given that I’m a charity case here.
