This Boy

by Jenna Scott

  I’m already on high alert as he saunters over to the desk next to mine. Every ounce of him oozes pure confidence, from the way he carries himself to how his blazer hugs his perfect shoulders and biceps. The haphazardly knotted tie and casually disheveled hair only add to his obnoxious hotness in a way that should be criminal.

  It takes everything I have not to get up and leave. I can’t believe Hunter Beck has once again found a way to ruin the brightest part of my day.

  “How’s it going?” he says, dragging the adjacent chair closer to mine. My fingers are clutching my pen so tightly it hurts.

  “Fine,” I say. “We should start on the assignment.” My voice is steady and controlled as I start to unfold the slip of paper with our debate topic on it.

  “Hey, um, Hunter?” the girl sitting behind Hunter interrupts. Her golden hair falls in perfect beachy waves, and she tucks a strand behind her ear with a smile.

  Lazily, Hunter cranes his head around to look at her. “Hey, um, Hillary?” he replies, copying her speech pattern exactly.

  She giggles at this, and so do two of her equally pretty friends at neighboring desks. “I was just wondering if you’ll be at the party? On Friday?” Hillary touches Hunter’s shoulder, then trails her fingers down his arm. He doesn’t flinch, and judging by her casual groping of him, it seems like they’ve hooked up before. “I was thinking of going, but…I don’t want to if you won’t be there.”

  “Me neither,” one of the other girls chimes in. “Maybe we can all hang out together. All three of us.”

  The innuendo is anything but subtle. God, has he slept with the whole school?

  Hunter just shrugs noncommittally. “If you want to go, you should go. I might stop by.”

  I clear my throat loudly and give them all the side-eye. “We have work to do.”

  Hillary makes an irritated huffing sound and whips around, blonde hair flying. Her friends lean closer, and they all start whispering. Probably about what a troll I am.

  Turning back to me again, Hunter crosses his arms over his chest. “So why are you even taking debate? You want to be a lawyer or something?”

  “I might,” I say just to spite him.

  “Ha.” The laugh is short and clipped. “Sorry to break it to you, but only money-hungry liars and scumbags are allowed to be lawyers. You’re way too good a person to be going into law.”

  Heat reaches my cheeks at the backhanded compliment. “You don’t know what kind of person I am.”

  “Yeah, I do,” he says. “You babysit my brother, remember?”

  “Hunterrr,” Hillary interrupts again, passing her phone to him. “This is what I was thinking of wearing to the party.”

  He looks at the photo on the screen, that lazy, rakish smile back on his lips. “Yeow. You really want me to go that badly?”

  I can only imagine what he’s looking at. Some trashy minidress and spike heels? Lacy lingerie? Handcuffs?

  “Do you mind saving this conversation for later?” I say to Hunter. “Believe it or not, some of us actually care about our grades.”

  “Excuse me, who even are you?” Her nostrils flare, and she waves her hand in front of her made-up face. “Never mind. I don’t care.”

  She turns back to her friends, and they resume chatting—not about their debate topics, might I add—and shooting me some powerful stink eye. I pretend not to notice.

  Meanwhile, Hunter doesn’t even bother to hide the fact that he’s texting on his cell phone under the desk. I know I could tattle to Ms. Spencer, but then I’d have to deal with him retaliating later, and that’s the last thing I want. Still, I’m not going to let him ruin this class—or the entire school—for me.

  So I do what I’ve always done: keep my head down and work my hardest. If he’s not going to participate, I’ll just start researching our topic by myself.

  I’m not going to let Hunter Beck throw me off my game.

  But as I smooth out the folded scrap of paper, I can’t help letting out a dry laugh at our assigned topic: Is marriage an outdated institution?

  I have a feeling I know exactly where Hunter’s opinions on the subject lie.

  Chapter Five

  Camilla

  When the bell rings, I’m the first to shoot up out of my seat, and I immediately begin packing up my things. Reaching the door as fast as humanly possible is the goal. But after slinging my bag over my shoulder, I only make it two steps before Hunter says, “Aren’t you going to say goodbye?”

  I halt, pivoting to face him and totally confused. Seriously, what is up with this guy? Why does he even care when he’s been nothing but rude to me?

  Then, in his hands, I see it. My spiral notebook, held out like it’s a peace offering. “You forgot this.”

  My eyebrows draw together—is Hunter actually being decent to me?

  Still unable to interpret his intentions, I tentatively reach for the notebook. “Thanks,” I murmur, taking it.

  Other students are looking over, and some—like Hillary—don’t even bother to pretend they’re not interested in watching Hunter slaughter the new lamb at school.

  “No problem,” he says. “See you later, Camilla.”

  Hearing him say my name makes my stomach twist. His eyes burn into me as I slip the notebook in my bag, and I can still feel him watching me as I dart out of the classroom.

  After a quick stop at my locker, I head out of Oak Academy along with the other kids who are streaming down the front steps and then start walking toward the bus stop shelter. The plastic enclosure stands next to the school’s parking lot, but all the benches inside are taken. I’m left standing outside sweating in the direct sunlight, head bent over my cell phone as I wait.

  Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m navigating over to Stanford’s familiar cardinal-and-white website, sighing as I scroll through pictures of the campus and all its smiling college students sprawled out on the grass. My dream of going there is half the reason I babysit and hoard all my earnings—and I say half because I genuinely like taking care of Harrison. But even with my babysitting money, I’m still going to need a scholarship. Tuition is $50,000 per year, and that’s before housing and living expenses. The state schools are a lot less expensive, sure, but they’re also less prestigious.

  Suddenly, loud music blares, and I see a flash of white in the corner of my eye. My head snaps up, and I find myself looking at a tinted-window BMW that I’ve seen enough times to recognize it immediately. Hunter leaning back in the driver’s seat isn’t unexpected, but the fact that the passenger-side window is down and that he’s looking right at me is.

  I’m not sure if I should wave or wait for him to say something, so I just stand there like an idiot, unable to tear my eyes away from his, thinking he might actually offer me a ride. We’re going to the same place after all, and it would be a nice change not having to ride a hot, packed bus that takes twice as long to get to his neighborhood.

  He’d been nice to me at the end of class, so maybe…

  With a squeal of tires, he zooms onto the street, his windows rolling up before he speeds off. God, what a jerk. He saw me waiting here, and he knows exactly where I’m going. Guess he didn’t want anyone to see him fraternizing with “the help.”

  I remember the girls from class, glaring and whispering, and the ones in the hall this morning, all laughing at me. By the time the bus rolls up, I’m full-on stewing.

  In the end, I’m glad I didn’t get a ride with Hunter. After all, I have some urgent personal errands to attend to—the kind I’d be embarrassed to have to explain to him.

  Hopping off the bus a stop earlier than usual, I duck into a branch of my mom’s bank and deposit cash into her checking account, then immediately dial the power company and spend the walk to the Becks’ house on my phone. I’ve had to do this kind of thing so many times that I’ve got my mom’s debit card memorized at this point, and I’m beyond relieved when the woman at SDG&E confirms that the payment went through. She assures me that
a tech will reconnect us within the next few hours, which means our electricity will be back on by the time I get home tonight.

  I make one more stop at a corner store to grab a bag of salt and vinegar chips and an iced tea. It isn’t the healthiest after-school snack, but it’s what I’m craving, and besides, I need fuel for the long, sweaty walk I have ahead of me.

  My school bag feels like an anvil on my back when I finally turn on to Hunter’s street. His neighborhood is all giant houses that resemble modern art made of steel and glass and perfectly manicured landscaping, which none of the owners actually maintain themselves. That’s what they pay people like my mom and me for. And Mr. Martinez, whom I wave to when I spot him mowing the lawn at the Becks’ neighbor’s house.

  Sweat trickles along my hairline as I walk down the Becks’ long driveway of fancy paving stones, and I remove my blazer and loosen my tie so I can breathe a little easier. I see Hunter’s BMW parked in front of the garage, and I linger next to the car for a moment as I fish the house keys from my bag. I’m sorely tempted to drag their sharp edges across the flawless, pearly-white paint, but of course I’d never actually do it. The CCTV would incriminate me, and having a record for destruction of personal property probably wouldn’t impress the Stanford admissions committee.

  Unlocking the door, I step into the Becks’ foyer and hang my bag and jacket on the fancy rustic wood coatrack. The ice cold air conditioning envelops me, and I let out a sigh of pleasure. I’m excited to see Harry, but I can’t help praying his older brother stays out of my sight for the rest of the day.

  I’ve had it up to here with Hunter Beck.

  Chapter Six

  Camilla

  The thing that has always struck me most about the Becks’ house is how impersonal it is. They had this place custom built over a decade ago, yet it gives off a vibe similar to a luxury hotel. Expensive abstract art on the walls, sleek, modern furniture, lots of neutral beige and black tones. There’s a big family portrait hung in the front foyer, but everyone is stiff and posed. Even little Harry has a serious face in it.

  What’s missing? Personality, I suppose. I’ve seen the places where my mom has kept house before, homes for the upper middle class ranging up to the very wealthy. They usually have some indication of human warmth; splashes of color, little tchotchkes on the shelves, or messy piles of books and magazines. Not here.

  Then again, I can’t really speak from my own experience. My mom and I never stay anywhere long enough for our apartments to feel like they’re more than just places to eat and sleep and breathe. Half the time, I don’t even unpack my moving boxes. And to be honest, there’s no previous town I’d want to return to; no four walls I truly miss.

  As I pass the living room, I see Hunter kneeling on the floor with Harrison.

  “You’re late,” Hunter says, barely glancing at me as I walk by. “It’s 3:30 p.m..”

  The urge to point out the fact that he could have easily given me a ride is strong, but I push it down. “I had a few errands to run. And I’m technically not late, I just usually get here early because of the bus schedule. Harry, I’ll be right back.”

  “Touché,” Hunter responds, but I’m already heading down the hallway toward the huge kitchen.

  My mom is there, rinsing dishes in the copper farmhouse-style sink. I’d randomly mentioned to Mrs. Beck how pretty it is one time, and she told me the name of the company that made it, but when I looked online just to dream about owning such a fancy item myself someday, I found out that it costs twenty-five hundred dollars. Yeah. For a kitchen sink. It boggles the mind.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say, putting my half-empty iced tea bottle in the fridge.

  I’m practically drooling at the smell of chicken roasting in the oven, and I see a pan of wine sauce on the stove and chopped vegetables on a cutting board waiting to be cooked. This is part of her job, I get it, but I can’t help wishing she’d make dinner at home once in a while. She’s good at it. But I guess it’s too hard to work all day and then come home and work more. I’m lucky I get to have leftovers at the Becks’ sometimes.

  “Mom?” I repeat. “How’s your day going?”

  She hasn’t acknowledged me. Just keeps rinsing the dishes, then loading them into the dishwasher, going back and forth on autopilot. When I step closer, I notice how her eyes are glazed and distant. It’s how she usually looks after several glasses of bourbon—like she’s somewhere far away and just totally numb to reality. Except she doesn’t smell like booze, and as far as I know, she doesn’t drink on the job.

  Which means she’s either ignoring me on purpose or something entirely different is giving her those unfocused eyes and mechanical movements. Maybe she’s stressed about SDG&E.

  “I called the power company and got the bill taken care of, so you don’t need to worry,” I tell her.

  Suddenly, she whips her gaze in my direction, zeroing in on the bag of salt and vinegar chips in my hand. “Are you really eating those, Milla? Fried foods have carcinogens. Did you even check to see how much saturated fat is in them?”

  “I didn’t eat the whole bag,” I say defensively, dropping what’s left of them in the trash before she can inspect the nutrition label and give me a lecture about the evils of processed snack foods.

  She shakes her head. “You need to pick something healthier next time. And fix a snack for the kid. He said he was hungry earlier.”

  “You couldn’t make him something?” I ask, immediately worried for Harry.

  A scowl of indignation crosses her face. “That’s your job, not mine. You should be grateful I’m here to cover for you during the week.”

  No How was your first day at the new school?, no Thanks for covering that electricity bill. Just the usual criticism and straight-up judgment.

  She’s right about one thing, though. Harry gets home from school at 1:30 p.m., and I usually don’t get here until three., though my shift “officially” starts at 3:30 p.m. four hours late.. If my mom wasn’t able to keep half an eye on him for that crucial time gap, the Becks would just hire another nanny, and I’d have no job and no income.

  Still, she has zero excuse for not cutting up an apple or even handing the kid a banana. Harry’s probably starving.

  As I start slicing kiwi and strawberries, I have to bite my tongue to keep from pushing the point with my mom any further. If we start arguing, I know it’ll escalate, and when my mom is pissed, she gets loud. I’d die if any of the Becks walked in on us.

  On top of that, we’d probably be fired, and we can’t afford to lose our jobs right now. Especially after the Incident—though I’m sure the only reason we haven’t been given the boot already is because Hunter’s father doesn’t know what happened.

  “Take the chicken out of the oven when the timer rings.” Mom wipes her hands on a dish towel and smooths her shirt down. “I need to head out to the Muirwoods’.”

  “Sure. See you later.”

  After checking that the timer still has almost an hour left to go, I arrange the fruit I’ve cut up in the form of a smiley face on the plate. Kiwi slices for eyes, strawberries for the lips, and some goldfish-shaped pretzels and cubes of white cheddar for the hair. Harry will love it.

  I head out with the plate to go find him, hoping Hunter is gone. The route from the kitchen to the living room takes me past a room called the study, even though there are hardly any books, and I never see anyone studying there. Through the closed door, I can hear Mr. Beck’s laugh, his voice smooth and confident as he talks real estate business with someone he’s got on speakerphone. Mrs. Beck’s been away on a wellness retreat in Idlewild, but she’ll be back Wednesday morning.

  These parents—even when they’re home, they’re still a million miles away. It’s sad how alone Harrison is all the time. And Hunter, too, although I assume he’s old enough at this point not to care.

  I smile when I spot Harry sitting on the floor in the living room, Legos spread out on the rug and sorted into piles according to color. Bu
t one look at his downcast eyes while he absently snaps Legos together, and I deflate. He’d looked perky when I first walked in, but left here all alone, it’s almost like he’s shrunken into himself.

  This shitty day has spared no one, it seems.

  “Hey, Harry.” I kneel on the rug across from him and hold out the plate with the fruit between us. “Look what I brought.”

  He grins at the happy face on the plate, then up at me, his small fingers immediately reaching for a slice of kiwi. “Thanks, Milla.”

  “Sorry my mom didn’t make you anything. Sometimes she’s worse than Umbridge.” I snag a pretzel fish and pop one into my mouth. “So what are you building? Can I help?”

  I receive a very enthusiastic nod, which tells me I’m on the right track to perking him up. “It’s a castle! But I don’t think I have enough Legos for the second tower…”

  “Hmm, let’s see.” I take in the scene, doing a quick mental calculation. “Does it have to be this big of a castle? If we make it smaller on the bottom, you’ll have enough bricks left to build another tower on this side.”

  He considers. “That could work,” he says and proceeds to dismantle the base he’d built. We snack on cheese and fruit and get to it.

  It’s when I’m watching him reach over to grab a blue brick that I notice it.

  The inside of his bicep has a red mark on it. I instinctively grab his wrist and gently turn it so I can get a better look at his upper arm. Looks like a handprint almost, and the more I look, the harder I frown.

  “What happened here, bud? Did someone grab you?”

  “Um…” He looks down and bites his small lip. “I think it was at school. When I was playing in the jungle gym with my friends.”

  My breath leaves my nose in a sharp hiss. I have no reason to doubt him, but still, I can’t help worrying that he’s not telling me the whole truth.