by Jenna Scott
“By the way,” he says, “there’s a party on Friday. Wanna come?”
I don’t look up from my English assignment. “I don’t know. Is this the same party all the popular kids have been talking about?”
“Probably. Why?”
A long breath escapes my nose, and I set my reading aside. “Do you remember that first day? When we left World History and—”
“What, and Hunter and all those girls were laughing?” His brows come together. “I mean, I guess. But I wouldn’t worry about them. Beck can be a dick, and those girls will do anything they think he wants, but it’s not like you have to hang out with them.”
“The thing is, I work for him. For his parents, I mean. I’m their nanny, and my mom is their housekeeper.” I don’t know why I’m comfortable spilling my secrets, but something about Emmett just makes me feel…safe. “I’m pretty sure he’s told the whole school about it already, and if not, then they probably know I’m on a need-based scholarship. Don’t pretend you don’t know how most richie-rich La Jollans look at poor people like me.”
Emmett frowns. “That’s bullshit. But yeah, I get it. Last year, Kenny Johnson moved here from East L.A., and they gave him a shitty time until he single-handedly took the basketball team to nationals. Zero to hero in a second.”
It’s such a rich-person thing to despise those you assume are “below” you until they prove themselves. “Too bad I suck at basketball then,” I say drily.
“So that’s why you don’t want to go to the party? Because Hunter might be there, acting like a dick?”
“Not just him. There was this…thing during debate class, and the girls who were there are going to the party too. They already seem to hate me for some reason,” I say.
Emmett knows I’m not as well-off as he is, but he still doesn’t know about my alcoholic mother or the Incident. Parties and I don’t gel, and I’d rather stay home and read than go out to some rando’s house and get wasted. He looks disappointed, though, and it was nice of him to invite me, so I add, “But I don’t know. We’ll see. And please don’t tell anyone I babysit his brother.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” he tells me, and I don’t doubt it.
The conversation switches to colleges, and I find out that a lot of our dream schools are the same—Stanford’s number one for me, then Berkeley, UCLA, UC Santa Barbara (I’ll admit, it’s for the beaches), CSU Long Beach—except that Emmett has a lot more viable options than I do. And not because his family is monetarily comfortable.
“See, Mom tells me not to go into accounting, and Dad tells me not to go into medicine, but they’ll both support me even if I want to make bad life choices like choosing a career that’s all work and very little play.” He runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “My siblings are even worse. Carlos is at NYU, Angie’s at Harvard in Boston, and they’re both begging me to go to school there and move in with them.”
“Lucky,” I say. “It’s going to be hard to choose. I’ll be in Cali no matter what.”
“I wouldn’t mind staying close to my parents,” he muses.
Meanwhile, I’ve barely talked to my mom about college. I’m afraid to, I guess, in the same way she’s afraid to open those letters from the property manager. I know she won’t be supportive about it. In fact, if she were here, she’d probably pull me aside and pressure me to make a move on Emmett—say something about how I need to lock him down before some college co-ed takes him away.
“So where do you want to end up?” I ask. “Not just for school, but in the long run. Do you have a plan?”
“That’s the thing—I don’t know,” Emmett says. “And they want us to be so sure of ourselves for those college application essays. ‘Tell us your story.’ ‘Talk about your dreams and how you’re going to change the world’ and all that.” He picks up one of the surviving cookies and chews on it. “Wherever I get in, it’s not going to be based on my essay. Everything about me is just so…average. What about you?”
“I had a hard time too,” I admit. “It seemed like we were supposed to write about some magical life experience and how it transformed us, but I couldn’t think of a single one to talk about because my life is pure shit.”
“Camilla…”
“No, really. It’s such shit it’s embarrassing.” I reach for the coffee cup so I have something to do with my hands and then turn to face him. “You want to know the reason we move so much? It’s because my mom’s first priority is alcohol. I’ve lost count of the places where we’ve been evicted, the jobs she’s been fired from. Nothing ever feels…stable. It’s like I’m always waiting for more bad news to drop.”
There’s a long pause and then Emmett says, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s just hard not to freak out thinking about the future. If I don’t get a really good scholarship package, I won’t be able to go to college at all. And then I’ll end up at some dead-end job that I hate, barely scraping by, just like my mom.”
“I bet you’ll get tons of scholarships,” Emmett says.
I let out a snort. “Yeah, I wish. Most of the scholarships go to students who write about all their community service or their extracurriculars, and I can’t compete with that. We’ve moved around too much for me to join any clubs, and I don’t have time for volunteer work when I’m so busy nannying.” I take a sip of the coffee, but it’s cold now. I feel hopeless.
“I get it.” Emmett nods to himself, pursing his lips. “The thing is—I know this might come off wrong—but did you ever think, I don’t know, maybe you should try to use your shitty life?”
“How so?”
“Well, those scholarship people probably get bored to death reading all the same essays every year. ‘I help old ladies cross the street,’ ‘I knit socks for shelter dogs,’ ‘football is my life,’ blah blah blah. But then they pull yours out of the pile, and they get something…real. Even if it’s shit, like you say, I’m sure it’ll have an impact. They’ll want to help you.”
“Right. Or the scholarship committee will just think I’m totally pathetic. Going for the pity vote.”
“Or they’ll see how hardworking you are and how motivated it’s made you,” Emmett insists, all seriousness. “Don’t be ashamed of the hand you were dealt. We don’t get to pick where we start, but we do have a say in where we finish. These people will be impressed by that. Anyone would be.”
I look at him and take in his earnest expression, the way he doesn’t break eye contact. He believes in me. This guy barely even knows me, but he believes in me.
“Maybe you’re right.”
And just like that, I know I’ve made a friend.
Chapter Nine
Camilla
“Remember the one last year where Shapiro’s crappy punk band was playing so loud that someone called the cops? And everyone was like, climbing over the fence trying to run away because we were all drinking underage?” a voice is saying.
Girlish giggles echo off the tiled bathroom walls.
I roll my eyes at the banter that’s still going on behind the other stalls as I step out, straighten my blazer, and start to wash my hands.
Apparently, this conversation is far too urgent to be halted by customary human needs like peeing. In fact, it seems like all week, the only thing I’ve heard anyone at school talk about is this stupid party tomorrow night. Emmett is still bugging me to go.
Another girl chimes in, “OMG that was insane! Matt’s parties are always epic.”
“Yeah, except for the part where I had to hide in the neighbor kid’s treehouse for two hours because I didn’t have any pants on!” a third voice says.
It’s Thursday between classes, and after hanging out at Emmett’s last night, I’m actually starting to feel better about myself. Not just because his mom treated me like a princess or because Emmett’s the kind of person I can really be myself around. I think it has something to do with our talk about my scholarship essays. Maybe he’s right, and my hone
sty will get me that much closer to being able to live my own life.
Even my reflection looks better in the mirror. My chin is high, my eyes are bright, and the freckles across my nose (the ones I usually try to hide with makeup) appear kind of whimsical and cute today. My long brown hair could definitely use a trim, and it’s a bit frizzy, but I can appreciate the way it falls in thick, loose waves, especially since I can’t really afford styling products for it. Air dry for the win.
Toilets flush, and I glance up in the mirror to see Hillary and her minions come out of their stalls. Of course it’s her. She and her two friends stand in a cluster behind me, inspecting themselves in the mirror like I’m not even here.
Hillary is rolling the waistband of her skirt to make her hem higher and then she turns around to get a view of the back of her thighs. “God, look at this. I have more cellulite than a freaking cow.”
Her friend laughs. “I don’t think cows have cellulite, Hill.”
The other girl dabs on a fresh layer of lip gloss and rolls her eyes. “No guy at this school is going to care once he has you locked in that room for seven minutes.”
That gives me pause. Locked in what room? And seven minutes…oh. Right.
They must be talking about seven minutes in heaven, the party game where you’re supposed to get locked in a dark closet with someone for seven minutes so you can paw at each other and make out. Wow, how fun. I’m clearly missing out.
“But Hillary doesn’t want just any guy,” the second girl says, turning to Hillary. “Did you find out if he’s going yet?”
“He’ll be there.” Hillary shifts to look at herself in profile, probably admiring her perfect little nose. I wish they’d stop blocking the paper towel dispenser so I can get to class before they start talking about Hunter because I’m sure that’s who they mean.
I’m not safe from his influence anywhere. Not even the sacred ground of the girls’ bathroom.
“I need to do like a thousand crunches before tomorrow night,” lip gloss girl is saying. “My pudge is out of control. Too many carbs this week. PMS.”
“Mm,” Hillary says, all faux sympathy.
Honestly, all three of them are a size nothing. It’s hard not to roll my eyes. And harder still to not compare myself to them, even though I know I shouldn’t.
I clear my throat and turn off the tap, then shake off my hands. The movement triggers exactly zero reaction from the girls, and they keep on blocking the dispenser while talking about which body parts they’d trade for other, better body parts.
Yeah. Time to get the hell out of here.
“Let’s all meet up at my house to get ready and then Uber over together,” Hillary says. “So, like—”
“Excuse me,” I interrupt politely. “I just need to grab a paper towel.”
At once, I’m the center of their collective attention. Like we’re tributes in The Hunger Games and they’ve allied against me.
They exchange a look before lip gloss girl steps back, allowing me to reach the paper towels. I pull one out, mutter a quiet thanks, and dry my hands. I pray they’ll go back to ignoring me and resuming their chitchat, but that would be too easy.
“Ooh, I have an idea.” The girl on Hillary’s left claps her hands, her charm bracelet jingling. “New girl should come to the party!”
Her comment leaves all of them giggling, and it’s obvious the suggestion is a sarcastic one.
“Thanks, but I already have plans,” I lie, tossing the wadded up paper towel in the trash. But when I try to leave, they close ranks on me, and I find myself blocked.
“That’s probably for the best,” lip gloss girl adds with a pitying smile. “Would you even have something nice to wear? I mean, that isn’t from the Salvation Army?”
The words hit me like a slap. Like they automatically assume I’m less than them because I can’t afford a dumb Chanel bag or five-hundred-dollar Jimmy Choo heels, like I should be ashamed for not being born to rich parents.
“That’s easy to solve.” Hillary smiles sweetly, and I’m still too stunned to move as she looks me over from head to toe. Between flight or fight, I’ve frozen in place and am completely at her mercy. “You can borrow one of my dresses,” she says.
Charm bracelet girl lets out a huge laugh. I can’t even imagine what I’d look like trying to squeeze into one of Hillary’s tiny dresses. Probably like a sausage ready to burst from its casing, and it’s clear they’re envisioning something similarly amusing.
“Parties really aren’t my thing,” I say, trying to squeeze by them.
The warning bell rings, and I’m thankful for it. We all have to get going.
“That’s too bad,” lip gloss girl says, glancing back at me as the three of them shuffle toward the door. “But it’s probably for the best. You wouldn’t fit in anyway.”
“Emma’s right,” Hillary adds gently with her bright white mannequin smile. “We prefer not to associate with the help. It’s tacky.”
With that, she flips her blonde hair over her shoulder and swans out the door.
My cheeks are hot, and my stomach is twisting. It’s not just the insult itself—it’s that the only way they’d know I’m “the help” is if Hunter had told them.
As I race to my next class, my shock and embarrassment turns into anger. So much for blending in here. Though if it weren’t for Hunter Beck’s trash talk, these girls wouldn’t have it out for me.
This is all Hunter’s fault.
Chapter Ten
Camilla
Screw it.
I’m going to that party.
I’ve had an entire day to think about it. Rather, an entire day to seethe about it because every time I think of Hillary and her friends demeaning me, my blood starts to boil. How dare they assume I have nothing to wear, that I wouldn’t fit in, that I’m less than just because I have a job and I happen to work for the Becks. I’ll show them.
It’s Friday night, and all my clothes are piled up on the bed as I try to put together an outfit. Skinny jeans and a black top? No, too simple. And all I’ve got are T-shirts and flowy blouses, neither of which will give me the effect I’m going for. I have two skirts that might be okay, except the pencil skirt kind of screams “middle-aged secretary,” and the floral A-line has a two-inch tear in the bottom that I sewed up myself, and I just know Hillary and her minions will see it and say something.
My dresses are worse. The few I own are all too long, too formal, or too small.
Throwing myself on top of the clothes pile, I let out a huge sigh. Much as I hate to admit it, Hillary and her posse had a valid point. I really don’t have anything to wear to a high school party full of rich kids, and I have zero idea what to do with my hair. I know two styles total: up in a ponytail or down in its air-dried mess of waves.
But there is one more option because my mom has exactly the kinds of clothes that will help me fit in with a bunch of trust fund babies and party girls.
Which means I have to ask her for a favor.
I find her sitting on the couch, head tilted back, glass in hand. Though the TV is on, she’s not looking at the news on the screen—she’s not looking at anything.
“Um, Mom? Would it be okay if I borrowed something to wear?”
She looks over at me, curiosity written all over her face. “What is this for? Do you have an interview, or—”
“There’s this party tonight that everyone at school is going to, and I don’t have anything that looks right.” I inhale, steeling myself for her disapproval.
“Milla.” Mom grins, setting down her glass and standing up. “Look at you—finally ready to socialize and snatch yourself a rich boy. It’s about time!”
With that, she motions me to follow her to her bedroom, and I try to push down the icky feelings I’m having. I hate that she’s cheering me on for what she sees as my first step toward gold digging. Especially since that isn’t at all what I had in mind.
“Let’s find something with spandex in it so you d
on’t stretch out my clothes,” she says as she flips through the hangers in her closet. “Can’t afford to buy anything new with the rent going up.”
I grit my teeth at the jab about stretching out her clothes. It’s like she actually can’t help herself from poking at me, the way she says it all casually in passing, like it wasn’t even on purpose. Guess my weight is just constantly on her mind.
But that’s not what really caught my attention—did she just say our rent’s going up? When did this happen, and can we even afford it? I have about a million questions, but I can’t get into it with her right now. She’ll probably just tell me it’s none of my business anyway, which is obviously not true when I’m the one paying our power bill.
“This?” she asks, holding up a long black dress. The bottom looks like it’s meant to wrap from thigh to mid-calf like a second skin, but the top is loose and blousy.
“Eh. Too adult,” I tell her.
She frowns, diving back in. “How about this one?” The dress is actually pretty cute—ice blue with a camisole-style top and a big fluffy ostrich feather skirt on the bottom—but it’s so not me. “You can wear a denim jacket over it to dress it down.”
“I don’t think I can pull off feathers,” I tell her truthfully. “And honestly, I just want to blend in.”
Mom throws a hand on her hip and lets out a huff. “Well, I don’t have all night to play personal shopper for you. Just take whatever you want and don’t make a mess.”
With that, she’s (blessedly) gone, and I turn to her closet with trepidation.
I don’t know how she can find anything in here. It’s crammed full of various types of clothes in no particular order with regard to season or style, though her more formal outfits all hang separately off to the side. I pull out a few things and try on several skirts that are too tight, dresses that won’t zip, and blouses that do fit but make me look like I’m forty. At this point, I’m full on sweating with anxiety. If only Mom had deigned to pass the thin genes down to me.
