Caught in Us

by Layla Hagen

  “Don’t say anything.”

  Mom and Dad await us stoically at the table when we enter. The dining room is sizeable, the twelve-person table occupying most of it. It's Rococo, or Baroque, or something. Mom's newest acquisition. She scoured nearly every antique shop on this coast to find it. Mom and Dad sit at opposite ends. Beatrix and Anthony Cohen used to love each other passionately. They met when Mom was at the height of her modelling career, in her native London, and had a whirlwind romance, ending up married six months after they met. She quit her career afterward, because Dad was too jealous and impossibly controlling. Somewhere along the years, their love burned to bitter ashes.

  As usual, they avoid looking at each other. This is the one day every week when they are forced to eat in each other's company, because James visits. I almost always eat alone in the evenings, in the kitchen. Sometimes our cook stays after schedule, so I don't have to be alone. Mom and Dad mostly eat out. Separately. I very much appreciate that at least every Thursday, they make an effort to be together in one room and behave in a civilized manner. I don't understand how their relationship can survive on nothing but coldness. When I get in a relationship, it will be the exact opposite.

  As we eat the appetizer, salmon tartare, Mom drinks her first glass of wine while asking James if he'll be around for her yearly themed charity party. Mom throws multiple parties every year, but the themed one she hosts every spring is the highlight. This year, the theme will be nineteenth-century Venice, which translates to extravagant dresses and masks. I always had misgivings about this party-throwing occupation of hers, deeming it shallow, but it does raise a lot of money. The party is still months away, but Mom has worked all the details out already.

  "Put Parker on the guest list," James tells her.

  "Parker is here?" I ask excitedly.

  "Yeah, we'll be working together for a few months."

  "Let's go out to dinner, the three of us," I say.

  "Sure."

  Parker is our cousin. He lives in London and visits a few times a year. Like me, he's not much of a talker, but I like being around him. He's a good sport and has a perfect British accent. Mom has an accent, too, but it’s faded since she's been living here for more than twenty years.

  Then Dad contributes his part to the evening's chatter. I almost know by heart how the conversation will go. He asks James how his company is doing, and after James briefly recounts his latest achievements, Dad heavily hints that he could use James's brain at the chocolate factory. James politely declines, and then my parents go silent. When I was little, I used to adore the chocolate factory, even dreamed about taking it over one day, but as I grew up, I started resenting it for keeping my father away from me.

  "Mom, there is an event at school in two weeks on Friday. Do you have time to come?"

  "No," she says automatically. I try not to appear too disappointed. "I have to prepare for the Steel's charity gala that weekend."

  "You can just come for an hour or so." I know for a fact that preparation means long hours of shopping followed by more long hours at the spa. Would it kill her to do something with me, just this once?

  "No," Mom repeats. I sink lower in my seat, pushing the last bits of salmon around with my fork. Well, at least I can count on Hazel's mom to be there, and she's the funniest person I know.

  With the serving of the main course, the evening belongs to James and me. Mom and Dad could leave the table for all the attention they pay to what is going on.

  "Anything new at school?" James asks.

  "A new guy came today. I've never seen a more arrogant jerk; he treats everyone like they're beneath him. He didn't bother to take notes in any of the classes and is rude to everyone, including teachers."

  James laughs. "That's a passionate speech. Falling for the bad boy already?"

  I choke on my orange juice, spewing some on Mom's beautiful tablecloth. Thankfully, she’s too preoccupied gulping down her third—or fourth—glass of wine to pay any attention. I glance quickly at Dad, who focuses on his steak, lost in thoughts of his own. They probably concern the chocolate factory, as usual.

  "What's his name?"

  "Damon Cooper."

  "I didn't know Cooper sent his son to your school," Father says in surprise.

  "He's a snob. He probably learned it's the best school around and sent him there, hoping he'll be accepted if his son goes to a decent school," Mom says. "As if anyone wouldn't know Cooper is a leper."

  "Didn't you just start working with him a month ago, Dad?" James asks. "He must have some redeeming qualities if you chose him as one of your suppliers."

  "The only redeeming thing about him is his low prices," Dad retorts.

  "Always cheap," Mom says. "He made his fortune from gambling, and now wants to appear like a serious business man."

  I know there is more to their disgust with Cooper than this. Now that I think of it, I remember Dad ranting a few weeks ago when James came to dinner about this Cooper guy, but I can't remember what he was saying.

  "Just make sure you keep away from his son. I can't imagine he's anything less than a leper like his father," Dad says. What a shock to hear him take an interest in anything happening in my life.

  The real shock comes when Mom says, "Exactly. Your father is right."

  Afterward, they both finish their course in silence. I’m still stunned. My parents rarely talk to each other, much less agree on anything. Naturally, the fact that they both agree I should avoid Damon at all costs makes me want to do the exact opposite.

  Chapter Three: Dani

  Eager to get out of the house the next morning, I arrive early at school. I'm looking at about forty-five minutes to kill on my own. Glad I brought a book with me, I decide to hang out at our usual lunch place. On my way to the rooftop, I pass by the principal's office and hear two voices inside.

  "You are going to respect our teachers if you want to stay here."

  I wince, coming to a halt in front of the door. The principal never shouts.

  "Maybe I don't want to stay," Damon says in a defiant tone.

  "Your father insists—”

  "What did he bribe you with?"

  "You will show me respect, boy." After a long pause, he continues. "You could do well here. Your old grades are good. Better than good, actually. Someone who had to deal with so much and still got mostly A’s has perseverance. You could get very far, Damon. It depends on what you will use your perseverance for."

  Another long pause.

  "Anything else?"

  "No, that will be all," the principal says in a defeated tone.

  I realize a split-second too late that Damon will exit the office. I pad back, looking for a place to hide. Too late. Damon bangs the door open and darts out. He’s wearing black today, as well. I catch my breath. Something about his bright green eyes completely shakes me. Were they as impossibly beautiful yesterday? They couldn't have been...I can't imagine being angry at someone whose gaze impacts me this way.

  When he speaks, I remember just how angry this boy can make me. "Among all your defects, you also like to eavesdrop?"

  I clench my fist, pulling myself to my full height, which doesn't amount to much. "I was just passing through here."

  "And then you heard my sweet voice and couldn't help listening?"

  "N—no," I stutter. "I just—”

  He crosses to me fast. Before I blink twice, his arm snakes around my waist, plastering me to him.

  "Let me go."

  His lips curl into a satisfied smirk. "This is the second time in two days that you’ve been in my arms. I think you like it here."

  Hunching his shoulders, Damon lowers himself until we're eye to eye.

  "You’re delusional." I’d sound more believable if my voice wasn’t so breathy and undependable. “Get your hands off me.”

  "I will as soon as you admit you were eavesdropping." He's so close to me that the whiff of hot breath accompanying every word lands on my lips. It makes my knees w
eak and the inside of my mouth dry.

  Determined not to give him satisfaction, I spit, "Fine. I was. And you know what?"

  "Oh, I’m dying to know."

  "This whole arrogant, bad-boy image, always dressing in black and rebelling against your father is very passé."

  He drops his arms, his eyes growing cold. "You know nothing about me."

  "Oh, the misunderstood bad boy. You’re turning into a walking cliché by the second."

  "So are you. The rich girl who thinks she's better than everyone else. Someone dressing like you has no business giving fashion advice," he says. His comment stings, but I don't let it show.

  "I think I'm better than everyone else? You look at everyone around here like they're scum, you frustrated moron."

  "Frustrated?" There is a hint of surprise behind the coldness in his tone.

  "Yeah. Only frustrated people enjoy taking their feelings out by being rude to others like—”

  "Oh, not this again. Go bore someone else with your defense of spineless teachers. Why don't you go hang out with the principal since you both seem to enjoy the subject so much?"

  I purse my lips. "If you hate it so much here, why don't you leave?"

  "I can't." He fixes his backpack on his shoulder, his hands twitching along the strap. "If I had a choice, I would be out of California in a second." He shakes his head. "Have you ever felt so trapped in your skin you were sure you’d asphyxiate?"

  The desperation in his question catches me off-guard. His bright green eyes bore into mine, demanding honesty, so that's what I give him.

  "Yes. It's a feeling I wake up to most days."

  I'm expecting him to mock me, but he just says, "For your information, I’m not wearing black to make any statement. I'm mourning someone."

  "That just makes half of the things I said to you awful," I babble. "I'm sorry."

  "You think just half of the things you said to me were awful? In this case, you're awful," he says, but with a smile. Then he bursts out laughing. Not in a mocking way; in a heartfelt, cheerful way.

  I still hear his laugh echo in the corridor as I make my way to the rooftop.

  ***

  As usual, I get too engrossed in my reading and am almost late for class. Sitting next to Hazel, I take out my books when Damon appears in front of our desk.

  "You dropped your phone in the hallway," he says politely.

  "No, I didn't." I look in bewilderment as he drops my smartphone in my hand. Damon smiles mischievously, walking over to his desk as Ms. Evans enters the class. Wouldn't I have noticed if my phone had fallen on the corridor during our altercation? Not really...I was too preoccupied with him to notice anything else. My skin heats up at the memory of his closeness. I swivel to ask Hazel something and find her staring at me with curious eyes.

  "Do you have anything to share about your morning?"

  "I read a book," I mumble.

  Ms. Evans starts talking about the Bronte novel we had to read when I receive a text.

  You should take better care of your things.

  The sender appears only by number, not name, but I know who it is. Sure enough, one glance in Damon's direction confirms my suspicion. He's not looking at me or his phone, but lifts the corner of his lips. It dawns on me that I might not have dropped my phone at all. He must have taken it from my pocket.

  And you shouldn't steal other people's things, I reply.

  Hey, you were eavesdropping, so don't go all saint on me. You were the first offender.

  I smile, overcome by a strange giddiness. I can't believe he stole my phone, or that he got my number, or that he's texting me right now. I'm grinning like an idiot. It's the first time a guy has written to me and not asked for my notes or something similar. Given our less-than-friendly interactions yesterday and this morning, this is a surprise. Sometimes it takes a healthy fight and a familiar pain to gain a friend.

  "After the battle of stares yesterday follows the battle of messages?" Hazel murmurs, smiling. "Bad boy is showing quite an interest in you."

  "No, he's not." Something light settles in my stomach.

  "I heard a junior tried very hard yesterday to make him ask for her number and failed. He must be very interested in yours if he got it on his own."

  "This doesn't mean anything." The lightness grows, the giddy feeling bubbling up inside me.

  "Maybe not." She leans in conspiratorially. "Maybe it does."

  When Ms. Evans announces she'll question us about Wuthering Heights, I have the feeling Damon might take this opportunity to display the same unpleasantness as yesterday.

  Be nice if Ms. Evans asks you something, I type quickly. Please.

  He doesn't type back, and as Ms. Evans begins to ask questions, I brace myself. She deliberately avoids asking him anything, though. Then she asks Beckett what his opinion is about the motives behind Heathcliff's behavior. He stares at her with a blank face, clueless.

  It's Damon who answers. "Heathcliff felt out of place. He didn't belong to their class, and everyone else never let him forget it."

  Ms. Evans' eyes widen, but all she says is "Do you think that justifies him?"

  "No. That's no justification for being a dick to everyone," Damon says nonchalantly.

  Ms. Evans flinches. "That language doesn't belong in the classroom, Damon." Her tone is firm. I'm proud of her. "I'll let you out of the questioning round because you're new, and I gave this assignment a week ago."

  Damon's lip twitches, and I can tell he's about to say something obscene back. I sit up straighter, staring at him intently. He catches my eye and winks at me. I instantly flush, dropping my gaze to my hands.

  "I had to read the book in my junior year," Damon replies. Ms. Evans nods, and then continues questioning Anna. I think about something the principal mentioned today... Damon scored mostly A’s at his old school. My assessment was spot-on yesterday. Under the mask of carelessness hides a perfectionist. Someone who is clearly smart. As Ms. Evans instructs us to look up a certain passage in the book, I shift in my chair, holding my copy in my hands and pretending to flip through its pages. In reality, I am sneaking glances at Damon. Who was he before he came here and whom did he lose?

  Thank you for not being rude, I text him under the desk. I receive an answer almost immediately.

  Ouch. That sounds like something you'd tell a dog. I'm not a poodle; don't try to train me.

  I write back quickly. You're definitely not a poodle. More like a pitbull. I hear those are hard to train. Whatever they do, it's because they want to.

  There is a pause in which I wait breathlessly, and then my smartphone vibrates. They also tend to attack their owners.

  My fingers almost snap as I hurry to reply. I don't believe that. They just have a bad reputation. Don't believe everything you hear. It's all appearances.

  Another short vibration. Ms. Evans looks at me, so I just chance a quick glance at my phone. So what should I make of your Linkin Park t-shirt?

  Frowning, I text back as best as I can while pretending to pay attention to Ms. Evans. What's the harm in liking Kinky Fuck?

  Damon's next message confuses me. Is that an invitation? I read what I wrote before, and shame washes over me.

  Abandoning all pretense of paying attention to the teacher, I write It was autocorrect. I meant Linkin Park. OMG, I'm so sorry.

  He doesn't write anything back, and when I look at him, he appears on the verge of bursting out laughing.

  The bell rings and Damon walks out to his locker, where Anna follows him.

  Chapter Four: Damon

  Someone corners me during the break. I feel the presence behind me without even looking up from my locker. I've had more than enough occasions to sharpen my instincts.

  "Hi," a girl's voice calls behind me. I take my time closing my locker before turning around to face her.

  “Hi, Anna," I answer. She's been pestering me since yesterday, and I couldn't give less of a damn. She's as close to the cheerleading type as it
gets. Tall, blonde, huge tits. She has the attitude to go with it, too. She knows she's beautiful and expects everyone to fall at her feet. This time, she chose the wrong guy.

  "Black suits you, Damon." She tries to purr out my name, but to me it just sounds like she's swallowed an egg. Still, I'm sure enough idiots have fallen for it. "Let's go out sometime."

  "Why? You don't know anything about me other than my name." Her face falls for a split-second, but then she flashes a smile. Persistent girl. I can tell she has no idea what answer to give because she thinks her beauty doesn't require one. As if to make a point, she pushes her chest forward, twirling a few strands of hair between her fingers. Everyone from the classroom storms out, their voices filling the space. I spot the girl from this morning in the crowd, the one I texted. Dani. Blondie also sees her, giving her a short once-over then dismissing her with a self-indulgent smirk. This seals it for me.

  "So, I know a nice cafe nearby. We could go after school," Anna says.

  "No. And a word of advice: start working on your personality; you have a lot of catching up to do. Your ass and boobs aren't as good as you think." I purse my lips. She backs away like I've cracked a whip in front of her. I take off, swinging my backpack over my shoulder. I can still see Dani, even though she's far ahead of me on the corridor. I smile as I remember the shade of pink her skin turned when I was texting her. She seems so pure; it’s a sin to flirt with her. But something's hidden deep beyond that innocence—passion. I don't think she even knows it. I do. I saw it in the way she talked to me this morning, how her eyes sparkled. It was almost worth it riling her up just to see her like that. I wonder how she'd spark if I did something else to her.

  I shake my head, musing how this girl can have this effect on me. It's the first time since Mom died that I feel anything else except pain and anger. I've been in Hell since the funeral, and I can't make anyone pay for it, though I’ll keep trying. That bastard calling himself my father deserves it. My fingers twitch, forming into fists as anger swells up inside me anew. Then Dani turns and smiles brightly at me, and that anger is replaced by another equally consuming sensation...my cock throbbing in my jeans. Easy boy. She's not that kind of girl, and she's much better off without you.