“You look in the mirror and see a good girl,” he says. “I look at you, and I see someone who’s so molded and shaped she doesn’t know who the hell she’s supposed to be. You’re like one of those Stepford wives. You’re a Stepford daughter. Everything about you is too perfect. It’s fucking creepy.”
I slam on the gas and turn the radio off. “Stepford?”
“Never mind.”
He grips the handle above the passenger door as I slide into a parking spot in the back of the senior lot far away from my usual spot. Jensen climbs out and slips his bag over his shoulder. For someone heading into their first day at a new school, he doesn’t show a lick of apprehension. His eyes are a lot less swollen, his gash is virtually gone. The plastic girls are going to eat him up with his dark hair, golden eyes, and those permanently upturned corners of his smug little smile. I can practically hear them scrambling to secure dates with him before the rest of the school catches wind of what just rolled into town.
“If anyone asks, you’re a family friend.” Dad gave me instructions that morning as to how we were going to address the newest member of our family. I couldn’t exactly say Jensen was my stepbrother when my parents have been happily married for over twenty years. For all intents and purposes, we’ve led the outside world to believe Summer and Kath are neighbors and our families spend a lot of time together. There are a few other families like ours in town, but we all live in secrecy. Dad says we live in troubled times where too many of us have deviated from our original teachings, pressured by society to abandon the heart of our religious principles. It’s up to us to restore faith in the old doctrines and combine them with modern times.
“That’s pretty much what I am,” Jensen says. He turns to me, catching my stare. My cheeks redden. “You know we’re not really family, right?”
I shake my head, vehemently disagreeing with him. “Kath is one of my mothers. The twins are my siblings. So are you. We’re all family.”
“Not in the eyes of the law,” Jensen says. “I could say I’m married to you right now but it won’t mean a damn thing because it’s not legal. This is the adult version of playing house, kid. It’s all pretend.”
“Please don’t call me ‘kid.’ We’re the same age. And you’re insinuating you’re smarter than me on some level. It’s rude.” I can say things like that to him as long as my father isn’t around.
“I’m smarter than everyone.” He shrugs. “Can’t help it. Just the way your God made me.”
“That kind of talk is what gets a person in trouble.” I’d tell him to keep sweet, but that rule only applies to AUB women. Men are a little less restricted when it comes to emotions. They’re governed by a different set of rules. It’s not fair, but I’ve never been allowed to question it. Mom compares it to asking why the sky is blue. It just is; the reason doesn’t matter.
“Oh, no, the morality police is here,” he laughs. He sticks his wrists out like I should handcuff him. I grip the straps of my backpack until my knuckles whiten.
“You’re not cute,” I tell him. I sound like I’m in third grade. Jensen brings out the worst in me. He’s testing me. I need to shower him with kindness and patience, even if it’s the hardest thing I’ll ever do. He’ll lead me down a path of frustrated destruction if I don’t keep myself in check. Jensen presses buttons. He’s a button presser.
“Not everyone can be cute and sweet,” he says, implying that I am, in fact, cute and sweet. He pulls the heavy doors leading into the east entrance of Whispering Hills high and lets me go in first. Maybe he’s not a total jerk.
“Guidance counselor’s office is this way.” I point down a long hall filled with orange, red, and yellow lockers. A group of gossiping sophomore girls silence themselves the second they see us walking in their direction. A hush falls over the hallway with each step we take, like a row of tumbling dominoes. All eyes are on us—on Jensen, actually. He doesn’t look like anyone who belongs here, and truth be told, he appears older than eighteen. There’s a worldliness on his face, in the way he carries himself. He wears the confidence of a man much older than eighteen.
I’m still dying to know what happened and why he was dropped on Kath’s doorstep like an abandoned baby in a basket. Though it’s more like the clouds parted, lightning flashed, and out came Jensen Mackey like an angry clap of thunder complete with black eyes and an attitude.
We knock on Mr. Kaplan’s door as he’s finishing up his breakfast sandwich. I observe through the half window as he crumples up his wrapper and takes a couple long sips of his soda.
“Come in,” he calls.
“Mr. Kaplan,” I say. “This is Jensen Mackey. He’s new. We’re just picking up his schedule.”
“Yes, yes.” Mr. Kaplan runs a greasy hand over the top of his shiny, bald head as his other frantically lifts the various papers that litter his desk. “Jensen, Jensen, Jensen Mackey… here we go.”
He hands me the schedule and offers a smile at Jensen, his stare lingering a bit too long. Even Mr. Kaplan can sense Jensen doesn’t fit in here.
I glance over his schedule.
Ugh.
Our first and last blocks are together: Chemistry and AP English. He doesn’t look like an AP student. He doesn’t look like someone who would consider his grades or merit.
His locker number is printed on the bottom of his schedule, along with the combination. At least we’re in different hallways. I don’t think I could survive my last three weeks of senior year being joined at the hip with him all day long.
“We have to get to class,” I say, pulling on his shirtsleeve. “I’ll show you your locker later.”
He yanks the schedule from my hand. “Going to let me see what Kath signed me up for? Good. Drawing II and Mixed Media.”
We blaze into chemistry with thirty seconds to spare before the tardy bell rings. All the window seats are taken, so we settle for a table in the back row. Mrs. Davenport takes roll call, and when she gets to Jensen, she makes him stand up.
“Tell us a little about yourself,” she says with an open-mouthed smile. She shows the same kind of enthusiasm when she talks about thermite reactions because, you know, thermite reactions are super exciting. She pulls on her long necklace that holds a bedazzled charm in the shape of a beaker. “I realize we’re in the final weeks of the school year, but it’s never too late to make new friends and get to know each other.”
Jensen stands, his head leaning to one side and a hand on his hip. He rubs his eyebrows and clears his throat. He is literally too cool to give a crap about all the people staring at him. “I’m Jensen Mackey. Just moved here from Charter Springs, Arizona. Finishing my senior year.”
Two girls, cheerleaders, spin around from the table in front of us. They flash toothpaste-commercial-quality smiles and toss their curled hair over their shoulders like they share a brain.
“Hi, Jensen,” the brunette says. “I’m Claire Fahnlander, and this is Harper Griffin.”
Jensen offers an off-center smile, one that makes him look drunk and cocky all at the same time. I’m rolling my eyes—on the inside, of course.
“We’re glad to have you, Jensen. You can partner up with Waverly today. Her usual lab partner is out sick. Okay, safety kits out.” Mrs. Davenport turns to the white board, writing today’s lesson plan on the board as we retrieve our goggles and lab coats.
Claire and Harper giggle and snap selfies behind Mrs. Davenport’s back, making goofy faces through their goggles and flashing peace signs with fish-lipped pouts. Jensen watches them. Errant heat sears through my belly, tingling and evaporating as a tiny part of me hates that they’re earning his attention.
“Do you have an extra beaker we can borrow?” Claire says to Jensen, batting her lashes. She sticks a finger in her mouth and bites the tip of her long, pink nail as she winks. Harper giggles.
“Probably shouldn’t put your finger in your mouth,” Jensen says, avoiding her gaze. “You’re in a chem lab.”
Claire blushes and spins
around. Harper is still giggling, leaning her head on Claire’s narrow shoulder. I have to give Jensen credit for not falling for that like every other guy in school does. She’s eager to make him hers before anyone else has a chance to. Claire is the alpha female of a catty group of senior girls who rule the school with iron-clad, manicured fists.
They infuriate me, especially when I’m the target of their mean-girl giggles, but I never let it show. It’s not worth it. In just a few short months, I’ll be trekking all over a college campus, my English lit books in hand, with a group of collegiate peers with more important things to discuss besides who’s dating whom.
The period ends before we know it. I don’t remember much of it. Jensen did most of the work, which is unlike me, but my thoughts were jumbled all morning. I chalk it up to being thrown off my routine that morning and promise to do better the next day.
“You need me to show you your locker?” I ask as we file out of the classroom.
“Nah, just point me there. I can find it.” His independence very well might be his only redeemable quality.
“South hall. Red lockers.”
He pats me on the back like I’m an old pal and gives a quick nod before disappearing into a sea of students without so much as a “see you later.” I wouldn’t say I miss him, but his sudden absence is noticeable.
“Hey, Waverly.” I spin around to see Cade Corbin, the guy who’s been relentlessly pursuing me since middle school. His perennial tan, cleft chin, and deep blue eyes always seem to work in tandem to try and melt my resolve, but I’ve stayed strong. “What are you doing this weekend?”
“Cade.” I fight a grin and shake my head as we trudge ahead. Every week he asks me this. He knows I’m not allowed to have a boyfriend. He knows I can’t date. He refuses to give up. I’m quite positive he only wants me because he can’t have me. “Who’s that guy you walked in with this morning?”
“A family friend.”
Cade slips his arm around my shoulders as he walks me to History. He’s tall and lanky, star of our cross-country team. The space around him is scented with clean shampoo and fabric softener, and there’s a hint of peppermint on his breath as he talks.
“Family friend,” he repeats, drawing out each syllable as his eyes crinkle.
I resist the urge to apologize or explain. I’m not dating Cade, and Jensen is… Jensen.
We stop outside my classroom and Cade brushes my arm as he tells me goodbye. He’s sweet, and I’m sure if my family met him, they’d love him. It’d be nice to be able to date. To be kissed. To experience the highs and lows of teenage love like the rest of my classmates.
I think about dating all the time. Sometimes, in my daydreams, I’m someone else. I’m not AUB. I’m a “normal” teenage girl. I date and drive fast and break into liquor cabinets and stay out late and flirt and attend parties. It’s my super-secret second life, lived out only in my fantasies.
And as much as Jensen grates on my nerves, and despite the fact that he’s part of the family, I thought about him last night. I fell asleep imagining the way his lips would feel against mine, and the way his body could pin me against the bed and make me his in all sorts of ways. I pulled out the old Harlequin novel stashed between my mattress and box springs and flipped to page one-seventy-six, reading the steamiest scene in the book and pretending it was us.
I shake my head and snap out of it, take my seat in the front row, and flip my notebook open. I can’t think about him. And it’s all kinds of wrong. He’s my brother now, and that will never change. Our parents are eternally sealed to one another.
CHAPTER 5
JENSEN
“You can drop me off at A1 Auto Repair.” I climb into Waverly’s car after school gets out. She’s been waiting a good twenty minutes, and she’s clearly pissed. I can’t help that I got cornered on my way out by a whole gaggle of junior girls trying to flirt with me. They couldn’t flirt their way out of a paper bag, but that’s neither here nor there. “You know where that is?”
“For future reference, my schedule will not revolve around your social life.” Her eyes dart to the clock on her dash before she slams her car into drive. I haven’t had a chance to buckle up. “Where were you the last block? I thought we had AP English together?”
“I swapped English out for another art class.” I roll down the window. It might be April and sixty degrees outside, but her car is a fucking sauna. What is it with girls claiming they’re freezing all the time?
“Don’t you need English to graduate?” Her words are fast and choppy, as if she is personally offended I dropped that class. That or she’s still mega-pissed about having to wait on me.
“Nope.” I take in a sharp breath of heated air that glazes my lungs with a soup-like coating. “Just needed chemistry. Everything else is elective. Plus, I took AP English last year.”
She snaps her gaze toward me and then returns to the road. I know what people see when they look at me. My outside and insides contrast. I throw people for a loop. I’m smart, and I’m a smartass. It works for me.
“Oh,” she says. She squints into the afternoon sun, then snaps the visor down and grips the steering wheel.
“You okay? You seem kind of…”
I don’t know what she seems like. I’ve known her for all of a couple of days. All I know is she walks around with a holier-than-though attitude, and when she’s not busy prancing around as Mark Miller’s golden child, she’s huffing and sighing and keeping her opinions to herself like she’s forbidden to speak them.
“It’s not good to keep things in.” I stretch my arm across her small car, hooking it behind the driver’s seat.
“I’m not keeping anything in. I’m dealing with everything in my own way. Thank you for your concern.”
It sounds like a canned response, and I don’t buy it. “You’re an angry girl.”
More like sexually frustrated.
“How would you know?” She spits her words with a wrinkled nose.
“Told you earlier. I’m smarter than everybody else.”
“Hate to break it to you, Jensen, but you’re not.”
“Ouch.” I clap my hand across my chest as if she’s just aimed and shot at me. “I doubt you’ll be calling me stupid when I’m tutoring you for your calculus final.”
“How do you know I’m taking calc?”
“I know everything about everything, kid. Tried to warn you. I’m all-knowing and all-powerful. Omnipotent. O-m-n-i-p—”
She jabs an elbow into my side and retrieves it just as quickly, which tells me she’s not a girl used to being physical with anybody. This girl has a shit ton of pent up anger and frustration. If she needs to take it out on me, I’ll gladly be her human punching bag. I don’t mind when it’s going toward a good cause.
“Saw you walk into your class on my way to Mixed Media. Our classrooms are down the hall from each other. Relax.” I rub the dull ache in my rib cage until it subsides. She’s got to do better than that next time. That was weak.
Waverly pulls up to a mechanic’s shop with gray cinderblock walls and five bays. A yellow sign with black and red lettering says, “A1 Auto Repair.” She slams on her brakes, which I’m guessing is her way of telling me to get the fuck out. God, I’d kill to hear her say “fuck” or “damn.” Or even “hell.”
For a second, I debate asking if she’ll come pick me up in a couple hours, but I don’t dare. If looks could kill…
“Thanks for the ride.” She peels out of the parking lot before I have a chance to shut the door behind me. “All right, then.”
I’m greeted by jingle bells on the door and a cashier with a nametag reading “Liberty” across her pinstriped button-down. It’s a mechanic’s shirt, but she has it open just enough to offer the world a shameless sneak-peak at her cleavage. Her hair is long, dark, and wild, and she has the same glass-blue eyes as Waverly.
“Can I help you?” She snaps her gum between cherry-red lips. She’s so busy working her Bubble Yum six ways fro
m Sunday she doesn’t bother to smile.
“I’m Jensen. Mark Miller sent me here for a job.”
“Ah, yes. Uncle Mark,” she says, picking up the phone and pressing three buttons. The cuffs of her shirt are hiked up just enough to show she’s got a whole sleeve of tattoos going on. Judging by her smooth baby face, she’s barely old enough to drink. “Dad, that guy that Uncle Mark sent is here.” She hangs up. “You can have a seat. He’ll be out.”
I locate a dingy aluminum chair and grab a stale issue of Car and Driver, flipping to the middle and hoping to find a half-interesting article somewhere.
“So, you’re one of the Millers now.” Liberty’s mouth turns into a knowing half-smile.
“Not a Miller.” I clear my throat and flip the page. It’s not that I’m proud to be a Mackey, it’s just there’s no way in hell I’ll ever be a fucking Miller.
“Yeah, but you’re Uncle Mark’s third wife’s son from another marriage. Right? Did I get that right?”
“Something like that.”
“It’s okay. I know about their, uh, lifestyle,” she laughs. “My mom and Waverly’s dad are brother and sister. We’re not poly, or anything, but we know about them. Family’s family, right?”
I flip another page and mutter, “Forever and always.”
“Uncle Mark is fucking nuts.” She says it with a heavy connotation, as if I should know what she’s talking about by now.
“Only known him a couple days.”
“Well, you’re in for a real treat.” She slides her body against the counter and leans against her arm, yawning. She’s far too young to be this tired at three thirty in the afternoon. “Sorry. Out way too late last night.”
“That supposed to impress me?” I’m fucking with her, but it’s mostly because this Car and Driver magazine is old as hell. She should take it as a compliment.
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