by Jenna Scott
“I guess the way it all started is…I thought Mr. Harris just liked my work. His class was great—everyone at La Jolla High knew he was the cool teacher. The one you could talk to, or cuss around. And if he caught anybody smoking or graffitiing a locker or whatever, he wouldn’t rat them out. He’d just be like, “Put it out,” or “Clean it up,” and then go on his merry way. People really loved him.
“Anyway. He was always complimenting my writing. Which, yeah, it felt good. I just figured it was what English teachers were supposed to do. Like, be encouraging. He was in charge of the newspaper, too, and it seemed like he acted the same to everyone. So when he started paying extra attention to me, it didn’t ring any alarm bells. I just thought he liked me as a person. And genuinely cared.”
My voice breaks, and I close my eyes, feeling hot tears gathering under my lids.
“It’s okay,” Hunter soothes. “Take your time.”
For a minute I just lie there, trying to collect myself. Pressing my palm to his heart. Going back over the whole ugly thing in my mind, putting it all in order.
“The first few times he touched me, it was like…he’d be passing out tests and our fingers would brush, or he’d lean over me to point out something in my newspaper article and cover my hand with his for a second. It seemed accidental. And he was always so casual about it. I didn’t think much of it, even though it felt a little…”
I shake my head and Hunter says, “Off?”
“Yeah. Like I could smell his cologne, or feel his body heat behind me. I like that stuff when it’s you, but not some random guy. Definitely not a teacher.”
“I get it,” he says.
“So this one time I stayed late for newspaper club, and by the time we all left, it was dark out. Mr. Harris offered me a ride because he was ‘worried about my safety.’ I already told you this part of the story.”
Nodding, Hunter says, “I remember. And someone took a photo of you in the guy’s car and passed it around, and everyone at school started bullying you. Spreading rumors you were screwing him for a grade.”
My heart is pounding. “Yeah. That’s how it all started.”
I have more to say, but I hesitate. Hunter must pick up on it, because he says, “There’s more to it than that, isn’t there? Did he…do something that night?”
“Not that night. Not yet. And even though everyone was calling me a slut because of the picture, I knew nothing happened and that Mr. Harris was a good guy. It turned out I was wrong, of course, but it wasn’t until maybe the third or fourth ride home that he tried anything with me. It’s like he was grooming me that whole time to trust him, to think his car was a safe place. And I did. I was a fucking idiot.”
A sob wracks my body, and Hunter rolls over and pulls me into his chest.
“You’re not an idiot, Milla. You’re probably the smartest person I know.”
He kisses my forehead, and it gives me the strength to go on.
“We were halfway to my place this one night, and he just…pulled over. It was a side street, so I thought maybe he had to make a quick phone call or something. But he started talking about how smart I was, all this stuff about my writing. He told me I was different from the other kids. Which, yeah, that was true. But not in the way he meant it.
“At some point while he was talking, he put his hand on my knee, and at first I was just uncomfortable. But I didn’t know what to do. I was kind of in shock. I was sure he’d take his hand away any minute, but then he—he started rubbing me, moving his hand higher. The whole time it was happening, I couldn’t believe it was happening. I kept thinking it was a bad joke, or he would snap out of it and apologize. I don’t know.
“And this whole time he’s talking, I’m just nodding, but inside I was screaming. And then he leaned in. And like, that was it for me. The point of no return. He was actually trying to kiss me, he wasn’t going to stop, nobody was going to save me.”
Tears are leaking out of my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Hunter says, rubbing my back as I cry into his chest.
“My backpack was on the floor luckily, and I just flung the door open and grabbed my bag and ran. It was just some neighborhood, so I ran through people’s backyards just trying to get away and hide. Eventually I got to a bus stop and made it home. My mom didn’t even notice how late I was. She was passed out drunk on the couch. Not that she would have done anything anyway.”
“Camilla.” He’s kissing the top of my head, my forehead, my cheeks. For a few minutes that’s all I get, soft kisses and the sound of my name on his lips, over and over. Finally, he pulls back and asks, “Did you tell anyone?”
“I tried. Nobody believed me. Not the school nurse or the principal or the guidance counselor. When they called my mom to ask her about it, she said she didn’t know anything. She couldn’t even confirm if Harris had ever driven me home at all, even though it had been a regular thing. Which I’m sure didn’t help my case.”
“Jesus,” Hunter says, incredulous. “Fucking—I can’t believe this. I believe you, but not—this kind of thing isn’t supposed to happen. Especially with Me Too and feminism and just…God. What a bunch of assholes. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah.”
Tilting my face up by my chin, he says, “They failed you, Milla. You did nothing wrong. The adults around you all failed, and it’s not your fault. None of it’s your fault. They should have protected you. And your mom…”
He’s too upset to finish the sentence, but I’m crying again. Something about the way he said it’s not my fault has broken my insides into these sharp pieces.
“But it felt like my fault,” I gasp between sobs. “For being naïve. For not seeing it coming. I even told Harris how my mom wasn’t super involved, that I didn’t have two parents or money or friends. I made myself vulnerable. I couldn’t even fight back.”
“You are not naïve. You trusted someone—because you’re a good person, and you expect other people to be good, too—and he didn’t deserve your trust. The guy is a predator. That’s how predators work. They’re really, really good at what they do. Planning, calculating, targeting their prey. Like lions waiting for gazelles.”
“Stupid gazelles,” I say, trying to lighten the mood, but I can’t keep the tears and bitterness out of my voice.
“It might not have made a difference,” Hunter says, “but the fact that you turned him in…that other kids heard the rumors…it might be what led to him getting prosecuted. You know? He obviously did the same thing to other girls, and someone finally stepped up and got his ass fired and dragged to court.”
“That had nothing to do with me,” I say.
“Maybe not,” he says. “But either way, dude is in jail, and you’re here with me. You survived. You did nothing wrong, and you got through it, and you’re gonna keep on getting through it until one day it doesn’t hurt anymore. At least, that’s what I hope.”
For a few moments I just breathe him in, listening to his heart, letting his words circle in my mind. “Thank you,” I finally say.
“I don’t know what I’m talking about,” Hunter says, shaking his head ruefully. “I just want you to feel okay. I didn’t mean to overstep or anything.”
“You didn’t.”
“For what it’s worth, I believe you, Milla. All of it.”
He kisses me, and then pulls me close as he rolls onto his back. One of his hands comes up to cradle the back of my head, the other holding my hand. My nose is pressed to his neck, my thigh stretched across his hips.
We fall asleep like this, skin on skin, our hearts beating in time.
Chapter Twenty-One
Camilla
Thanks to Hunter’s ungodly daily alarm, both of us are back on campus by 5:30 a.m.—him at the Avery pool for swim practice, and me to my dorm. I crash directly into bed in my clothes from last night, having barely slept at Hunter’s place, and only manage to get out the door in time for my Lit class because Olivia came to the rescue again. Except this time,
she had my travel mug of coffee waiting for me when she coaxed me out of bed. Bless her.
Unfortunately, I’m such a zombie during the lecture that I miss Professor Laurens’ cues twice while I’m in charge of clicking through his PowerPoint on 1984. After the third time, he has Luke take over on the laptop and I go back to my seat with shame burning the tips of my ears.
“You okay?” Emmett whispers.
“Late night,” I whisper back, not wanting to elaborate. I’m definitely going to need a nap this afternoon, or else there’s no way I’ll make it through my evening Psych class without drooling on my desk.
Once class is over, I run down to the podium to apologize to Laurens.
“I am so sorry. I had zero sleep last night—I know it’s not a good excuse, but—”
He waves my sorry away with a good-natured laugh as he packs up his bag. “It was just a PowerPoint. Not a matter of life and death. Besides, I know what it’s like trying to juggle a freshman course load. You’re absolved.”
“It won’t happen again,” I say, relieved I haven’t endangered my TA position.
“Very good. And by the way, I’ve had a few comments come in about your tutoring outside of class. The other students really like you. I’m glad you’re my TA. Luke is nowhere near as popular, ha ha.”
My heart warms. “It’s funny you say that, because I love helping people with their assignments. It almost makes me think I should switch my major.”
“Maybe you should,” he says, shouldering his computer bag and moving away from the desk. “Speaking of TA duties, can you come up to my office real quick? I have a bunch of essays that need a preliminary eye before I grade them, and you’ve got a knack for margin comments.”
“Sure. I have some time before my next class.”
As we head up to the English department offices, Laurens keeps up the conversation.
“How are you settling in, overall?” he asks. “Is Stanford everything you hoped it would be?”
“It’s even better—I love it. This was always my dream school, and all my classes are so good. Like, obviously I’m learning new things, and that’s cool, but there’s just such a huge difference between most of the teachers I had back in high school and the professors here. Everyone is so passionate, and the lessons go into so much more depth. Well, except I’m dying trying to keep up with this pre-calc class I have to take for my psych major. I get that we have to know about statistical methods, but it’s all so…”
Suddenly self-conscious of my blabbing, I steal a glance at Laurens, but he’s just nodding along as if everything I’m saying isn’t the dorkiest shit he’s ever heard.
“I had the same trouble with math once I hit the college level,” he says. “Never had a problem in high school, and I actually thought I liked the subject, but once I started getting into trigonometric functions and graphing polynomials…” He shudders. “Luckily, I was already an English major, but yeah. Nightmare. I didn’t go any further with math after that trig class. Barely scraped by with a C-. And look at me now.”
We reach his office, and he unlocks it and gestures for me to go in first. I put my bag on a chair while he finds a doorstop to prop open the door with—he literally keeps an open-door policy during his office hours—and when he goes and sits down behind the desk, I look at him expectantly.
“So? What do you got for me?” I ask, rubbing my hands together. “Gimme those papers.”
Laurens digs around in the desk drawers and then pulls out a huge manila folder stuffed with students’ essays. I can’t wait to get my hands on them.
“By the way, how are you liking 1984 so far?” he asks.
“Oh gosh. I’m actually almost to the end—I couldn’t stop reading. But I started Googling some of the literary criticism and reading about the parallels people try to draw between the story and actual politics, and I keep thinking Orwell must be turning in his grave. The whole ‘it’s not an instruction manual’ thing.”
He chuckles. “Mind-boggling how often people willingly misinterpret a cautionary tale. I guess it’s always easier to see what you want in things. So. Before I give you these new essays,” he says, switching gears, “I want to go over the last batch.”
“I’m all ears.”
We go over the most recent folder of essays that I helped grade. He points out what I did well (the margin comments, the redlines) and where I could have been less harsh (or more harsh) with the students, as well as the occasional thing I missed that he’d like me to make note of in the future. It turns out he’s a stickler about run-on sentences, which—oops. I know I’m plenty guilty of writing them myself.
“But really,” he finishes, “these are just nitpicks. You’ve done a fantastic job so far, and I’m really happy with the work you’ve been doing. Be ready for a lot more, though—midterms are coming up and everybody starts getting crazy around then.”
“I’ll be ready,” I say. “Anyway, I should get going.”
He hands over the manila folder and I get up to leave.
“Actually, I’ll follow you out,” he says. “Need to hit up the vending machine on the first floor. I skipped breakfast.”
“Nothing says breakfast of champions like a bag of Cheez-Its and a Mountain Dew,” I joke.
Just for fun, I help him make a selection from the machine before I head out—a Nutri-Grain Bar, a bag of peanuts, and a bottle of iced tea—and then say my goodbyes.
“Keep up the good work, Camilla,” he says, giving me a friendly pat on the shoulder. Then we part ways.
The second I turn around, I see Hunter leaning against the wall just inside the front doors. A smile breaks out across my lips, but as usual he’s playing it cool, arms crossed over his chest.
“Well hello there,” I say as I come up to him. “Have you come to escort me to the dining commons before I have to go to my Psych class?”
He pushes off the wall and we start walking. “Yeah.” That’s all he says.
“What’s with the mood?” I ask teasingly. “Didn’t get enough sleep last night?”
“Mm.”
Okay. Is he just going to answer me in monosyllables? Maybe he’s just as exhausted as I am, and/or had an off day at swim practice because of it. I decide not to take it personally as we head toward Arrillaga.
“So how’d swim go?”
“Fine.”
I frown and look over at him. “Hunter.”
“What?”
“Don’t ‘what’ me,” I say. “Something’s wrong. Are you pissed at me?”
“No.”
That’s it. I’ve had enough. I grab him by the backpack straps and pull him over to the side of the walkway, out of the path of other rushing students.
“Can you talk to me, please? You’re being weird.”
I try to read Hunter’s face, but his expression is totally closed off. The only tell I can pick up on is the flexing of his jaw muscles, which I know from experience means he’s angry or upset and forcing himself to hold back.
“Just forget it,” he says, starting to walk again. I have to hustle to keep up, but I don’t prod him further. Not when he’s being so prickly.
When we get to the dining commons, I finally ask, “Are you going to have lunch with me, at least?”
Maybe if I can get him to just sit down and eat, he’ll cool off enough to tell me what’s going on. I don’t know if it’s something to do with his dad and my mom dating, or his dad just being a dick, or if it’s related to Harrison. It could be none of the above.
Whatever it is, his behavior is making me sick to my stomach—and I don’t want to spend the rest of the day panicking about if I messed up or if it’s something to do with his brother or God knows what. Because after last night, I really feel like we could maybe be together again…except not if I have to deal with Hunter’s complete and utter lack of communication skills. Thanks to my Psych class, I now have a name for Hunter’s little quirk: avoidant tendencies. But diagnosis or not, I can’t be dating someo
ne who acts like a brick wall, who bottles up all their thoughts and feelings in the name of masculinity. It won’t work.
“After you,” Hunter says, holding open the door for me.
Here goes nothing.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Hunter
Arrillaga is my favorite dining hall. It’s also the least popular dining option on campus. The reason for both of those things is the same: it’s known as the place with the healthiest food. Which, don’t get me wrong, I like pizza and ice cream and burritos and burgers just as much as the next person. But when you’re an athlete, you learn to put nutrient-dense food into your body as often as you can. That shit’s fuel.
Unfortunately, everything on my plate today—my go-to of salmon, quinoa, and veggies—tastes like gruel.
Still, I thought I was doing a pretty good job of ignoring what a shitty mood I’m in, until Milla sets down her caprese sandwich and says, “Time’s up. I’ve had enough of your moping.”
“I’m not moping.”
She shakes her head. “Look, whatever’s bothering you, I have to get to class in a few minutes and I don’t want to leave things like this—so spit it out. What’s going on?”
It hits me that she thinks I’m mad at her, when it’s her professor I’m upset with. Toward her, I just feel frustration. How can someone so smart be so clueless when it comes to men?
I can’t even look at her as I say, “Do you even have to ask?”
Milla huffs out a sigh. “Yeah, I guess I do. Which is why I asked.”
Finally, I meet her gaze. “I just didn’t like the way that teacher was acting around you. The way he was smiling and staring and getting in all close.”
For a second, she just looks confused. “Wait, Professor Laurens? Back at the vending machine?” she scoffs. “We were making jokes about junk food.”
“He was touching you,” I point out.
“He—Hunter, he touched my shoulder. For like, half a second. Seriously?”
I can’t believe she’s acting surprised after telling me the whole horrible story about Mr. Harris. I hate that it happened to her, I hate that nobody believed her, and I hate that it destroyed her inside and made her the target of bullies and rumors…but I hate even more the idea that she could walk right into the same situation all over again.