by Jenna Scott
“Hey,” he says. Just that, soft and cautious.
“Hey,” I say back in the same neutral tone.
There’s a moment of silence between us, and then the rest of the class arrives along with Ms. Spencer.
“How was your spring break?” Hunter whispers.
Making conversation. Okay. Sure, I can participate in casual conversation with my ex-boyfriend who took away my scholarship and my college dreams, no biggie.
“Good. Isabel and I had fun,” I answer, and make myself turn slightly to look at him. “How’s Harry? Did he have a good time in Mexico?”
There’s a flicker of something across his face, but Hunter disguises it with a tight smile. “Yeah. He misses you, though. Keeps asking when you’re gonna be back.”
Whatever twisted in my stomach before has turned into a rock. I shouldn’t have asked about Harrison, but I did, and now I feel shitty again. I would feel shittier, I think, were it not for the fact that my resignation is Hunter’s fault.
“That’s too bad,” I murmur, not wanting to give any kind of timeframe. “I guess you can tell him I’m not really sure.”
“Yeah,” is all Hunter says in reply.
My hands shake, and I have to fold them together in my lap to ensure they don’t betray me. My eyes go to my notebook, open on the table, and stay there.
Hillary and her gang come in together and take their seats behind us. She immediately pokes Hunter in the shoulder, and he turns in his chair to look at them.
“So, how was spring break, Hunter?” Hillary asks. “We missed you in Cancun.”
He slides me a look before answering. “Sorry to disappoint. Couldn’t pass up a little private staycation with my parents out of town.”
There’s no flirtation in the way he speaks, but Hillary misreads him on purpose.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she coos. “You can make it up to us later. I was thinking…”
Before Hillary can elaborate on exactly how Hunter can make up for his absence and I vomit all over the table, Ms. Spencer clears her throat.
“We’re going to do group discussions today. You’ll split into groups of two and work on writing up some talking points for whatever subject you pick out of the hat.” She hands a fedora to the first row, and the class passes it around.
Nervously, I look at Hunter from the corner of my eye. Last time we had a group project, it didn’t go well at all. He got somewhat better at class participation when we were dating, but that’s no longer happening, making me reticent about this.
“Hey, Hunter,” Hillary hisses from behind us. “You wanna partner up?”
“I’m already working with Camilla,” he tells her, not even checking with me first. “Is that okay?” he whispers my way.
I shrug, since it looks like everyone else around us is already paired up. “Sure.”
“Group discussions are about what is right, not who,” Ms. Spencer reminds the class. The hat comes to us, and Hunter picks out a paper before passing the hat over his shoulder to Hillary. Even though I don’t want to see it, I catch it anyway: her, brushing her fingers over his as she takes the fedora.
But Hunter doesn’t react at all. He sits forward, and hands me the paper that reads Should human cloning be legal?
My eyebrows go up. “Well, that took a surprisingly sci-fi turn.”
“Trust me, this is one of the fun ones,” Hunter says with a lazy smile. “What do you think, Milla? If we could grow a copy of you in a lab, should it be allowed?”
Before I can answer, Hillary leans over and pokes the back of Hunter’s neck with her pencil.
“What did you get?” she asks with pretend interest.
Seriously, she’s so fake they should be studying her to figure out how the first artificial human came to be. Maybe she’s already a clone and this exercise is based on hidden tech rich people keep just for themselves. Like we’re a focus group to see if it’s safe for them to come out with it publicly.
Hunter sighs, and tells her our subject. My shoulders hunch from how hard I’m trying to curl into myself and not hear whatever’s going to come out of her mouth next.
“That one’s easy. If we had human cloning, we could clone hot guys like you.” She giggles and I roll my eyes. “Just think, you could’ve been in Cancun and here.”
Hunter frowns. “I wouldn’t want another me walking around, though.”
“It wouldn’t be another you,” I mutter. “It would look like you and be your genetic double in every way—but your personalities would turn out different unless you went through the exact same experiences and made the exact same choices. And even then, you might not be exactly the same. Look how different identical twins can turn out. For all we know, both you and your clone would’ve skipped Cancun.”
“I’m surprised they don’t teach maids not to butt into others’ conversations,” Hillary spits. Next to her, Emma stares woefully down at the paper with their subject on it, looking abandoned and forgotten.
“Please focus on your own work,” Ms. Spencer’s sharp voice interjects, and I look up to see she’s watching all four of us. “This counts for class participation points.”
I turn to my notebook, thinking I’m going to have to write up all the talking points by myself, per usual.
“Where should we start?” Hunter asks, and from the corner of my eye, I see him leaning over to read what I’m writing.
I’m so surprised he’s actually taking an interest that I answer out of shock, “Well, for the sake of keeping this as streamlined as possible, let’s just assume the actual scientific process of cloning isn’t harmful to the original humans or the clones, and we’re just jumping straight to legislation.”
I put legislation in both the pros and cons columns. Hunter asks why, and I answer, “Because it creates regulations and jobs and boosts the economy, which is good, but also, crappy legislation could be theoretically passed. We’d want to avoid a scenario where we’re just breeding clones, raising them in schools or institutions, and then just ushering them into a hospital when they reach adulthood to harvest their organs. Like in that Never Let Me Go book.”
Hunter frowns. “That sounds like a depressing book.”
“It was. But it was the good, thought-provoking kind of depressing.” In the cons, I also add possibility that human clones would be treated like organ farms.
Hunter plucks the pen from my hand, and shifts the notebook in his direction. “People would clone for selfish purposes,” he explains as he writes.
“What, like your fan club behind us?” I whisper dryly.
“That’s one example we’d want to avoid,” he says, and passes me the pen again.
Up until now, I have never seen Hunter’s handwriting. I thought it’d be a mess like he is, rather than these very serviceable block-like letters.
I cock an eyebrow at him. “I was expecting angry scribbles that would take a PhD to figure out, not pretty handwriting.”
“It’s not pretty,” he mutters defensively.
I let out a small laugh. “Out of all the things, you get self-conscious about handwriting?”
He tries and fails to hide a smile, his dimples giving him away. “When you call it pretty, yes!”
Damn, this is cute. Probably the cutest I’ve ever seen him, and ugh, I shouldn’t be thinking that. But I miss this. Laughing with him. It’s like bubbles are tickling me from the inside, and there’s sparks of warmth and lightness.
Why has Hunter not gone back to his old self? And why is he actively participating in this class after we’ve broken up, when he never showed the slightest interest in it before?
“We’ve got all cons and only one pro,” he points out, tapping the edge of my notebook. “Wouldn’t a no-wait transplant list be a pro?”
“It would, ethics aside,” I agree, and edge the notebook in his direction. “Go on. Write that down in your pretty print letters.”
Hunter sighs melodramatically. “I’ll never live this down, will I?”
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We get on a back-and-forth about cloning, preparing to get all our talking points down on a single sheet of paper to turn in. Which I make Hunter do by himself, as punishment for previously hiding his very capable penmanship.
“We conclude that human cloning should be made legal,” he reads aloud as he writes everything onto the new sheet, “but only with prerequisite legislation and oversight, and with the explicit agreement that the cloning would be of parts only—like internal organs or skin, for instance, not whole people—and unless such a thing is possible, then we firmly stand on human cloning not being legal.”
We call Ms. Spencer over when we’re done, and Hunter hands her the paper. She gives it a once-over, lips pressed together as she reads.
“I see the extra study sessions had some effect,” she says when she finishes.
“What can I say,” Hunter snarks, “Hell froze over.”
The bell rings right after Ms. Spencer moves on to Hillary’s group, and I start to pack my things while Hunter gets up.
“See you around, Milla,” he says, tucking his chair back under the desk.
I don’t know why he says it, acting like things are cool between us. I mean, yes, we obviously have good chemistry (as ever), and I wish things could be different, but I can’t pretend he didn’t stomp all over my life like freaking Godzilla. Am I supposed to just follow his lead now, let bygones be bygones? There’s no way in hell.
“Hunter,” I call.
He stops, and turns on his heel. It’s unfair how good he looks, with that slightly loose tie and partly open shirt, the vest accentuating his waist. It takes one glance at his blue eyes, and I’m lost. Hunter’s close, less than two feet away, and I have to clutch my backpack straps to keep my hands from reaching for him.
Lifting a brow, he says, “Yeah?”
He looks so hopeful, staring at me like I’m at the center of not just this room, but the world. Even now, my feet ache to close the physical distance between us, my body desperate to relive the feeling of his arms wrapped strong and tight around me.
I clear my throat and lift my chin. “What exactly did your dad tell the scholarship committee? And how did you know about my history at La Jolla High?”
A heavy silence falls between us, and there’s a small flicker of something in the blue of his eyes. “I didn’t actually know anything,” he answers, avoiding my gaze. “I just made up a stupid story about how you plagiarized a term paper and got expelled.”
My heart drops.
He doesn’t know the truth.
The real story. About Mr. Harris, and the false accusations that led me to drop out of public school.
“You made up a story…about me plagiarizing,” I repeat, still reeling.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs quietly. “I don’t know what else to say.”
“There is nothing else,” I tell him, pushing past him and out into the hallway.
Hunter’s following me, and he catches up in two strides. “Wait, so what did you think I told him? About your history? What happened at La Jolla?”
I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter, Hunter. Nothing changes the fact that you cost me that scholarship.” My voice comes out trembling, a mix of angry and sad. It might be for the best, that things between us ended before he could find out about my so-called history that other people fabricated to ruin my life.
“Milla…” Hunter reaches for me, but I sidestep.
“I’ll see you around,” I say, and then stalk off without meeting his stare or caving in to his touch.
Because I know if I do, I’ll never get away.
Chapter Eleven
Camilla
Since we’re part of the planning committee, Isabel and I have to get to the spring formal earlier than everyone else to make sure things are set up right. We pack our dresses, shoes, makeup, and purses, then hop into the Mini and head to the Academy.
Jenn’s already there, talking to the elves, aka serving staff. When we approach, she motions us over. “The fake trees are here—go make sure Matt and Michael follow the floor plan. Lucy and Amanda also need help finishing the vines around the stage.”
“Hillary and co. not here yet?” Isabel asks. “Or are they boycotting?”
“I wish.” Jenn rolls her eyes. “Nah, they’ll be here. But when have you ever known them to be on time for anything?” She slides Isabel a narrow look. “I’m sure they’ll show up fashionably late, when we’re a full hour into the dance.”
“Good thing we planned around them not helping,” I say.
“I should snitch to the principal so he doesn’t give them the extra credit.” Jenn takes off her glasses to massage her eyes, then puts them back on again. “But I don’t want to make my last two months of high school any more of a living hell, so…”
Admittedly, she has a point.
After we’re done transforming the auditorium, I take a moment to marvel at what we’ve accomplished. The place looks downright amazing.
With the overhead lights all off, the fairy lights and fake trees give it a really enchanting atmosphere. The wait staff from the LARP group are dressed in dark green and gold outfits, and there’s an almost mythical glow to the dance floor. The vines around the stage look real, and I’m glad I didn’t waste all that time twisting and holding them up with wire for nothing. The bar’s tucked between two gnarled faux trees, and the dinner tables are arranged along the perimeter of the dance floor, artful sprays of floral arrangements in the middle.
With less than an hour to go, Isabel and I rush off to put on our dresses and do our hair and makeup. I style her hair into the braided bun I practiced endlessly over the holidays, and she does mine in a complicated twist that leaves the rest of my hair flowing down my back. The other girls from the planning committee are there too, doing much the same, and the locker room is filled to the brim with our voices.
The best thing about the dress Isabel made me? It’s got pockets. Deep ones. When Johanna sees me slide my phone and compact into the side seams of my skirt, she comes over, demanding I tell her where I got the dress, and then begging Isabel to make her one with pockets too.
“It makes zero sense, I tell you! I’m going to have to carry this thing around in my hand all night!” Johanna rants, holding up her beaded clutch. “If you ask me, it’s all a conspiracy to make the handbag industry profit.”
“That would make a lot of sense, actually,” I say.
“Right?” She pouts.
“Remind me to make handbags for men happen,” Isabel says, frowning as she taps her cheek. “I think you stumbled on a potential goldmine, Jo.”
“Don’t thank me. Pay me a 5% royalty on all your sales for giving you the idea.”
Isabel snorts. “Ha! Deal!”
By the time we’re finished, it’s just about time for the ball to start. Isabel, Emmett, and I made plans to go as a group, as friends, and he’s already texted to say he’s waiting outside so we can make a grand entrance together.
“You two look great,” he says when he spots us, rocking the suit jacket that Isabel made, along with a white shirt and matching navy floral tie.
“So do you!” I say as I step into his arms for a squeeze. Unlike Hunter, Emmett’s not a six-foot giant, and with me in heels, we’re just about the same height, making for easy hugging. Easy—that’s exactly how my relationship with Emmett is.
“Yeah, what did I tell you about tailor-made jackets?” Isabel smiles slyly as she takes her turn on the Emmett hug train, then holds on to his arm when they let go. “Also, Emmie, how do you feel about men’s handbags? I’m gonna need a guinea pig.”
Emmett blinks. “Wait, what?”
“I’ll explain over dinner,” Isabel says. “Let’s head on in.”
He holds out his arm to me, and I take it. The three of us walk in side by side, the only thing matching about our outfits being that they’re all designed and sewn by Isabel. We head to our table, and I’m glad Jenn took care of the seating arrangements, setting
me up between Isabel and Emmett. Matt Mason is at our table too, on the other side of Isabel, and we also have Johanna, her date, and her two friends, Jack and Isabella. The rest of the committee is spread out amongst the other tables.
First course is a cold cucumber soup that’s surprisingly tasty, followed by poached salmon and risotto, with some decadent tower of spun sugar and edible sparkles and mousse for dessert. I drink two very alcoholic ciders with the meal, poured directly from those innocent-looking Elvish vessels, then stick to plain water because I want to keep a clear head. I use dinnertime to take strategic looks around the other tables, telling myself it’s to make sure Hunter isn’t here. And when he’s not, I hate myself for wondering what this dance would be like if we were still dating.
I know I shouldn’t be thinking about him, but I am. And I definitely shouldn’t be comparing how it feels to sit next to Emmett versus how it feels sitting next to Hunter—but I am. Is this to be my fate, comparing every guy I meet to Hunter?
I drink another cider, hoping it will send the thoughts of him away while our table compares school shenanigans and stories of past Kink Closet parties. Which I notice Matt isn’t very happy with. It must suck to have an entire school know your parents have a healthy sex life, especially if it involves extra accoutrements. Which reminds me…
“Emmett and I found a dildo harness,” I say between giggles. “We couldn’t stop laughing about it.”
Matt slaps his own forehead dramatically. “Don’t remind me. It’s bad enough that I know it’s there.”
“Matt, boo, sorry to break this to you, but”—Isabel pats his shoulder—“the entire school knows about the harness. And the purple dildo.”
“And the sex swing,” Emmett says.
“And the fuzzy handcuffs,” Johanna puts in.
“Yep. Thanks, guys. This has been lovely.” Matt clears his throat and pushes his chair back before getting up. “But if you’ll excuse me for a minute, I need to go smoke a joint and forget you know all my family’s perviest secrets.”