by Jenna Scott
Shaking my head, I sigh. “What about people who marry for love and stay in love? There’s nothing outdated about that.”
“Ha!” Hunter scoffs. “Love like that doesn’t exist. It’s just not believable. There’s lust and the thing people call love, which is really just temporary insanity, but it never lasts. It’s just chemicals. Dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin.
“But they drop off after a few years, and then you just hate each other. But you can’t leave because you’re too tied up with kids and bills and your shitty routine.”
Where is all this bitterness coming from? And why is Hunter lashing out at me? “This is for a grade. Can’t you take this one thing seriously?” I beg.
“Yeah. I could.” He shrugs. “I just don’t want to.”
I want to throttle him. Too bad there are multiple witnesses in the room.
“Listen to Camilla, Hunter,” Mrs. Beck suddenly snaps, scowling at him over her iPad. “You know your dad expects you to get your GPA up this semester.”
At once, his head whips in her direction. “The fuck do you care?”
I stiffen, wishing I’d just gone back upstairs to hang out with Harry.
“Watch your mouth.” Eyes sharp as daggers, Mrs. Beck lowers the tablet. “You should be ashamed of yourself. The girl who babysits your brother is doing better at school than you are, and she doesn’t have half the help you do.”
There’s a compliment in there, I suppose, though I don’t appreciate that it’s delivered in such a backhanded way. Even my mom stops cleaning and looks over her shoulder. I just paste a tight smile on my face and hope to disappear.
“Ah. So that’s why your panties are in a bunch,” Hunter says to her. “If I flunk my classes, then Dad will have to start paying attention to me instead of you.” He smiles cruelly. “Newsflash, Karleigh. Dad’s already paying attention to someone else.”
He pauses, watching his words hit their target.
“You should know it’s not befitting to discuss this in front of other people.” Mrs. Beck gets up, gathers her notebook and iPad, and says, “Go do your homework.”
Her footsteps fade away, but she takes none of the room’s tension with her.
“She’s still your brother’s mom, you know. Hurting her hurts him,” I tell Hunter, shocked at how mean he was. “And if your dad’s cheating, how is she to blame?”
“Camilla.” He lies back, long legs uncrossing, and lets out a sigh. “It’s almost cute how clueless you are.”
“Well, it’s not cute at all that you’re such a dick,” I hiss.
“Right, because you’re just so perfect,” he hisses back, leaning forward now to look me in the eye. “Miss Camilla Hanson, who never steps out of line. Just like your mom, right? Perfect on paper, nothing to hide, nothing to see here. Or is there?”
I don’t realize I’ve stepped back until the coffee table hits me behind my knees. Does he know about my mom’s drinking? Or the Incident from my last school? Shit.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, but there’s a wobble in my voice, and I know Hunter noticed it. I can tell by the way he’s grinning again.
“Everyone has secrets, Camilla,” he says, his voice like poison. “What are you hiding?”
“Nothing. I—I have to go.”
Turning on my heel, I make a beeline for the foyer, grab my bag, and rush out the door. I can’t get away from this house fast enough.
Chapter Fourteen
Camilla
After that spectacular encounter, any further attempts on my part to practice for the debate are shut down and dismissed. When Hunter and I cross paths at school, we don’t even acknowledge each other. It’s the same when I’m at his place to babysit Harrison, although sometimes I could swear I feel eyes on me. Except every time I look over my shoulder, there’s no one there—but I know Hunter is watching me. He’s simply too much of a coward to show his face.
Several times over the past few weeks, I’ve thought about asking Isabel or Emmett for help with the project, but even though I know they’d say yes in a heartbeat, I also know that neither of them have taken debate. And I’m not exactly in a hurry to explain to them why I’m in a fight with Hunter, so the conversation never happens.
Still, I’m grateful for my new friends. Isabel and Emmett are the only reason I make it through my days at Oak Academy more or less unscathed by the gossip about me. It’s just debate class that’s a complete nightmare. Half the time, Hunter doesn’t bother to show, and Hillary is constantly whispering behind my back. Literally. It’s like there’s a fly buzzing around me every day, saying things like, “Did you hear the help got so drunk at Matt’s party that Hunter had to call her a cab?”
“So tacky. But you know, rehab is expensive.”
“Maybe she can get a scholarship for that too.” A round of giggles ensues.
“Of course lesbo dumpster diver Isabel is obsessed with her. Losers do like to stick together.”
I wish I could say I’ve found the secret to tuning them out during class, but I haven’t. The best-case scenario is when Ms. Spencer hushes them, though even that is only temporary. Sometimes it takes all my willpower not to just turn around and tell them to get a life. It probably wouldn’t help with the whole scholarship thing, though, since Hillary’s mom is on the school board. And it would only serve to fuel their gossip even more. I can already hear them: ooh, look at the help getting all feisty today.
In terms of my project with Hunter, I’ve long since given up on him and spent my time researching everything I can about marriage, collecting facts and statistics like weapons. I have to prove I deserve to be here, just like everyone else at this school.
And now, today is the day. My turn to present. There’s a horrible knot of anxiety in my stomach, and my pulse is pounding in my ears.
The seat next to me is empty. I’m praying it remains that way. Maybe if Hunter isn’t here, I’ll be graded based on my own work. I’ll happily take a few docked points over presenting with him. In fact, I’ve decided to volunteer to go up first so I can get this out of the way as quickly as possible and so I don’t actually throw up at my desk.
But just as Ms. Spencer is saying, “So which group would like to go first?” and my hand is shooting up in the air, the door squeaks open, and in walks Hunter like my very own personal worst nightmare. “Hunter and Camilla! Great,” she says, seeming to think this was all planned out. “Go on ahead.”
As I walk to the front of the room on shaky legs, my heart’s beating so loud I can barely hear anything else. I’m always nervous when it comes to public speaking, but today is especially dire since I’m counting on someone who can’t be counted on for anything. I’m not even sure what Hunter plans to say. Guess he’s going to “wing it.”
Ms. Spencer takes a seat at an empty desk with her notebook open in front of her and gives us an encouraging nod as we take our places behind the podiums.
I neaten the stack of notecards in front of me, take a deep breath, and begin. “The topic we’ll be debating is marriage. Is it an outdated institution?” The tutorials online said to begin with a definition, and since Hunter was so adamantly against marriage the one time we talked about this, I chose my side to oppose him. “By definition, marriage is the legal or formal recognition of a union between two people as partners in a personal relationship. I will be arguing why it’s not outdated.”
Stealing a look at Hunter, I give him a chance to say something. The affirmative is supposed to begin, after all, but he’s just leaning against the whiteboard, arms crossed, exuding don’t give a shit-ness. Fine. No surprise there.
I swallow down my nerves and continue. “Some would argue marriage is outdated because people cheat, and divorces happen. But the failure of a marriage isn’t the fault of the institution in itself, but rather of the individuals. Just as the court of law isn’t to blame when people commit a crime, the institution of marriage isn’t to blame when people decide to break the commitment they
made to each other.”
Again, I stop, giving Hunter room to argue. He lets out an audible sigh. There are giggles somewhere in the back of class, cut short by a silent glare from Ms. Spencer.
“When faced with the argument that marriage isn’t legal for all couples, hence it’s outdated, we can argue that, as it currently stands in the United States as of a Supreme Court ruling in June of 2015, it is. And in other places in the world where it isn’t, it’s more a matter of updating antiquated notions about sexuality so that marriage envelops all unions, not just heteronormative ones.”
Ms. Spencer is scribbling in the margins of the grading rubric in her notebook. She doesn’t look happy. Meanwhile, Hunter’s exchanging looks with his fan club at the back of class. Thanks to my comments regarding gay marriage, I’m sure Hillary is having a ball gossiping about the nature of my relationship with Isabel. So childish.
“Furthermore,” I push on, “having a personal commitment legally recognized offers other advantages, such as hospital visits when one spouse is ill, shared health insurance policies, or joint tax filing to reduce financial strain on the home…”
We were given a full ten minutes, but I finish reading through my notecards after about five—though it felt like a hell of a lot longer. Hunter hasn’t said a thing the entire time. I can feel my cheeks burning, and since I’m done now, I step out from behind the podium and shift on my feet.
“That’s it, I guess,” I say awkwardly.
“Where are the arguments on the positive side?” Ms. Spencer asks. Hunter shrugs, checking his watch rudely.
I clear my throat. “I can’t force Hunter to speak if he doesn’t want to.”
“That much is true, but if you can’t get your partner to cooperate, your project is only half complete.” Ms. Spencer narrows her eyes. “Which means the best-case scenario is that you both get fifty points out of a hundred, though that won’t be possible—this was more of a legal primer on marriage and a list of potential benefits than any kind of debate regarding whether the institution is applicable to modern-day society.”
All I can do is nod. “I understand,” I say meekly.
“I’m not sure you do since you didn’t adequately complete the assignment, Miss Hanson. You were obviously not prepared to tackle the subject as directed. Not at the level we practice in this class. I’m aware this is new territory for you, but I expected more.”
All I can do is nod. How was I supposed to know how this all worked? I’ve never taken a debate class before. And Hunter gave me zero help, not even to tell me I was on the wrong track. This presentation seriously could not have gone any worse.
“And as for you.” Ms. Spencer turns to Hunter, already shaking her head. “Well, I guess there’s nothing to critique since you didn’t participate.”
“A flawless performance,” Hunter announces, giving a mock bow. The class applauds, eating it up. As for me, I want to die.
“You’re obviously mighty pleased with yourself, Mr. Beck,” Ms. Spencer says coldly. “Would you like to share what’s so amusing about having your partner fail because you wouldn’t pull your weight?”
Tentatively, I steal a look at him from the corner of my eye. His lips are pursed, a sign that what she said actually bothered him. “No, Ms. Spencer.”
She sighs. “I’m signing you both up for after-school homework together.” She shoots Hunter a glare. “And you had better not leave your partner to fend for herself again, Mr. Beck. At least she tried. The same can’t be said for you.”
The world is a blur as I force myself to walk back to my seat, completely humiliated. It’s someone else’s turn to present, but I can barely pay attention as I try to process what just happened.
Hunter brushed off Ms. Spencer’s scolding like a dog brushes off water. He doesn’t care about failing and doesn’t feel guilty about dragging me down with him. Not only that, but because of his slacking, I’ll have to stay after school, which is going to affect my babysitting shifts. I am not looking forward to explaining to his parents why I’m going to be late showing up for Harry during the week.
When class ends, I bolt from my seat. I can hear Hunter calling my name behind me, but I just walk faster. I’m never speaking to him again.
Chapter Fifteen
Camilla
Harry asks for homemade mac and cheese for dinner, and I’m happy to oblige. It’s easy enough, and there are plenty of fancy cheeses in the fridge that I’m kind of excited to experiment with. Mr. and Mrs. Beck are out of town for the weekend, which means my babysitting duties have been broadened for the next two days to include staying until Harry’s tucked into bed, which I do half the time anyway, and then coming back first thing in the morning to make him breakfast.
Things Hunter could do but can’t actually be trusted with.
He can’t even be trusted with the house, it seems, because he swaggers into the kitchen while I’m instructing Harry to pour milk into the flour and butter roux that’s bubbling in the pot and loudly announces, “I’m throwing a party tonight in the pool house. Just FYI.”
This is the first time he’s directed any attention my way since our disastrous presentation on Wednesday, and of course it’s not to ask if he can have a party, but to tell us. Because he’s just automatically assuming I won’t say a word to his parents.
“You can’t do that!” Harry says. “Mom said no friends over.”
“Well, ‘Mom’ isn’t here,” Hunter tells him. “And if you say anything, I’ll hide all your dolls, and you’ll never get them back.”
“They’re action figures!” Harry asserts.
“You gonna keep your mouth shut, squirt?” Hunter asks.
“I did last time,” Harry replies. “Does the cheese go in now?” he asks me.
“Just the first two cups,” I instruct, whisking all the while. I glance over at Hunter, who’s still waiting expectantly nearby. “I don’t care what you do,” I tell him. “As long as the noise doesn’t keep Harry up.”
Hunter looks at his brother, who’s glued to my side as he watches me stir the sauce. “It’s on the other side of the property, Camilla. Harrison won’t be bothered.”
“Can I go to the party too?” Harry asks, eyes shifting between Hunter and me.
“Not this one, bud,” Hunter answers as he musses the kid’s hair. “But we’ll have our own party at the pool tomorrow, okay? I’ll even order us a pizza. Pepperoni.”
Harrison nods eagerly. “Deal!”
It’s moments like this, when Hunter is kind and attentive toward his younger brother, that I almost believe his usual aloofness and jack-assery are a front, not his real self. His gaze softens, as does his voice, his demeanor, his everything. No one who so obviously loves a kid as much as that can be wholly bad.
As I tip the strainer full of cooked pasta shells into the pot of melty, cheesy goodness, I feel a heat at my back. My body tenses as Hunter leans in over my shoulder. “Looks amazing,” he murmurs. “Save me a bite?”
It makes me shiver, his voice right beside my ear, every word a caress. “Sure.”
I know it’s pure disgust that I should be feeling in such close proximity with Hunter, but instead all I can muster is blinding horniness.
Harry takes over stirring with the big spoon as I look for a glass baking dish.
“Gonna go Postmates some booze,” Hunter says, footsteps fading as he exits the kitchen. Like every other rich kid, he uses his parents’ account to order in all the alcohol, and I guess the adults either don’t notice or don’t care enough to stop it.
I don’t realize how tense my muscles are until it’s just me and Harry in the kitchen again, and I feel my shoulders slump and my neck relax. It’s as if Hunter’s presence alone is enough to suffocate me.
The delivery guy comes in when Harry and I are watching Nickelodeon after dinner. I can hear a cart rolling onto the tiles in the foyer, and I lean halfway off the couch to look in there and see just how much Hunter has ordered.
I
start to panic. Silently praying this night doesn’t all go to hell, I take Harrison upstairs, draw him a bath, and then read to him once he’s in his pajamas and tucked in. We’re almost to the end of the chapter when I hear a car door slam, the doorbell ring, and then the first wave of people who begin arriving.
And keep on arriving. I don’t have to go downstairs to know that dozens of Hunter’s friends have been invited to what’s rapidly turning into a huge party. There’s no way Harry’s going to be able to fall asleep with all the commotion.
“You want to put on Iron Man?” I suggest.
“Yeah!” Harry agrees.
I don’t normally let the kid watch TV in bed, but a superhero movie is just the thing to drown out the noise of music and conversations getting louder and louder.
He’s so transfixed by the movie that he doesn’t conk out until somewhere around ten, but I’m glad he’s out cold because the music coming from the pool house is now loud enough to rival a club. The deep bass echoes off the walls, and someone’s turned on a smoke machine and some kind of strobe light out by the pool. What do they think this is, a music video shoot? Ridiculous.
Under the covers, Harry rolls over and buries his face in Roo’s belly. At this rate, they’re going to wake him up, which is exactly what I was worried about. Damn you, Hunter. Peering at Harry one last time, I stalk out of the room and head downstairs.
No one’s in the main house, which thank the Lord for small mercies. Once I’m in the backyard, however, the story is different. A few people are smoking weed by the pool, feet in the water, plastic Solo cups at their sides. I watch, dismayed, as someone puts out a blunt directly on the stone tiles and leaves it there.
“Seriously?” I hiss, picking it up and tossing the butt into one of their cups.
“Hey!” one of the guys complains. “That’s my drink.”
“Congrats. Now it’s an ashtray,” I snap.