by Jenna Scott
“You’re always in the mood,” Hillary whispers against my ear. “Come on, Hunter. I can help you get over that servant girl—”
Servant girl. Right. Disgust washes over me. I’m well aware that the way they talk about Milla is on me. I started it, I enabled it, and I regret it every time I hear someone talk shit. But Camilla didn’t deserve that, and she doesn’t deserve this either.
I grab Hillary’s wrist and fling her hand off my leg. “Seriously. Get. The fuck. Off me,” I growl.
“What’s the deal with you lately?” she screeches, dropping the cooing baby voice. “Ever since you started screwing around with that trampy little maid of yours—”
Anger erupts in my chest, and I slam my fist hard on the table. Hillary goes silent, wide-eyed at my reaction. Matt gets up and tries to make peace, gently pulling her away by the arm. “Come on, Hill. Let’s go have a drink and leave Beck to his mope fest. He’s not any fun tonight anyway.”
They walk away, and I find myself shaking my head. The room’s spinning.
“Dude,” Tom says. “What was that all about?”
“She was being rude. About Milla.” I can hear how I’m slurring my words, which is funny because the first few drinks didn’t seem to have any effect on me whatsoever, and now all of a sudden it’s like a booze train just hit me in the face.
I can’t even remember the last time I got this impaired by alcohol. Freshman year, before I knew any better? No, wait, it had to be last year, after I won the CIF state championship. I have vague memories of a big-ass mansion up in Santa Barbara, sucking champagne off of random tits to the sound of cheers, jackhammering a girl bent over a pool table. God, I’m a monster. I can’t offer Camilla anything decent or good.
Tom narrows his eyes at me. “Come on, Beck. Let’s get you home.” I let him haul me out of the seat. “You okay to walk? I’m calling an Uber.”
“Whatever.” I rub my face, but it feels numb. “Shit. Can I crash on your couch?”
“Always. But…” He frowns. “What’s going on? Is it just girl stuff, or…”
Shit’s truly gone belly-up if he’s asking me this. “It’s all good. I just don’t wanna deal with my stepmom’s comments in the morning.”
“Okay, well. Stay as long as you want. You know my parents love you.”
“Thanks, man,” I tell him, stumbling a little as we head out the door.
It’s hard to focus on anything with the entire bar spinning and whatnot. Once we get outside, I lean my back against the building so I have something solid to brace myself against. Fortunately, we don’t have to wait long, and once we’re in the car, I roll my window down for air and try to keep my eyes open so I don’t puke.
The next thing I know, Tom’s setting me up on his couch with a sheet and some blankets and pillows. “Night, dude,” he says. “Text me if you need anything, or just come upstairs.”
He leaves a light on in the hallway and sets out a glass of water and some aspirin for me. He’s a good guy, I’ve never doubted that. Not all my friends are D-bags.
I force myself to drink the water and then throw myself into the leather cushions, but even though my body is still, my thoughts keep spinning.
Camilla will be so pissed when she finds out I went to a bar and got hammered. Maybe I should text her.
I get my phone out, dim the brightness, and pull up our texts. But the way I walked out on her earlier comes rushing back, and I remember how she looked at me, how I had to leave before I did or said something I regretted. Like confessing that if she leaves me, she’ll be ripping my heart right out of my chest.
Milla wants to go to college because it’s her way into a better life. I get that. But I can give her that too. I could make all her worries go away, if she’d just let me.
It’s not even about having her, though that’s part of it. It’s not about the sex either, though that’s definitely part of it. Or at least, it will be soon enough. Shit, the things I want to do to her would put a lot of sex tapes to shame. I’m gonna own that ass. Give it to her so good she’ll never even look at another guy.
But no. The truth is, as cheesy as it sounds, when she smiles, it makes me happy. She’s kind, and smart, and she cares deeply about things, and she always does her best. She’s an actual good human being, maybe even the best person I know besides Harrison, and I know I don’t deserve her. Yet. I want to be worthy of her though.
Some day. Somehow.
As I start to drift off into a numbing haze, I realize the only way I can save us is if I pull out all the stops, find a way to make sure Milla stays. No matter what it takes.
And if I have to play dirty, then so be it.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Camilla
For the first time since we started dating, Hunter’s not waiting at the pool house door in the morning. Part of me wants to go to the Becks’ house and check his bedroom, but I go out front first. His car isn’t in the driveway, which makes it pretty obvious that he left for school without me.
Are we in a fight? I figured I hadn’t heard from him last night because he was blowing off steam or something, but I’d been hoping we could talk it out in the car over a Pop-Tart. I guess he had other ideas.
Still, there’s a sense of worry following me as I step onto the crowded city bus, and the entire way to school, my stomach is cramping. What if this is his way of dumping me? What if I have to hear about our breakup from the rumor mill, or worse, Hillary and her minions? I know I should just call him and ask what’s up, but I’m too afraid of what he might say, so I decide to just wait until we’re face to face. There’s a better chance of us talking it out that way. Unless it’s nothing.
Maybe everything’s fine, and I’m just overreacting. There are probably a ton of good, logical reasons why Hunter never texted me last night and why he would leave for school this morning without me.
Except I can’t think of a single one.
When I get to my locker, I check my phone for the nth time, hoping Hunter texted while my head was in the anxiety clouds. He hasn’t, so I fire off a message to Isabel to get my mind off things. I’m half super annoyed and half super panicked, which isn’t a good mix. Plus, if anyone’s heard gossip about me and Hunter, it’ll be her, and she won’t hesitate to dish it up and ask me to confirm or deny.
thank god this week’s almost over, I text.
Isabel replies, I can’t wait to do absolutely nothing all weekend. I’ve earned it. Did I tell you I got into UPenn? Hello, Ivy. If only I actually wanted to study Biomedical Science lol.
I tap out a rapid fire, CONGRATS!!! I’m free Saturday if you want to celebrate. I’ll make you any kind of cupcake your heart desires.
Oooooh, she texts back with a grinning devil emoji. Red velvet and a movie?
Yes please, I write. I smile, thinking of the last few movie dates at Isabel’s, where she whipped up some weirdly delicious popcorn flavors (one with hot sauce and parmesan, one with dark chocolate chips and black pepper) and kept interrupting the scenes with her commentary on the historical inaccuracies of the costumes. It was great.
Just outside the door of my first period class, textbooks crushed against my chest, I get one last text from her. One that makes my stomach drop.
FYI, just heard Hunter went to some shady dive bar last night and got so drunk he had to sleep on Tom Rice’s couch. Did you know about this? Not cool.
My breath gets yanked out of me, and I lean against a locker to write back. My fingers are shaking as I type, adrenaline coursing through me.
Last time we spoke, he said he was going for a drive. Around 9 last night. Haven’t talked to him today. It’s suddenly making sense why not. My heart is pounding.
Guess he drove to a bar, Isabel texts. Tom had to carry him out and get them an Uber home. Hillary was there too, wtf? I can’t believe you haven’t heard from him. Sorry but that’s shady af.
I let out a sigh, relieved that at least Hunter wasn’t driving drunk. I don’t think I could e
ver forgive something like that.
But then I realize he gave me the cold shoulder last night to go get wasted. He was in such a hurry to rush out the door, and it was all so he could drink himself to oblivion with his friends. No wonder he didn’t want to talk to me. Had he known Hillary was going to be there? I don’t like that one bit. I trust that girl around Hunter as much as I trust Mom not to spend all our money on booze.
The bell rings, and I’m trembling with anger as I duck into my World History classroom and slide into my seat. Emmett gives me a little wave, but all I can manage is a terse nod back. I’m disappointed and furious and worried that Hunter hooked up with Hillary and is now avoiding me because he doesn’t want to admit to it. Or because he’s too chicken to break up with me after what he did. Maybe this was even his passive-aggressive way of getting me to dump him. By doing something so awful that I’d have no choice but to tell him we’re over.
I’m not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse that we have a test today, but I try to hit pause on all my musings and just focus on the multiple choice questions, the short answer responses, and the essays. Because I finish early, I ask Mr. Robertson if I can go visit the guidance counselor’s office, and he’s happy to let me go.
“Dr. Warren?” I ask, knocking on the door, which is already slightly ajar.
“Camilla!” she answers brightly. “Come on in. Take a seat. How are you?”
Before I know it, I’m blabbing about getting into Stanford—which I haven’t even told anybody yet—and fighting back tears as I admit they didn’t offer me a scholarship, and now I have no idea if I’ll even be able to go.
“It’s my dream school,” I tell her. “Even if my FAFSA gets me some seriously solid financial aid, it won’t be enough to cover $200,000 over the course of four years. My mom isn’t giving me anything for college, which is fine, I have some savings, but between tuition and room and board and books, I don’t know how I can afford it.”
Dr. Warren lets me talk until I’m all out of words, nodding sagely and offering me a tissue when my eyes start to tear up again. She steeples her fingers and leans back in her desk chair, looking calm. “Camilla, we do offer a generous college scholarship each year to one special student here at Oak Academy,” she finally says.
I shake my head miserably.
“I have over a 4.0 GPA, and I got a 1560 on my SATs, but Stanford didn’t seem to care. There’s probably just too many other qualified people fighting over the need-based scholarships. But, like…I don’t know what else I can apply for. I don’t do any extracurriculars. I’ve never played sports or joined a club, not since middle school. Not because I don’t want to. My mom just moves us around so much that I never have a chance to get involved.
“I just…it’s hard enough readjusting every time I start a new school.” I start ticking off my other disqualifications because I’ve already studied the requirements for every scholarship I can find, and none of them ever apply to me. “I’m not in a military family, I’m not a future farmer of America, I don’t come from a marginalized demographic, I’m not a duck-calling champion…”
Smiling gently, Dr. Warren says, “That is exactly why this type of scholarship exists. It’s not dependent on sports, or clubs, or how many fundraiser car washes you’ve volunteered for, or retirement homes you’ve visited. It’s about your potential.”
That pulls me up short. “Wait. If it’s not about grades or community service, then how do I qualify for it?”
She goes over to a filing cabinet, riffles around in a drawer, and comes back with a sheet of paper, which she passes over to me. It’s an application.
“It’s called the Reed Scholarship. It’s for students of character who don’t necessarily shine on paper or have experienced academic setbacks or been the subject of disciplinary action in or outside of school, but are nonetheless deserving and worthy of pursuing a higher education, and wouldn’t otherwise be able to afford college.”
“Do I still have time to apply?” I ask, my eyes skimming over the deadline (which is Monday, yikes), the reward amount (up to $250,000 over the course of four years), and the application requirements. “It says I need two letters of recommendation along with a personal statement.”
“I’m happy to recommend you if you can find another teacher to write you a letter,” Dr. Warren says. “And I can tell you that the committee who decides on this is very receptive to rewarding those students who genuinely plan to make a difference in the world. Who are passionate about their majors. What do you plan to study?”
And there it is. The one question I’ve turned over in my mind a million times but still can’t answer. I’d been planning on choosing something like English or psychology and then changing it once I’d taken a few general education courses and had a better idea of where my interests lie. But Dr. Warren has a point. I have to make a case for why I deserve this scholarship and what kind of difference I plan to make.
“Child psychology,” I hear myself blurt. And as I say it out loud, I realize it’s true. I think of Harry, and Hunter, and even myself. “I want to help kids that have been through trauma. Help them be well adjusted. Make them realize how brave they are.”
My voice cracks with emotion, and when I look up at Dr. Warren, she’s nodding. “That’s wonderful,” she tells me. “I have to say, if you write about that in your essay, there’s a very strong chance you’ll be one of the committee’s top choices. And I can also say that I happen to be on that committee.”
“I can have the application in your hands by Monday,” I tell her, adrenaline rushing. “I can do this.”
“I believe you can,” she says.
By the time I get to bio, my thoughts are going a mile a minute—and for once, it’s got nothing to do with Hunter. My World History teacher, Mr. Robertson, happily agreed to write my second letter of recommendation for the scholarship, which he says he’ll email to me over the weekend, and I’ve been mentally outlining my essay on why I feel so passionately about studying child psychology. Sure, I’ll have to cancel all my weekend plans in order to get it done in time, but I know Isabel will understand. It feels like, for the first time since I started dreaming of going to Stanford, everything’s finally coming together.
I know winning this thing might be a long shot, but it’s the best chance I’ve got.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Camilla
I’m leaning against my locker before lunch, tapping out a text to Isabel and Emmett to see if they want to eat together, when I feel a hand on my shoulder. Even before I turn, I know it’s Hunter. He has this way of touching me that nobody else does—firmly but gently, almost the way you’d handle a precious piece of artwork.
“Hey,” I say, looking over. And wow.
There’s no doubt he went on a bender last night, so he better not even try to deny it. His eyes are sunken, his skin greasy and pale. Not the usual golden boy good looks I’m used to seeing. Massive hangover, from what I can tell, and although my heart softens a little, I remind myself that he ran out on me last night. To go to some gross bar that allows underage drinking with his dumb friends and Hillary.
“Hey,” he replies, avoiding my very direct, very angry gaze. “How’s it going?”
“Oh, I’m great.” I yank my shoulder away and cross my arms over my chest. “But you look like hell. Guess you went on some drive last night.”
Hunter winces as if I struck him, and his eyes dart up and down the hall, where a flood of students is in the process of chatting and slamming lockers and jostling each other on their way to lunch or classes. I’m sure they’re staring at us, but I don’t take my gaze off of Hunter’s face to check.
“Don’t have anything to say for yourself?” I taunt.
“Can we go somewhere more private?” he asks, his voice dropping low. ”I don’t want to fight like this in front of half the school.”
“What’s wrong? Afraid people will talk about you behind your back? I can’t imagine what that must be li
ke,” I say, my voice icy and sarcastic. “Here’s the thing. I’m not a toy, Hunter. You don’t get to just pick me up and then put me back down whenever you feel like it. When you hurt me, there are consequences.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches. “Camilla. Whatever you think I did last night, it wasn’t a planned thing or me choosing anyone else over you—”
“But you did all the same,” I cut him off.
Finally, he meets my eyes. I stare at him, unwavering. He deserves the same amount of consideration he gave me over the past twelve hours: none at all.
“I have to go,” I say. I can’t just stand here while he refuses to give me answers.
“Wait. Take a walk with me,” he says. “Please.”
My eyes are locked on his, and I feel my resolve weakening.
“Fine.” I hate myself for giving in so quickly, but I can’t hold out any longer. I’m not sure he’s ever used that tone with me before. He actually sounds sorry.
Hunter is quiet as we head down the hallway, but as soon as we step outside the school doors, he lets out a long breath.
“Look. When I left last night, all I wanted was to go for a drive. That’s all. Just drive around with my brain turned off until I could clear my mind. And that’s what I did. I went in circles around La Jolla for an hour. Normally, that’s enough to make me feel better, or at least less like I’m going to hit something. But it didn’t work this time…” He trails off and doesn’t continue.
“Why not?” I finally prod.
“Because…I guess because all I could think about was…losing you.”
For a moment, I’m stunned into silence. This isn’t at all what I was expecting to hear. “Losing me? How?”
He shakes his head. “Because you’re leaving soon. For college. Don’t deny it.”