Chapter Four Cam #2
Mason slumps down into his seat until the belt is notched under his chin. “You’re hopeless,” he says in quiet defeat.
Like I asked for his irrelevant opinion. I draw calming breaths, trying to remind myself of why I’m doing this. It’s for my football career. So I don’t have to be a benchwarmer by the time the scout shows up to examine Darius and me.
Mason gives a lofty sigh. “We’re just studying, Cameron,” he says wearily. “It’s not like I’m making you get your genitals waxed. You don’t have to be so clenched up.”
“I’m being forced to study with a snobby asshole who hates me, just so I can play football. It’s worse than getting my balls waxed,” I mutter.
“I don’t hate you. I just find you rude and inappropriate.”
It’s like he wants me to eject him from the car. “If you can’t see my natural charm and charisma, that’s your problem.” I jut my chin higher, and despite my father’s warning voice in my ear, I say, “You should feel lucky. I could’ve offered myself to anyone else.”
Mason presses a palm over his mouth, like he’s concealing a smile. “But you deigned to choose a lowly peasant,” he says solemnly. “Why, pray tell, did you descend from your royal pedestal of perfection to offer yourself to a modest commoner such as me?”
I turn my music up to the max because I’m not dealing with this shit right now.
I continue along the road hugging Lake Evergreen, watching sunlight bounce off the rippling water, before pulling into a building complex across the street from the sandy shores.
Mason guides me along the cracked sidewalk to a shop with fogged windows and a faded sign reading Annie’s Brews.
The interior walls are paneled with wood, and golden lamps decorate the perimeter.
Bookshelves are scattered along the hardwood, tucked beside leather couches, love seats, and rounded tables.
The aroma is sweet and nutty. A handful of people are lounging around—some on laptops, two in business suits, and a couple of sophomores I recognize.
“Mason!” A young woman with wildly curly hair stands behind the barista counter, dressed in an I Love You a Latte! apron. She waves, a gigantic smile plastered on her face. “What are we having today?”
“Hey, Annie.” Mason treads closer, massaging his hands like we came in from a blizzard. “Cinnamon-twist latte, please. Extra sweet?”
Her grin wavers, and her eyes search him intently. “That kind of day, huh?”
“Yes.” Mason’s voice comes uncharacteristically dull and flat.
“I see.” Annie offers me an expectant smile before I can stick my nose in whatever they’re talking about. “How about you, hon?”
I wave my hand halfheartedly. “I’m okay. Never had coffee, so…”
Annie gives me this look like I’ve just killed a golden retriever directly in front of her.
“I know, right?” Mason demands. “I have no idea how he stays awake at school.”
“Sheer willpower and natural strength,” I explain. Obviously.
Mason snags my elbow and tugs me to the counter so I can see all the fancy contraptions behind Annie. His hands are as silky smooth as they look, which doesn’t make me feel any better about him. “What do you like, Cameron? Sweet? Spicy? Nutty?”
I sniff stubbornly. “None of the abo—”
“Make that two, Annie,” Mason says, ignoring me like my words mean absolutely nothing. “He can try my favorite drink.”
I want to protest this attempt to coerce me into drinking caffeine, but Annie turns away from us to do whatever baristas do.
Mason plucks out his wallet and stuffs a ten-dollar bill into the ceramic tip jar, then scurries away from the counter.
Sighing, I follow after him, adjusting my backpack straps.
“So,” I say, watching Mason plop onto a love seat in the corner of the shop and shed his shoes. He’s wearing socks with smiley face marshmallows because he has that adorable soft-boy image to protect. “What did she mean? When she asked if it was ‘that kind of day.’ ”
Mason sinks deeper into the cushion. “She usually knows when I’m having a bad morning.”
“You have enough of those that she has a special drink for you?” I ask, skeptical.
“It’s just extra whipped cream.”
I huff, flopping down beside him and peeking out the sprawling window nearby.
The brick business building next door is in the way of a great view, but the edge of the lake still peeks around the corner.
“You don’t have to tutor me if you hate me that much,” I mutter.
“Like, damn. Even the barista lady sees it.”
Mason massages his temples with exasperation. “How many times do I have to say I don’t hate you?” he asks coolly.
“Why else would you be having such a shitty morning?” I demand.
He gives a brief, sassy eye roll. “I know this may be beyond your comprehension, my liege, but there are problems that exist outside of you in this world.”
I’m about to pack my ass up and haul it home so I can tell my parents I’m officially closing the book on my education. There’s no way putting up with Mason Gray is worth the money I’ll be making as a Division I college football quarterback.
Except it is, because money.
Damn it.
Annie appears suddenly at the back of the love seat to hand us our cinnamon-twist lattes. “You boys enjoy,” she says, and as she turns to leave, a ten-dollar bill drops onto the cushion.
“Wait!” Mason grabs it, eyes glinting with frustration. “Annie, take my money.”
“Not from my favorite customer.” She tosses a wink over her shoulder, then jogs off before Mason can launch the bill back at her. I pop the lid off my coffee and stare suspiciously at the whipped cream. Does this guy walk around town getting shit for free because he’s that irresistible?
“You’re dramatic.” Mason draws his cup to his lips, then melts into the couch, his eyes fluttering. “I come here pretty frequently. It’s nice to get away.”
I should learn how to think with my mouth shut.
Before I can ask what subject we’re starting with, Mason flaps his sweater sleeve and says, “Try it!”
I want to remind him I didn’t ask for this, but he’s so eager that I feel compelled to bring it to my lips. I take a gulp, and sugary heat explodes through my mouth, frying my taste buds before laying waste to my throat like liquid fire. “Fuck,” I gag.
“Sorry.” Mason tosses a sleeve over his mouth and laughs. “Should’ve said to sip.”
“No shit?”
“Well, if your mouth ever regains feeling, try it again. I’ll take it if you don’t like it.”
Ah. It’s all making sense now. “You ordered this for me knowing I would hate it, just so you could have a second drink,” I say accusingly, glaring him down across the couch cushions. “This was part of your plan, you manipulative little bitch.”
Mason spreads his hand further over his mouth, but his eyes are crinkling, which means he must be smiling wide. “How was I supposed to know you wouldn’t like sweet drinks?” he asks innocently. “I thought they’d be your favorite. Since your personality is so soft and syrupy.”
It’s like he wants to be launched through the glass windows of the establishment.
I don’t have any intelligent response to offer.
My brainpower has been all but drained over the last several minutes, simply from trying to keep up with him.
It’s all I can do to tear open my backpack and start rifling angrily through my books.
Mason snickers, apparently documenting this exchange as a win, and pulls out his precalc textbook. I guess that’s what we’re starting with.
And thus commences the most agonizing few hours of my life.
—
Okay, so maybe it’s not that bad.
Precalc sucks, but the thing about math—at least, high school math—is that it’s mostly straightforward.
There’s no hidden themes or subtle meanings to search for, like in English.
So, with Mason walking me through these questions slowly, taking it step-by-step until we both have the answer, we get it done relatively quickly.
Next comes health science. He took the class as a junior, so he has knowledge in it. Next, world history. Basically, he reiterates everything I failed to pay attention to in class, but in simpler words and shorter sentences.
English is torturous. I swear we spend two hours going through summary notes of The Great Gatsby because I can’t remember anything about it, even though I just watched the Leonardo da Vinci version a few days ago.
“The teachers are asking these questions, so you should be prepared to answer them,” Mason says when I ask why I should give a shit. “Whining won’t make a difference.”
Now I’m a whiner. Even though I gave him my coffee out of the sheer kindness of my heart, he’s still insulting me.
“You hated it, and it was free,” he points out.
Whatever.
As time passes, more students come to occupy the seats until the place is bustling.
I recognize some people from lower grades, but nobody I can confidently call my friend and request to save me from this madness.
Still, there’s something undeniably cozy about it all.
The soft lighting, the warmth of the café, the sound of the coffee death machine whirring, the muted chatter.
There are worse places Mason could’ve chosen.
The last class is independent reading, which is where we read books through the fifty-minute session and then take ten minutes at the end to write about what we just consumed. “What book have you been reading this semester?” Mason asks, eyeing my backpack.
“Uh. None?”
He offers a weak, frustrated smile. “What do you do during class?”
I give him a thumbs-up. “Sleep.”
“Mm. I thought you were too busy running on willpower and natural strength to fall asleep in school,” Mason says, thrumming his fingers along the brim of his empty coffee cup. There’s this smug calmness about him that makes the muscles tighten in my neck.
“I could stay awake if I wanted to, coffee boy,” I snap. “But I don’t have anything interesting to read, and I took it as a blow off, so—”