Chapter Four #2
Finally he says, “It’s a study partner app. You can match up with people looking to study for specific classes with specific professors. I want it integrated with every accredited university in the country by the time it’s done, but ideally one day it’ll be a global app.”
“What’s it called?”
“Cram Session.”
“And you have someone interested in buying this?” I can’t keep the skepticism out of my voice.
“It’s for a scholarship.”
“So we’re cheating.” I shoot him an accusing look. “You didn’t mention that.”
“I didn’t ask you to offer,” he says defensively.
“And it’s not cheating. You can have up to six on a team.
The less people you have, the more profit you get.
The scholarship is split however you’ve agreed on your submission paperwork.
I’m a one-person team, so I get it in full.
If you do this, I’m not cutting you in. I’ll credit you as an assistant to keep it on the up-and-up, but that’s it. ”
“I’m not asking to be cut in. You’re paying me with your silence.”
He braces his hands on his hips, tapping his foot lightly as he considers.
“If it turns out you can’t handle it, you don’t get to make me the bad guy.
I can’t keep you on this just because I feel sorry for you.
I need this scholarship. And I don’t want to lie to Sawyer, so it has to be worth it for me. ”
“I would die before I’d let you feel sorry for me about anything, Jamie.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. Then he pushes off the door, turning toward it as he scrubs a hand over his hair and down the back of his neck, a move I’m familiar with.
His hair has always ranged from longish to long, and Jamie was constantly running his fingers through it, mussing it up, ruffling it, making nearby girls turn their heads and swoon a little.
Even when he had the kind-of mullet his senior year—an artsy-boy haircut he was coerced into by Juana, his girlfriend at the time—girls were still giving him hopeful side-eyes.
I’m not over the oddness of seeing Jamie with short hair. Like the tattoo, it’s a reminder of how much has changed while he’s been away at school.
“Fine,” he says at last, reaching for the doorknob. “I’ll let you give it a shot. But I won’t go easy on you.”
“As if I expected you to.”
He pulls open the door and steps out. The whispers from the living room go instantly silent.
“She gets twenty-four hours,” Jamie says. “Whether she stays or goes, she’ll make sure the rent’s paid through the summer, and we’ll have time to find someone new for fall.”
“Fine,” Felicity says, clapping her hands. “Works for me.”
“Me too!” Mikey squeaks, hopping to her feet. She beams at me. “I hope you stay. I like you.”
“What exactly qualifies her for that?” Jamie asks, brows lowering.
Mikey grins at him. “I’ve never seen anyone get you so riled up before, Jamie. I’m entertained.” She pats him on the cheek as she heads off to her room, shooting me a wink as she goes.
“Same here,” Andres says, sprawling on the couch with the now nearly empty bag of tortilla chips on his chest. He props one arm behind his head. I notice no one has bothered to turn off SpongeBob, and based on Andres’s sleepy expression, it must be working its soothing magic.
Felicity eyes me warily. “I don’t love that you lied.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Just don’t do it again.”
When she’s gone, following Mikey, I turn to Jamie. “So where do I start?”
I trail him to his room, but he stops me at the door. “I’ll email you. Listen, I know you and Sawyer have a real loose definition of the concept of privacy, but I don’t.” He points at the threshold. “This is the line. Don’t cross it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He shuts the door firmly in my face.
“Um, hello? I do not have a loose definition of the concept of privacy. What has Sawyer told you?” A horrifying thought dawns on me, and I knock on the door, then press my ear to it.
“Jamie! Has Sawyer been going through my stuff? Hello? Jamie?”
Over the next hour, I work myself into a real spiral.
I’m in what I hope will soon officially be my room, freshly showered, still coming down from Jamie’s threat to tell Sawyer I’m here, the idea that my brother has a loose definition of the concept of privacy, and Felicity cracking the door open as I was mid-shower to ask to pee before leaving for work.
I squeaked out an affirmative and spent the next minute assuring myself I could be super cool about it.
Still waiting for that super-cool-about-it feeling to hit.
Now I’m sitting on the bare mattress, watching the dust motes move through shafts of late-afternoon sunlight while I figure out what I’ll do if Jamie decides to turn me in. So far I’ve got: throw myself at my parents’ feet and beg for mercy.
By the time my inbox pings, I’m wound tight enough to snap, and I spring from my bed at the sound. Heart hammering and palms sweating, I drop into the desk chair and open his email.
Jamie is concise, giving me exactly what I need to rewrite the code I inadvertently deleted without a hint of excess information. I stretch my neck, flex my fingers, and begin.
A few hours later, I pause for a quick dinner of two hastily eaten energy bars before diving back in.
I hear Andres heading out, leaving a cloud of cologne in his wake that makes me sneeze, and then Mikey leaving for band practice, where she apparently plays the keyboard and is trying out experimental sounds with other instruments.
(When I politely asked about her band, I was subjected to a few of their practice videos.
They’ve got a guitar-playing lead singer with a scratchy voice, who might be slightly tone-deaf.
He defaults mostly to screaming the lyrics to what can only be original songs.
Their drummer is clearly the most talented but also terrifies me, playing the drums violently with a placid, dead-eyed look on her face.
Their bass player is a sullen high schooler, eyes hidden by a mop of dark hair, who Mikey says leaves every practice early to meet curfew.
And then there’s Mikey, who alternates between the keyboard, triangle, harmonica, and xylophone, each one worse than the last.)
I should be able to relish in the peace and quiet with the others gone, but instead I’m deeply aware of the fact that only Jamie and I remain. When I finally finish and send my work to him, the sun has long set, and my stomach is grumbling for real food.
I creep into the kitchen with a packet of ramen in hand, pausing when I see a covered plate on the counter, a note on top.
Bee—
Jamie decided he didn’t want it, so you can have the banana bread! Welcome home (hopefully)!!
Mike!
“Don’t eat it.”
I whirl at the sound of Jamie’s voice.
He steps into the kitchen and pulls an energy drink from the fridge. “It’s got walnuts, and I don’t have time to rush you to the hospital.”
I step away from the plate, frowning. “I guess I’ll need to make an allergy list.” I eye him warily. “If I get to stay…”
He glances at me as he cracks open the energy drink and takes a sip. He’s dressed now, having traded his earlier outfit for something less resembling a bin of car wash rags.
“Are you going somewhere?” I ask. “And also, did you buy the whole outfit from Costco, or just the shorts?”
His expression doesn’t change as he leans back against the oven, watching me. “I’m going out.” Even on opposite sides of the small galley kitchen, we’re nearly touching.
I slide down the counter a few inches, pretending to eye the banana bread as though the walnuts might get me through the plastic wrap. “Without grading my test?”
He glances toward my open bedroom door, where my room is visible from our spot in the kitchen. “You can probably risk putting some sheets on the bed. I won’t be able to look at it until tomorrow.”
God, just put me out of my misery already! I want to scream, but it comes out, “Okay. Cool.”
“Just don’t get comfortable,” Jamie says. “There’s still time for me to regret entertaining this.” He leaves the kitchen, pulling his keys from his pocket, and the front door bangs shut behind him.