Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
The entire school is empty for Thanksgiving break.
At least that's what I think until day three, when I spot Harley sitting in the dining hall eating a massive pile of eggs by himself.
He freezes when he hears the door and then glares over at me.
I pile my own plate full of pancakes, fruit, syrup, and ice cream, and then sit as far away from him as possible.
I wasn't expecting to see anyone, so I'm wearing tiny shorts, an old, torn shirt, and thigh-high socks.
I was sliding my way around the school and squealing like a toddler all morning.
There is only a skeleton staff left at the school, so I didn't feel any shame while doing it.
Now I cringe at the thought of Harley catching me.
It’s uncomfortable eating in silence, knowing he’s at the other end of the table without a single other person in here.
I suddenly become way too aware of how loud I chew, of how much I move when I eat without a book in front of me, of how bad my table manners probably are to anyone who was actually, you know, raised with a table to eat at.
Or a food source that wasn’t just school breakfast programs handing out brown paper bags of whatever the hell kind of food the kitchens scraped together for us.
I keep getting the feeling he’s watching me, but whenever I glance up, he’s scrolling through his phone and eating as though he couldn’t care less about me being down the table from him.
He’s probably messaging the others about how ridiculous I look.
I sigh into my fruit and mentally prepare for all the shit I'll get from Avery when the break is over.
I'm contemplating my future doom when Harley gets up and leaves the hall. As he walks past my chair, I meet his eyes and keep my face blank. He sneers down at me and I roll my eyes.
Stupid rich kids.
When I'm finished, I head back to my room and start the colossal pile of homework I have.
It's not the fun break I think the rest of Hannaford students are having with their families, but the only point of reference I have for that is sitcoms. My only really good memory from any holiday growing up was watching the Christmas specials on TV by myself while my mom got high and walked the streets.
Fuck, if that's where my brain is at, I’m going to have a miserable break.
I have a scholarship to keep and not much else to do, so homework it is.
The most pressing thing I have to do is my vocal work.
I can't practice in my room when the other girls are here.
I'm too nervous that they can hear me, and even with my headphones on, the anxiety triggers my PTSD.
I've picked my song, having ditched the Vanth Falling song I originally chose now that I've met Blaise, and I just need to practice it enough that I can zone completely out while I perform.
I will never admit this to another living soul, but I pick Pompeii by Bastille because of Blaise’s cover of it.
It sucks that so much of my own musical story is intertwined with his because of my past obsession with him, but I guess there’s a reason these are called my ‘formative years’.
Every inch of my life relates back to one of his songs, whether I was listening to it at the time or used it to dissociate from the horrors I was witnessing, ear buds stuffed tightly in my ears until all that was left was me and that boy.
There’s no changing the fact that I need something I've sung a thousand times before to get through the assignment, and taking Blaise Morrison out of the equation drastically narrows the selection to choose from.
I listen to a lot of different genres, artists, and eras, but none with the frequency of him.
I can hide that truth thanks to those covers.
It’s not like he’ll remember the specifics of that conversation, even if he were to find out my song choice, but Miss Umber can barely remember my name, so she’s not going to yap about me to her favorite student.
No one will ever have to know it's all because of him.
I'd rather die.
I decide to skip lunch to keep practicing, and then my stomach finally drags me to the dining hall for dinner.
The menu is very festive, and it takes me a second to realize it's because tomorrow is Thanksgiving and this is probably a trial run.
I feel bad for the kitchen staff who have to be here to feed me, a scholarship student, and then I remember Harley and the giant mountain of money his family is paying to send him here and I feel a bit better.
I fill my plate with such a feast that I almost feel guilty thinking about the kids back home, and then I sit down and tuck in.
Harley is in his usual seat, so I situate myself at the other end of the table again.
Not long after I sit down, I hear him get up.
His plate was full when I walked past, so he’s obviously leaving because of me.
I’m rolling my eyes at his dramatics when, to my utter shock, he sits down across from me.
He doesn’t say a word or even look at me, he just gets right back to inhaling his food as soon as his ass hits the seat.
I can’t eat a fucking thing.
Not with him sitting there, complete silence in the room, nothing to distract me from how hot he is or how unrefined I am. Good God, this is probably the worst tactic of war he’s used against me yet.
I was really looking forward to the food, too.
“Rumor has it you're emancipated,” he says without looking up at me, so I have to do more than nod.
My voice is barely more than a croak. “Yeah.”
“How the fuck did you manage that?”
I can’t figure out his angle. Is he fishing for information to use against me or is he just curious, bored, or possibly feeling transformed by the Thanksgiving spirit?
After a pause, I answer him. “It was pretty straight-forward for me because I was already a ward of the state, so there wasn’t any custody to dissolve.
To petition the courts, I just had to prove that I could provide for myself.
Honestly, it was one less kid the state had to take care of, so it was an easy sell.
I just had to get in front of the right judge.
That took me two years, but I’m not exactly one to give up. ”
He grunts and leans back in his chair to study my face. I try desperately to not flush scarlet under his gorgeous stare. There’s a faint scent of chlorine clinging to him, and I wonder if he’s training for something or if he uses the Olympic-sized swimming pool here for leisure.
An image of him in swim trunks pops into my head, and I swat that bitch away so fucking fast, my heart thumping in my chest violently. Focus, Lips, Jesus!
He interrupts my brain-melting breakdown. “How the fuck can a Mounty provide for herself? You have a sugar daddy or some shit?”
Huh.
I’ve thought it before, but he really doesn't speak like the other rich kids. It’s more pronounced right now, and it’s probably because there’s no danger of any of them overhearing us, but it jars me.
He may look like the most heavenly being I've ever seen, but he speaks like a roughneck kid from the streets, like the kids I grew up with. He sounds like me. It’s comforting, even while he’s being a jerk.
God, that’s all familiar as well. It’s probably why I can’t stop myself from lusting over him and his two asshole friends even when they’re talking shit about me.
“I'm not selling myself to anything except my scholarship.”
He scoffs. “That's vague.”
I raise an eyebrow at him with a droll look. “Why do you want to know? Mommy and Daddy pissing you off? Why aren't you home celebrating the holidays with them?”
His eyes narrow to a glare, and he clenches his teeth. I could apologize for being a bitch, or change the subject as a peace offering, but he started it. He looks away from me and I can see his brain at work.
I give him a minute of silence before I prod him again. “I answered you honestly. Is there no honor among rich kids?”
He gives me a dark look, and I tuck back into my dinner while I wait. The fighting makes it easier to stomach my meal, thank God, so I get to confirm that the potatoes are, in fact, the best I’ve ever tasted.
“My dad’s dead. My mom is locked up. I'm thinking about applying for emancipation, too. I’ve researched a lot about it, but so much of it is case specific and my caseworker won't say a word to me about it. The bitch just says it's not an option for me. You’re the only person I’ve ever met who’s done it so, I'm offering you a peaceful meal for the information. I know you’re smart, you wouldn't be here if you weren't, so I'll take you at your word.”
Huh. He’s a ward of the state like me. So why does he treat me so badly? And why does Avery protect him so fiercely?
“Are you on a scholarship too?”
He snaps back, “Fuck no.”
He says it like it's something to be ashamed of, like I didn't spend half my life working to be here instead of paying my way in. I give him my own dark look, which he completely ignores.
“If you’re paying tuition here, then you must have the means to provide for yourself. Your case worker is a lying bitch, the entire process should be a cake walk for you.”
His brows drop and he stabs at his plate violently. I almost feel sorry for the beans.
“I don't have access to any of the money my dad left for me. Or… well, any of the money that’s rightfully mine. So, no, it won't be.”
I shrug at him. “If you have an estate that pays for you, then that’ll count, too. Or a trust fund. Depending on the stipulations, you might even get access to your money early.”
“Don't have those, either,” he grumbles.
I set my fork down and fold my arms over my chest. He watches me and then mirrors my movements. Is he fucking with me? “Who pays for your school tuition, then?”
“Avery.”
Holy fuck. “Is she in love with you? I see her tongue down that dickhead Rory's throat all the time, so I wouldn't have guessed it.”