2. Amelia

Amelia

Maid… Maid… Maid…

The word replays in my head the whole way home.

Whatever. I push it aside.

I sneak in through the front door, but just as I'm about to tiptoe to my room—

"Amelia!" Charles pipes up.

Oh, great.

Dad emerges from the kitchen with a bowl of cereal, which he sets on the dining table, pouring the milk and handing my baby brother his spoon.

I watch in guilty silence, then drag my feet to the corner by the kitchen wall and put myself in timeout.

Do I feel guilty?

Absolutely.

But would I sneak out again if Rachel played another match?

Also absofuckinglutely.

"Go and heat up the rice in the fridge and dish out your food."

Only now does my stomach rumble. God, I'm *starving!*

I take it I'm forgiven. I knew it. The man can't stay mad at me for long. I'm his only princess.

Mum passed away at childbirth nine years ago… after trying for a second child for seven years. Since then, it's been Dad, Charles, and me against the world. He tries, he really does. And he's the best father.

"Thank you." Tears prick my eyes as I rush over and wrap my arms around him tightly, kiss his head, then dash into the kitchen. I reappear minutes later, a plate of food in hand, and settle opposite Dad, digging in hungrily.

"You know you could have just done the chores before going…" He sighs. "Don't be rebellious. Your brother looks up to you."

Rebellious? Does Dad even know the meaning of that word? The only time I sneak out of this house is to watch Rachel play. Does he know what people my age are doing?

…Well, neither do I.

And what's this about Charles looking up to me? He should look up to someone else.

Mouth full of food, I nod vigorously.

The man simply shakes his head, and I grin.

Dad heads out to his workshop shortly after. He runs a successful auto repair shop—twenty years and counting. It's fed us, clothed us, raised us. Not all days are good, but God's been good.

As soon as I'm done eating, I rush through my chores, and it's past six by the time I finish.

My body aches all over, but hey! I brought this upon myself.

I help Charles with his homework. English grammar, reading comprehension, multiplication, division, and word problems. Then we gossip for a while before I take him to bed.

Charles is the sweetest little bean on earth.

Mum died bringing him into the world, and although I was too young to fully understand it back then, I was old enough to know none of it was his fault.

So loving him has never been difficult.

I read him stories, and as always, he asks questions. Typical inquisitive Charles. I answer his endless little questions until he gradually drifts off.

"Sleep tight, Chipmunk." I pat his hair, tuck him in, and creep out.

Back in my room, I stretch and groan, then settle at my desk to bury myself in my own books.

Five minutes later, I'm yawning loudly.

Honestly, I enjoy Charles' books more than mine. I'm always more eager to help with his homework than to do mine—'cause what even is this gibberish???

I snap my books shut.

If you thought I was a bookworm, hehehe, you're wrong. I suck at academics. The only courses I'm actually good at are Literature and Creative Writing.

Sigh.

The good thing is, tomorrow's Sunday. So for now, I crawl into bed. But just as I'm about to drift off to wonderland, my phone dings.

I don't want to pick it up… but it could be Dad.

Groaning, I haul myself up and rummage through my backpack.

It's not Dad.

My room, now!

Everett fucking Griffin. My blood boils hot.

What did I say about him being a disaster of a neighbor? He's everywhere.

We don't talk on campus, though. I make sure of that. He's a social butterfly with everyone fawning over him, and me? I'm the chronically awkward introvert.

I don't wear oversized glasses or hide behind baggy clothes like those makeover movies love to show, by the way. I'm actually pretty. I'm just… painfully shy.

Talking to people feels like standing on a stage while everyone waits for me to embarrass myself, so I avoid it whenever I can. The only time you'll ever catch me willingly outside is for groceries. Or Rachel. Or lectures.

So Everett and I are complete strangers at school. We don't communicate at all. It's not like we major in the same course anyway. The only reason I was comfortable having that whole conversation back at Pitchers is because the hallway was empty. 

It's not like we even talk at home... Only once in forever.

Now, what exactly does this man want from me?

Geez! I definitely wasn't thinking straight when I accepted that deal.

Grunting, I throw on a sweater and hop out my window, muttering a curse beneath my breath as I stalk over to his house which is just a stone's throw from mine. Why is he even here? Doesn't he have a house close to campus?

I knock twice on his window. He takes forever to unlatch it and push it open, then steps back a few paces, watching—I can feel his gaze on me—as I climb into his room.

I land with a gusty breath of relief and smooth my clothes.

"What is it?" I ask at once.

He doesn't respond. Just fixes me with that narrowed, assessing gaze.

"What happened to the front door?" He asks, pointedly.

Hmm.

"Your message clearly stated: my room, now."

Plus, what if he had guests? The last thing I want is to bump into people from Gladdis in Everett's house.

"No one's home," he says.

Yeah. Today. No one's home today. What about the other days, huh?

I wave him off. "Whatever. What did you call me here for?"

Wordlessly, he turns and stalks toward a desk in the far corner.

And now that I'm actually standing in it, I realize we've been neighbors for over a decade, and this is my first time ever stepping into his room.

It's…

Not what I expected. At all.

Everything is ridiculously neat. His bed is made. Volleyball trophies line one shelf beside neatly stacked books. Even his desk looks untouched.

I was honestly expecting chaos.

Like dirty socks, empty soda cans, at least one hidden stash of adult magazine, and definitely a pack of condoms.

But no.

His room smells faintly of detergent and cedarwood.

Weird.

He returns and drops an entire stack of textbooks into my arms, my knees nearly buckling.

"Do my assignment."

What?!

Dude, are you crazy?

I can't help it, an uncontrollable laugh erupts from my belly, so hard I sink to the floor and drop the textbooks.

He must think I'm crying—

I hold my belly, tears blurring my eyes, wheezing.

Everett's brows draw together as he towers over me. Damn. Dude's tall.

Gasping and sighing, I climb back to my feet.

"You actually think I'm book smart, Everett?"

I think I see his lips curl, then force themselves back into a stern line.

"Don't tell me you're one of those people who think introverts are automatically good students. Just 'cause I don't party, or smoke, or fuck around… doesn't mean I'm a good girl. It definitely doesn't mean I'm academically sound. I suck at books, bro."

"Unless it's romance," I mumble. "…or erotica."

The corner of his mouth twitches.

Is… is he trying not to laugh? Or is he annoyed that I'm not who he thought I'd be? Welp.

After a while of silence, he murmurs, "I take it you haven't done your Ethics assignment?"

"Uh… Uh-uh." I shake my head.

"…You're serious."

I blink. "Very."

Another pause.

"You actually don't know this stuff."

"Why do you sound offended?"

Silence.

"Go get your books."

Huh?

I stand rooted to the spot, eyeing him.

His mouth tugs upward. "What? Don't tell me you're one of those who think that just because I'm popular, have girls on my arm, and party… I'm a bad boy who sucks academically."

He didn't add...

"And fuck around?" I blurt before I can stop myself.

He skipped that part. Why?

He opens his mouth—

"Whatever!" I disappear through his window.

Behind me, I hear him laugh.

Screw you, Griffin. Figuratively. Not like his sex life is any of my business.

Which is definitely disgusting.

Within a minute, I'm back in his room, books in arms and scowl on face.

And never in my wildest imagination did I ever think Everett and I would be seated on his bed, hunched over books, doing homework together.

More like he's tutoring me, though.

And God help me—Everett simplifies things so well that I actually understand! Will you look at that? He makes it interesting enough that somewhere between ethical dilemma and values…

I've forgotten I'm sitting in Everett Griffin's room.

Worse…

I'm actually having fun. With Everett fucking Griffin.

Never in my wildest imagination, again, did I ever think of him as a nerd. The perfect opposite hitter, yes. But a bookworm? Damn!

"Is your name Jack?" I blurt out of nowhere.

He fixes me with an arched brow.

"'Cos you seem to be of all trades."

There's a short silence, and then throaty laughter rolls out of him, and I feel it in my ribs.

"Get your head back in the book, Hart," he warns.

Yes, sir.

"So, remember, the right choice is—"

The door bursts open.

I spring up and jump off Everett's bed. "Nothing happened, I promise! We were just studying!" The words rush out. "Nothing happened!"

Silence.

"…Yet," the guy at the door mutters.

My eyes widen. "NO!"

He bursts out laughing. I glance at Everett—he's looking at me like I'm a two-headed cow.

"Chill, girl. I never said anything was going on." The guy is still smirking.

Shit. Typical, awkward Amelia. Stupid reflex!

A sigh escapes Everett, and he shifts to sit at the edge of the bed. "Harper, Amelia. Amelia, Harper."

Harper steps forward and shakes my hand. He's strikingly handsome, with blond hair—Everett's friend, I know, because I've seen them together on campus. He's on the volleyball team too. And he lives here, I think, with Everett and about two other boys.

I clear my throat. "Nice to meet you."

"Erm, w-well, I—I gotta go now. Good night!"

Quickly, I pack up my books and dash out through the window.

And just before the glass slides shut behind me, I catch Everett's low chuckle.

I sneer.

This is going to be the longest week of my life.

***

Everett

I watch her climb through my window—scowling, grumbling, sweater sleeves flailing—and I have to turn away before my face gives me away.