Chapter Three

Three

The days after I received the news of my father's death went by in a blur. I’d stopped counting how many times I woke up and forgot, only to remember and feel the loss all over again.

Two weeks. 

That's how long it took for the reality of our situation to crash down on us completely.

Mom had sat me down at the kitchen table one night. The same table where Dad used to do crossword puzzles. Where he'd help me with math problems even though he was terrible at them. Where he'd kiss the top of my head every morning before work.

I felt like smashing it right now.

"We need to talk, baby." Her voice was raspy; she must have been crying again. She was always crying now, or pretending not to cry, which was somehow worse.

"Okay." I braced myself.

"The funeral costs..." She swallowed hard. "And the medical bills from before, the mortgage. Your father's life insurance—it's not enough. It's not nearly enough."

"How much are we talking?"

When she told me the number, my stomach dropped to the floor.

Why did life have to be so damn hard?

I could imagine Alison laughing at me.

"We're going to lose the house," she whispered. "I've tried everything. I've called everyone. But with just my salary—"

"What if I get a job?"

"Lena, you're in school. You have your scholarship to think about—"

"I don't care about—"

"You do care." She reached for my hand. "Your father cared too; he wanted you to have opportunities he never had. I won't let his death take that from you."

"Then what do we do?"

She was quiet for a long time. When she finally spoke, she wouldn't meet my eyes.

"The family I work for—they made an offer. Their youngest son needs someone to watch him after school. He's seven. He needs patience, someone who can work with him and their oldest, he's been struggling with his classes, falling behind. His grades are affecting something important for him, sports, I think."

I waited, not liking where this was going.

"They need one person who can do both. Help with the little one and tutor the older one." Mom finally looked at me. "It pays well, Lena. Really well. Enough to cover the debt and keep the house. The mother said if you took the position, we could even work out a schedule around your school hours. You'd basically live there during the week, but—"

"Wait." I held up my hand. "Live there? At their house?"

"Just weekdays. You'd have your own room. They have a whole guest area. It's not like—"

"Mom, I don't even know these people."

"You know me. I've worked for them for five years. They're good people, Lena. The mother is kind; she’s the one who suggested this. She said she'd rather hire someone she trusts than go through an agency."

"And the son I'd be tutoring? What's he like?"

Mom hesitated, just a fraction of a second. But I saw it.

Oh, he must be a Jerk then.

"He's... a typical teenager. Focused on whatever his sport is. Maybe a little spoiled, but his mother says he just needs the right motivation."

I thought about it.

Thought about spending my afternoons with some rich kid who probably looked at people like me and saw nothing.

It reminded me of Alison.

I thought about walking into a house where my mother worked, where she cleaned up after them, where she was invisible.

But I also thought about the number Mom had said, the debt she had mentioned, and I didn’t want to lose Dad’s house.

"Okay," I heard myself say. "I'll do it."

Mom's face crumpled with relief. "Really?"

"Really. Set up the meeting."

---

I stood in front of a house that looked nothing like anything I'd ever seen in person.

Mansion was the word. Three stories of glass and stone, a circular driveway, perfectly manicured lawns, and a fountain.

A fountain. A freaking fountain

Like people actually lived like this.

I tugged at my shirt, suddenly aware that I was wearing the same jeans I'd worn to school all week. The only jeans that still fit right are the ones with the small hole near the pocket that I'd been meaning to fix.

The woman who answered the door was beautiful in that effortless way rich women are—perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect smile that somehow looked genuine.

"Lena! I'm so glad you came." She pulled me into a hug like we were old friends. "Your mother speaks so highly of you. Come in, come in."

The inside was worse. Or better, depending on your perspective.

Marble floors stretched as far as I could see, a staircase that belonged in movies and arts on the walls that probably cost more than our house.

We sat in a living room that felt bigger than my entire home. While she talked about the position—hours, responsibilities, pay…… my head was spinning.

Actually, the pay made my head spin; it was more than double what I'd expected.

"Martin is the priority," she explained. "He's seven. He's verbal but struggles with social situations; he needs consistency and patience. His last nanny didn't work out because she couldn't understand his triggers."

"I understand," I said, and I did. My cousin growing up had autism, so I'd learned early how to communicate without words.

"And my older son..." She sighed. "He's a harder case. He’s stubborn, headstrong, and he doesn’t ike admitting he needs help, but his father is adamant that his grades improve. If his GPA drops any lower, he'll be off the team, and that's not an option."

"I'll do my best."

"I know you will. Lena, I want you to know—I don't see this as charity. I see this as helping each other. Your mother is invaluable to our family. If we can help her by helping you, that's what family does."

Family.

She said it like we were already part of theirs.

"Mom said I'd be staying here during the week?"

"If that works for you. We have a guest room prepared. You'd have complete privacy, and you'd still see your mother every day—she's here most mornings anyway."

I nodded, trying to process.

"Speaking of which",—she checked her watch—"my son should be home from practice soon. I'd like you to meet him before we finalise anything. Martin's with his therapist, but you'll meet him tomorrow."

My stomach clenched. "Okay."

The front door slammed open before I was ready, followed by heavy footsteps and a deep voice —low, annoyed, talking to someone on the phone.

"I don't care what Coach says. I'm not working with some random tutor. I told you I'd fix my grades myself."

The boy from the phone walked into the living room and stopped dead as his eyes landed on me.

Recognition flashed across his face—surprise, then confusion, then something darker.

Rage

Jace Dawson.

The quarterback, the very one who held the camera, who watched me get destroyed and said it wasn't his problem.

My crush, ironically

"No," he said flatly.

His mother frowned. "Jace, this is Lena. She's going to be tutoring you and helping with Martin."

"No." He said it again, harder this time. "Absolutely not."

"But... Why?" His mother asked confusedly.

"You don't understand." He was staring at me like I'd grown a second head. "She goes to my school. She's—" He stopped himself.

I stood up, my legs felt shaky, but my voice came out steady. "I go to your school. That's right, and…and you know what else is right? I need this job, my family needs this job. So whatever problem you have with me, I suggest you get over it."

His mother looked between us, confused. "Is there something I should know?"

"No," I said at the same time Jace said, "Yes."

Silence.

Jace ran a hand through his hair. His jaw was tight. I watched him struggle with something—maybe pride, maybe guilt, maybe the memory of his phone pointed at me while Alison shoved me to the ground.

"It's nothing," he finally muttered. "Whatever. Do what the fuck you fucking want."

“Jason”, his mother chided

He turned and walked out.

His mother sighed. "I apologise for him. He's... going through a phase."

A phase? That's what she called it. I resisted the urge to laugh.

I thought about quitting here and then? about telling her I'd find another job, any job, rather than spend one second under the same roof as the boy who watched me get bullied and called it not his problem.

Then I thought about Mom's face when she told me we might lose the house.

"It's fine," I said. "I can handle him."

She smiled, relieved. "Wonderful. When can you start?"

I swallowed every ounce of pride I had left.

"Tomorrow."