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“Does she ever shut up?” he asks Estella.
“Do you ever act like a normal human being?”
“Cami,” says Estella, pleading now.
“I’m going, I’m going,” I say and I vacate my room. The cot I was going to use is in the alcove already, because that’s where we keep it, but it’s folded up and not made yet. It’s on wheels and a metal frame and is not very comfortable. The plan was for me to keep some of my stuff downstairs, so that means it’s a space Julian and I, in a way, will be sharing. And he’s not just moving into my room, he’s also living with us. He’ll be at every meal, here all the time. Is life at home going to just suck now because of him?
I open my books and set about finishing my homework. I don’t have much, but that’s probably because it’s the start of the year and they really haven’t started piling it on yet. I check my cell and see Luke’s sent me a text, continuing our earlier conversation about my coming over.
Homework? He’s written. Come on. I miss being with you. An hour at lunch isn’t enough.
Hmm. A night with Luke would be nice. It has been awhile; he does have a point. But how am I supposed to sneak out now with that jerk camped out in my room? I text Luke about my predicament. Thanks to this new complication, using my window tonight seems out of the question. And using the actual door feels way more dangerous to me. I could try to open it. But it’s a long walk down those steps out to the street if I don’t leave from the back of the house. Plus, there’s a far greater chance of being seen. By Dad. Who would kill me.
I try to explain all this to Luke, but he keeps working to find a way. He’s telling me to wait an hour and then do it. That the nephew guy won’t rat me out. No, he’ll just start hollering at me and wake the whole house. Eventually, I hear Dad come home.
Please... I want to fall asleep with you, hold you... Luke texts.
I smile. Oh man...
Fine, I text back. Meet me in five.
Unreal. This whole thing has disaster written on it in so many ways I can’t even stop to count them all. You’d think at least we’d wait for a weekend. But no. Why be rational? Why be logical?
I creep down the stairs—old house, steep stairs and lots of them squeak so this is tricky. I then sneak to Julian’s new room, my ex-room and, without knocking, open the door. It’s perfectly quiet. Julian must be asleep. So I tiptoe like a criminal, heart hammering in my chest, to the window with the broken lock. The things you do for love, let me tell you. Then of course I realize I’ve left the door open, so I tiptoe back over to shut it and my phone buzzes. Loud as hell in the otherwise silent room. Terror seizes me. I’m the worst criminal in the history of the planet and his damned wheelchair’s in the way. I push it aside. I’ve got one leg through the window when I hear a voice say, “I’ll lock you out.”
My heart slams against my chest—for a freak moment I think it’s Dad, and then I realize it’s just our charming new houseguest. “I’ll spit on your food,” I tell him and head out to Luke.
* * *
Six o’clock the next morning, my thankfully still-virgin self is climbing back in the window. Julian’s there, in my former bed, whimpering and grimacing like he’s either in pain or else having a nightmare. Maybe it’s both. Should I wake him, I wonder, offer him a pain pill or heating pad or something, or just let him sleep? My God, this poor guy. What horrors are revisiting him? Probably ones I can’t even imagine. He’s so young, just a few years older than me and look what he’s been through already. As much as I don’t want him here, I feel bad for him. “Coop,” he whimpers, no idea why, and suddenly, I feel like I’m violating his privacy.
I leave the room, thinking about what an utter bitch I was to him. I mean, he deserved something but I think I went overboard. Ugh. I wish I hadn’t antagonized him back. We’re living in the same house after all, and he’s really hurt. I go into the kitchen and make myself an omelet, toast, juice. Then instead of eating it, I sigh and load it all on a tray with a fork and napkin.
I knock lightly on the door.
No answer.
I go on in, figuring I’ll leave it on his night table.
“Estella?” he says.
Oh great. He’s awake. “No, it’s me. I have your breakfast.”
He winces. “I don’t want it.”
“I think you should try to eat it.”
“I don’t give a shit what you think.”
“Come on, it’s good.”
“Just bring me my wheelchair.”
“You forgot the magic word.”
“Fuck you.”
Love how he ups the swearing sans-Estella. “That’s not it.”
He looks at the food and at me, and frowns. “I’m not eating that dainty little herb-speckled piece of crap.”
Huh. He’s insulting the food now? “Don’t tell me the big tough Marine is afraid of a little spit.”
“Why, are you offering to swap some with me? Because I’ve got something right here you can spit on if that guy last night wasn’t enough for you.”
I flee the room, face burning. I meant my threat to spit on his food, of course. I never even thought of the other way it could be taken. I hurry off to school. Later that morning, I get a call from Dad. My first thought: Julian ratted me out about spending the night at Luke’s house. I answer, heart pounding. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”
“Are you in class yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“I wanted to check and see if you were okay in the alcove. And with Julian being so suddenly in our lives.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I say, because neither of us have much choice in the matter. “Are you?”
“He needs a place to recover. I don’t mind giving him one if he can’t take the hospital.”
“He’s a bit of a jerk.”
“He’s dealing with a lot now, Cami. A few months ago, he was fighting in a war zone. Let’s you and I both just be nice to him and give him his space.”
“Okay, sure,” I say. “Works for me.”
“Good. Incidentally, I’ve decided to let you make your crab soup this Saturday,” Dad says. Dropping a bombshell on me.
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
I thank him and stare at my phone in amazement after the call ends. Did Dad just say he’s letting me go with one of my soups on his busiest night of the week? Is this to make up for me suddenly losing my room and having to deal with Julian in our lives? That works. I’m not proud; if it’s a gift, I’ll accept it gladly. This is huge. I mean, who cares about what happened this morning with the stupid breakfast. I’m making my crab soup this Saturday—yay!
Chapter Seven
We’re all sent to check out copies of Hamlet at the start of English class. Joy.
“Good morning,” says Mr. Hague once we have our books and have taken our seats. “What you have before you is arguably the finest play ever written. Now, how many of you have seen Hamlet, either onstage or in a film?”
I raise my hand a little while I secretly text Taryn:
Julian moved in last night. That’s the Marine. He’s an even bigger A-hole than I remembered.
I HAVE TO SEE THIS GUY! Taryn texts back.
Why? I type in.
“How about you, Broussard?” asks Mr. Hague.
Shit. I hide the phone. What did he just ask?
“What it’s about,” the boy next to me whispers.
Oh, okay. “Uhh...It’s about a prince who finds out his father, the king, has been murdered by his uncle.”
“Excellent,” Mr. Hague says. “Hamlet is a play about a young man who believes his father has told him to commit murder. He spends most of the play, as you’ll soon see, wrestling with this request. The theme of parental pressure is still very relevant today. Have any of you ever been compelled by a parent to do something extremely difficult—not murder, I hope, but something else you wouldn’t have done otherwise? Let’s see a show of hands from any of you who’ve faced a difficult parental demand—and no, I don’t mean stuff like being forced to take out the trash.”
A few people laugh. I think, of course, of how Dad wants me to go to college. We’ve only talked about it once since I was in Bethesda, and then he just said he wanted to make sure I had my application done on time for the University of Vermont. I told him I would. Even though I don’t see the point of an expensive four-year interruption to my culinary career. I mean, why on earth would he of all people not understand this? For him, cooking schools are a waste. Okay, I get that, no cooking school. But why college? So I can sit behind a desk and stare at a computer all day? What if I want more than just to earn money to pay the rent and make sure I get home at a reasonable hour? Besides, I hate school. I’m sick of it. All I want to do is cook and maybe come up with a culinary style of my own someday.
I raise my hand in response to Mr. Hague’s question about parental pressure. Most of the class does as well. We start going through the play and it kind of builds on me, this idea of kids throughout history being forced to do things because of a parent. Stay. Go. Do this. Do that. Guess they even had pushy fathers back in Shakespeare’s time.
“You still with us, Broussard?”
“Yes.” I snap out of my daydream and try to focus on the first scene of Act I until the bell rings. English is my last class, so after it I’m free to leave for the day. But instead of heading straight to Luke’s, I have to stop at home first to pick up a clean uniform. I’m constantly washing my chef’s coats, because I’m a bit of a slob, truth be told. It drives Dad crazy, but he’s given up trying to get me to be neater as I work.
LUNCH TODAY! Taryn texts. DON’T SAY NO!
Sorry, can’t today—but soon! I text back.
I head inside, throw my backpack on the floor―and see Julian there in his wheelchair, staring up at the kitchen cabinetry and frowning. It’s the first time I’ve seen him out of his room, so this is a bit of a surprise. “Hi,” I say. “Do you need help getting something? A glass?”
He scowls and turns away from the cabinet. “No.”
I watch him wheel to the door.
“Wait, my backpack’s in...”
“Goddamn it,” he says.
“...your way.”
“Can you pick up the damned thing?”
I go to move it, and my copy of Hamlet falls out. I bend to get it, and find myself at eye-level with Julian’s legs.
He’s in sweats, the right leg of which has been cut off just below the knee. There’s a white cotton sock-type covering on his half leg.
“Stop it,” he says.
“Stop what?”
“Staring.”
I feel my face start to burn. “Sorry. Are you in a lot of pain from it?”
“From what, having to deal with you?”
I sigh and set my bag on a kitchen chair. “Must you always be such an asshole?”
“Must you always leave your crap all over the place—your bag and wussy play...”
“What wussy play?” I ask.
“Hamlet,” he says with a grimace. “Total wuss. Once he received the order to kill his uncle he shouldn’t have hesitated.”
Wait, hold on. Is Julian trying to make actual conversation with me here? “Maybe it wasn’t that simple for him,” I suggest, having seen the movie.
Julian gives me a hard look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
And we’re back to arguing. “It just means maybe he didn’t find the prospect of killing someone so easy.”
“You think I find killing easy?”
I stare at him in shock. “I never thought anything even remotely like that, Julian. Look, I know you like picking fights with me. But this one’s ridiculous.”
“You’re saying I’m ridiculous?”
Before I can think of an answer, we’re interrupted. “Oh, Cami, you’re home for lunch. How fantastic.”
Enter Estella—the Broussard family’s very own UN peacekeeper.
“Did you take your noon meds?” she asks Julian.
“I’m not a child,” he snaps. “I don’t need you checking up on me.”
Estella is quiet. Shelby comes in behind her and wags her tail at me. I reach down to pet her. “Hey, baby.”
“And by the way, that ‘baby’ of yours needs to stay off my bed,” Julian says.
Hah. Good job, Shelby. Way to annoy him. “She thinks it’s my bed still. That’s why.”
“While I’m in there, she needs to stay off it.”
I glance at Estella, who gives him a scolding look. “What?” he says. “She wipes her ass all over my pillow.”
“She does not.”
“She does, too. She snores and drools and makes a hundred disgusting noises.”
“Cat person,” I say, petting Shelby still.
