.

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