Stir Me Up. Sabrina Elkins

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      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. СКАЧАТЬ