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“Then what are you planning to do?”
Everything happens fast. The back passenger door slams shut. The door locks, the driver slides in, and the car lurches forward.
“I need your help,” he begins, the words catching me off guard. “I’m taking you somewhere to gauge your reaction. An experiment for my therapy.”
“Therapy?” My voice echoes my confusion, the word hanging between us.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he saw a shrink. He’s a bit unhinged. Not normal by any means, but Zack and his friends weren’t either. They didn’t come with a warning label. At least with Valen, he gives you a hint.
“Yes,” he confirms, his voice steady. “I want to see how you respond and what you think.
“Why would you care what I think?”
Where is he taking me, and why?
“Because… I don’t know you the way I want, and you don’t know me the way you wish you did.”
“I...” I begin, hesitant, grappling with my thoughts. “I’m too young for you. I’m a freshman, and you’re a senior.”
“You’re an adult, Melody. Legal, and will be turning nineteen in a month. I’m twenty-two. We are not that far apart in age.”
“How do you know my birthday?”
But I do know. I think…
“Because you are in an Ivy League school because of me. Who did you think approved your scholarship?”
“My brother…”
“Doesn’t know who did. He thinks what I want him to think. He made a request, and I honored it.”
“Why?”
A moment of pause lingers. My palms sweat. I’m here because of him. He holds all the power with my future in his hands.
“I don’t have to turn in the missing assignment, do I?”
He chuckles. The sound vibrates through me like a tug on a guitar string. This is not about the assignment. He wouldn’t go through all this trouble.
“You can turn it in if you want. It doesn’t take too much time to complete. One is to write about a summer, and the other is a creative essay on anything you want to write about. I want to see it before you turn it in, though. If you decide you want to do it.
I take in his charcoal-colored jeans and black shirt with holes. I think they are supposed to be there. It’s ripped on purpose. Everything he does is deliberate. Calculated.
“Why did you help get me into Kenyan?”
“Because I can, and I wanted to.”
“You can do whatever you want.”
He nods slowly. “For the most part, yes.”
I watch the play of shadows over my hands, a distraction from the escalating tension. Suddenly, the interior light snaps on, and he hands me a bag. Inside, I find a cute cropped top, a perfect complement to my skirt and tights, and, notably, in my exact size. My gaze flickers to the driver, then back to him.
“Pull over.” His eyes lock onto mine, unyielding. The car stops on the side of the road. “Get out.” The driver gets out and shuts the door. “He’s gone.”
“But you're still here.”
He closes his eyes.
