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“You feel it, don’t you?” I say, glancing to her legs. She’s not in her normal high heels, but flat black shoes that look like ballet slippers.
“I’m dying,” she laughs out, clutching her thighs and bending slightly. “You win. Climbing is a million times harder than pushing a machine with my feet.”
“Ha ha, yeah. I mean, what you were doing—or supposed to be doing—isn’t bad. But weight machines sure are boring compared to climbing with me, right?” I sling my arm over her shoulder as we walk, and everything feels natural. Theo’s being crazy. There’s nothing wrong with what we’re doing, and I’m not going to start trouble with one of our best friends. Because that’s what we are . . . friends. Who like holding hands a little. And maybe stare at each other from time to time. So what if I think she’s perfect and I want to kiss her every time we’re alone? I don’t because it would fuck everything up. And I’m not what shereallywants. And . . .
Damn. Theo is right.
I let my arm slip away, doing my best to make it seem casual and unintentional. Brooklyn glances at me, and I swear there’s a furrow in her brow. Or I’m imagining it. Neither result is good.
She’s wondering why I did that.
Fuck, now I’m overthinking literally everything.
“Thanks for the lift,” I say as she presses her key fob. I climb into the passenger side of her massive Mercedes, and that gap between our worlds hits me a little more. It’s not that I don’t have means. My mom is successful, and I’ll have no problems paying for whatever college I can get into. But my mom drives a Toyota, and she parks it in an uncovered lot because the garage fees are ridiculous. And my dad, well, he’s got nothing.
I reach forward and turn the volume up on her radio, glad when a familiar hip hop beat hits our ears. We both start to rap along with the song, bold and loud when the F-bombs drop, and it clears the fog in my head some to see Brooky cut loose and act like a tough guy. And then she looks on at the freeway ahead, her mouth still moving with the words, her hand gesturing like she’s some badass R&B princess. And I’m staring. A little too long. A little too hard.
Yeah. Brooklynisdifferent. And that’s the problem.
Chapter7
Brooklyn
My dad is always campaigning. Even before he decided to make a run for the senate, he was running for his next big whatever. Every appointment, honor, award he’s gotten has been part of a long-term strategic plan. And outliers are his specialty. They must be dealt with, quickly categorized. Can they help the Bennett brand? Or will they be a deterrent?
Cameron became an outlier the minute he uttered the words “climbing partners.” I started fielding messages from my dad about him the minute I pulled into the city hall garage after dropping Cameron off a block away.
DAD:What’s that kid’s last name?
ME:Hass, and he isn’t a kid really.
I don’t know why I added that part. That sounded defensive. There are no deleting things I send to him, though. He saves a record ofeverything.
DAD:And he’s graduating with you?
ME:Yes.
DAD:He’s interning with Lowell and Howell.
How does he know that?
ME:I think so.
I know Cameron is. The fact he dated Karl Lowell’s daughter, McKenna, briefly was a big gossip fest at Welles. And when Karl picked Cameron for the internship spot, his daughter threw a major fit. I don’t think there was a single resident of Hayden Hall who didn’t hear her plight of having to work alongside a “dog like Cameron Hass.”
I brushed it all off because McKenna Lowell has always been dramatic. Her dad and mine are good friends, however. And that means we are constantly thrown into circles together. Small circles, with zero chance of escaping. So I always play nice, and when she wanted all females at Welles to shun Cameron, I stood in solidarity. Actually, I simply avoided him at lunch for a week or so until McKenna let it go. If my dad calls up her dad to ask about Cameron, who knows what kind of stories he’ll get.
DAD:Do you know Michael Hass?
I stare at that name, wondering if Cameron has a brother or if that’s his dad’s name. I’ve never met his parents. He doesn’t talk about them. Ever.
ME:No.
The dots flash for almost a full minute so I wait for my dad’s next message to come through, but eventually they stop.
I’m late to the mayor’s office, which I know means I will be the one forced to make the coffee run. The sticky note with everyone’s order is on the top of my computer screen, and it’s long. I count seven drinks.
“Really? Seven? Glad I wore flats,” I say, not expecting anyone to hear me. The mayor’s assistant, Chuck, pops his head out of the office across from me, though, and smirks.
