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“I don’t think I have a choice,” I answer.
He chuckles.
“Probably not.” He reaches into his closet for his Welles jacket and sinks his arms into it before running his hands through his wild hair. I become fixated on the staticky pieces that simply won’t obey.
“Here,” I say, standing up and pulling my conditioning lotion from my bag. I put a small dollop in one palm and rub my hands together before lifting up on my toes to reach Cameron’s hair.
“A little help?” I ask.
He tucks his chin and I sink my fingers into the silkiest sensation I’ve ever felt. I run my hands through his locks four or five times, wishing I had an excuse to do it more, and when I’m done, his wild strands are in order.
“Thanks,” he says quietly.
He holds out an arm, I assume to escort me to our economics class, and I take it as he leads me out of his room and down the hall to the stairwell. I let go as we take the stairs and do my best to avoid him offering again. I’m not willing to face the rumor mill and gossip scrutiny of Welles right now. It’s enough that Cameron and I are walking together into the same classroom he showed up in half-naked a couple of days before.
He gets hit with questions about his bruised face the moment we step into the room, and rather than shirk the attention away, he feeds it, showing off his busted knuckles next as he talks about some preppy boy who went all Cobra Kai on him. He never once says where it happened and he keeps Cole’s name out of the story, I think maybe out of respect for me and not wanting to involve me in this growing story that will have turned into a major boxing match by the time lunch rolls around.
Watching the stress roll off him, I’m struck by how different he seems this morning. Everything about him is lighter than when he told me about his dad. The weight of his secret must be an awful burden. I wish I could make him feel more comfortable when talking to me about the heavy things. Maybe, with time, I can. There is so much I want to know.
Even though his confession was about his dad, I spent most of the night thinking about his mom, wondering how she fits into his complicated puzzle. I’ve met her once or twice, briefly, at Welles functions. She never stays long when she does show. Mostly, though, Cameron has marked his school milestones without family there to celebrate with him. He’s said in passing that his mom is incredibly busy, her teaching schedule full, and maybe that’s the case. I understand being the daughter of someone ambitious. My mom has found her own path in my father’s shadow. She says philanthropy gives her purpose, but I do sometimes wonder if it fills the void of a rather one-sided marriage. My dad misses a lot of things. He missed my surgery. My recovery. My return to school.
Small sacrifices for the big picture, though. I believe in him. He has it in him to help a world that is hurting and in need. I hope I can learn to showcase that same leadership one day. I’m less of a spotlight dweller and more of a behind-the-curtain person so far, but I’m young. A lot of what my dad has can be learned.
Mr. Philips lets the hallway door fall shut with a bang, his favorite way to startle us all into our seats with our eyes on him.
“Mr. Hass, I see you decided to wear pants today. I think I speak for us all when I saythank you.” Our teacher pushes his glasses up his nose with the tip of his pen, not realizing that it’s clicked with the ink out, not in. The result is a blue line on the bridge of his nose that progressively smears into a larger mark as he reads through the attendance sheet.
My phone buzzes in my bag, which is tucked between my feet, so I bend down and turn the screen so I can see it without being obvious.
CAM:Someone should tell him.
I smile and glance to my left to find Cameron’s gaze waiting for me. He taps his pencil on his phone, which is sitting on his desk. I look back to the front of the room and contemplate bringing my phone out. It’s against school policy, but also, I may be the only student who follows the rule. As a compromise, I bend down and slip the phone to my lap, camouflaging it in the plaid folds of my skirt.
ME:You should tell him. You need brownie points.
I glance toward him as he reads. When he’s done, his head pops up and his eyes flash to me as his mouth forms a very clear but silentno wayas he shakes his head. He returns his focus to his phone, tapping out a message with one finger.
CAM:He’ll send me to the office.
I twist my lips in doubt and shake my head as I type a return message.
ME:Why would he do that? It’s the nice thing to do. I can’t believe nobody else has. The man has a Smurf nose at this point.
Cameron chortles, quickly masking his laugh with a cough as he shifts in his seat.
CAM:I don’t see you raising your hand.
I stare at his very valid point for a few long seconds. I’m not letting him know because if I do, it will be one more checkmark in so many people’s books that I’m a kiss-ass. I hear it a lot, even if never directly. I follow rules, work hard, get recognition, volunteer for assignments, act as a group spokesperson—I’m the model Welles student. It’s all I know to be. When you’re a Bennett, your brand is perfection. I don’t just meet expectations, I obliterate them. And yeah, given all of that, I probably should let Mr. Philips know his nose is covered in blue ink. But I’m also an eighteen-year-old girl in a school that thrives off judgement of others. I walk a very fine line between being a pretentious snob and simply being well-respected.
ME:How about a bet.
CAM:Oh, you devil. You know I can’t turn that down. Terms?
ME:You let him know his nose is inked. If he thanks you or simply cleans it up without any reprisal, I win. If he sends you to the office, you do. Loser has to get coffee for both your office and mine tomorrow.
He chews at the end of his pen, his mouth curved into an intrigued smile while his teeth chomp at the pen’s clicker. Finally, he flattens the pen on his desk and smirks as he types.
CAM:Deal.
