“You can repeat yourself however many times you want,” Church says cheerfully, rising to his feet and tossing honeyed hair from his forehead. He's still smiling, but it's honestly a little creepy because it's so damn cheerful. I feel like I might need to shield my eyes or something. “That won't get us to move your locker back. And it won't stop us from making your life a living hell.” He moves around the side of the table to stand in front of me. “Now please excuse yourself before I have Spencer do it for you.”
My throat burns in memory, and I find my fingers reaching up to touch it without meaning to. Spencer notices and grins like a fox, this cunning, predatory little smile that makes me cringe.
“Tick-tock, Mr. Carson,” Spencer purrs, and the twins stand up in unison, crossing their arms over their lean, muscular chests. “Now, shoo.”
Ranger narrows his sapphire blue eyes on me, and I grit my teeth in frustration. Do I really think the five of them might beat me up if I stay standing here? Yes, yes, I do. They think I'm a boy. The spoiled, rotten son of the headmaster. I haven't made a very good impression, now have I?
Spinning on my heel, I take off and storm out the door, heading back to my room to change before I jog down to the girls' dorm again. This time, I set an alarm in case I fall asleep. When I text Monica and Cody, asking for a video chat, they both look at the messages and then ignore me.
Damn if I don't feel empty and alone that night.
So empty and so alone …
The Student Council sends me to detention, after-school janitor duty, and then to put a cherry on top of my crap sundae, they force me to join their student club, so they can needle me every Tuesday and Thursday after class.
“Oh no,” the twins groan, standing on either side of me. I've been dressed in a white chef's hat and an apron that says Junior Cook. I feel fucking humiliated in it, but it's the 'uniform', and Dad warned me that if he got any reports of my being ornery, he'd cancel my Christmas break trip to California.
No chance I'm letting that happen.
“You put mayonnaise in when it calls for sour cream,” Micah says. Truthfully? I literally have no idea who is who, so at the start of the day I just pick one and start calling him Micah; by default the other becomes Tobias. “Are you stupid or something?”
“Ehh,” the other twin drawls, leaning down to peer into my face. He reaches out and flicks me in the nose with a long finger. “You've ruined the entire dish now. You'll have to stay late and remake it.”
I slam the mixing bowl on the counter, and turn around to glare at the two of them.
“You both specifically said mayonnaise,” I grind out, and the twins exchange a look, emerald eyes glittering with mischief. They're some of my least favorite people in the entire world, I swear. They remind me of Fred and George from Harry Potter, but like way less good. Like Fred and George's evil twins, risen from hell to make my life miserable. I want to punch them both in the balls.
“Did we?” They exchange a look, and then shrug together. “Our bad.”
“You'll still have to remake it though,” Ranger says, putting strawberries on the top of a whipped-cream covered cake. Apparently, he's a baker. Like, it's a thing he does. He makes sweets, and the boys all sit down and eat them.
That's literally the only thing the 'Culinary Club' does. Cook and eat. I'm having trouble understanding the merit.
“Are we ready to sit down?” Church asks, wiping his hands on a nice, crisp black apron that definitely does not say Junior Cook on it. The only members of the club are the Student Council and their annoying little blond-haired assistant, Ross, who goes out of his way to make my life miserable. He's just as bad as the rest of them. Also, I'm pretty sure he's gay or bi or something, and that he's in love with Spencer. He gazes at him with doe eyes that, quite frankly, make me want to roll mine.
“Ready,” both Spencer and Ranger agree, and the twins nod. Ross sneers at me.
“We're all ready—except for Chuck. Guess he won't be eating with us again since he has to finish the corn casserole.” Ross sneers, and I flip him off. He tilts his nose up at me, grabs one of the other dishes, and saunters off. He even sways his hips when he walks. Note to self: add him to the list of people at this school who need to be punched in the balls.
“Happy cooking, Chuck,” Spencer says, smirking as he saunters out of the room with a tray on one outstretched palm.
“Don't forget to turn the lights and the oven off this time,” Ranger rumbles, his voice giving me chills as he picks up the cake and heads for the dining room I'm most definitely not invited to. I've been in the club for two weeks now, and I haven't been allowed to eat with them. Not once. Jerks.
Over an hour later, I'm finally pulling the casserole from the oven and setting it on the counter. It's bubbly and it smells amazing, so I figure I've finally nailed it. Using my phone, I take a video that I send to both Church and my dad before I cover the hot dish with some tin foil. The Student Council (and their mousy little lackey) left about fifteen minutes ago. It's just me, a steamy corn casserole, and an empty school.
I chuck my dirty apron into the laundry hamper, hang my hat up on a hook, and push my glasses up my nose with a single finger. The lenses are gross from hanging out in a greasy kitchen for hours, so I slip my jacket and backpack on, then dig around in my blazer pocket for one of those soft little cleaning cloths.
I'm a multi-tasker, so I hip bump my way out the door, start off down the hall, and then groan as I realize I left both the lights and the oven on. Jogging back, I turn the oven off, and then slip my glasses off to clean them real quick.
The grease smears all over the lenses, and when I perch them on my nose to test them, I can't see anything.
“Damn it.” I head over to the sink and pull them off, squirting a generous amount of soap onto the lenses, and then pause when I hear the door to the kitchen open. I glance over my shoulder, but I can't see without my glasses, so there's nothing to make out.
An instant later, the lights go off, plunging me into darkness.
“Hey! Someone's in here,” I shout, but the door is already clicking shut, and I'm groaning in frustration. I'm not exactly afraid of the dark, but still, it's annoying. I do my best to finish washing my glasses and then head toward the exit, pulling my phone out to use as a flashlight.
The door is locked.
I curse under my breath, yanking on the handle several times for good measure then try the lights. Even with the switch flipped up, they won't turn on. Maybe the janitor turns off the breaker or something when he goes home for the evening?
“Crap.” I step back and decide to take a look around before texting Dad for help. He won't let me live it down if I do. I'll have to stand around for a thirty minute lecture when all I want is to slink back to the dorm, shower while everyone is asleep, and flop into bed.
The kitchen is huge, meant for an entire class plus an instructor. It connects to a dining area through a stone archway, but the door between the two rooms is already locked. I figure the Student Council dicks locked it on their way out.
The windows are a no-go since we're on the second floor, so I just slump down on the stool next to the casserole, tap a quick text to my dad, and pull a spoon from the drawer. As I wait for a response from him, I eat my food and scroll through social media.