Extra Credit

I HATED JACKSON REED

​JACKSON

​We got to Manitou Springs on a Friday. The house was huge—it was a six-bed manor, as Dad liked to call it, with seven baths. Each room had an ensuite and an extra bathroom just for good measure. ​It had a huge swimming pool, and a cute little greenhouse in the back because Mom preferred nurturing flowers to nurturing her own children. There was also a water fountain out front which, for some reason, Dad was simply obsessed with.

​I stood on the driveway for a second, the mountain air feeling thinner and colder than the thick Texas heat I was used to, listening to the expensive splash of that fountain.

​I should be mad, but I’m not, and this requires a backstory... roll the cameras.

​Two years ago, when we lived in Texas, one of my father’s close friends—actually, he was not close to him at all—Matthew Westbrook’s son got into a really bad car accident that cost him his leg. That resulted in my parents refusing to buy us a car on our sixteenth birthday.​We begged and begged and begged, but it never happened. We’d hoped that they would cave on our seventeenth, but that one-legged demon, Devon Westbrook, showed up to our party and reminded our parents why they hated cars. Once again, they refused.

​Until Wednesday night. After our parents dropped the moving bomb on us, they were so racked with guilt that they asked us to pick a car. I picked my dream car, a Land Rover Defender 110 S, and my sister got a pink Volkswagen Beetle... surprise, surprise.

​Unfortunately for me, mine had to be delivered to Colorado on Sunday. Also unfortunately for me, my sister’s was available for same-day pickup, which resulted in me and her driving all the way from Texas to Colorado in a pink Volkswagen Beetle.

​I rolled my shoulders as I set the last of my boxes in my room and looked around. The space was massive, the high ceilings making every sound echo. It was way bigger than the one in the other house, which made it feel a whole lot emptier.

​"Hey, buttface," Lyn says as she walked into my room. She walks past me and launches herself on the bed, making snow angels on the crisp white sheets. "I just found out I have a walk-in closet," she said pointedly. "A walk-in closet."

​"Hey, now you can walk into your closet."

​"What does that even mean?" she asks exasperatedly, propping herself up on her elbows.

​"I dunno," I mutter and grab my phone. A text pops in from Mom. She was with Dad; they were going to check out the new dealership. Dad wanted to interview a new manager who would go on to hire employees at the dealership. Dad may be a narcissist, but he was really hands-on with his business. ​I groan as I see the message. "Mom wants us to go pick up our uniforms from the school’s seamstress."

​"Noooooo," she screams, shooting up from the bed like she’d been poked with a needle. "They have uniforms?!"

​"Yes," I sigh and look up at the ceiling, wondering if the light fixture cost more than my tuition. Lyn hates uniforms because they always limited her to wearing skirts. Therefore, I hated uniforms. It was that simple with us. ​"We'll request pants for you. At least this school is in a progressive state, so we can do that. If that doesn't work, I'll get extra pants and we'll tailor them to your size." ​I walk up to her and cup her face in my hand, seeing the genuine stress in her eyes. "Is that okay, darlin'?" I ask warmly

​"Yeah," she mutters. She had tears in her eyes. I know she hated this much more than I did. I had only two friends, Aiden and Maxwell, and I was only really close with Max, but Lyn had a crap-ton of them and a boyfriend. ​We both know that relationship is not lasting with a fifteen-hour drive between them. She was upset, and no pretty pink car could really fix that. "Why did they have to do this?"

​"The rich always wanna get richer," I say, wiping the tears rolling down her cheeks with my thumb. "Our job is to spend their money. So stop your mumbling and get up. Let’s go make a dent in their wallet."

​She lets out a small laugh. I know her smile right now is fake, but if I’m being honest, mine is too. So we gotta suck it up and keep going.

​"I want a cake pop."

​"A cake pop you’ll get."

​Two hours later, we’d headed to the seamstress to pick up our uniforms. With a bit of that Texan charm, I got the lady at the store to give Lyn some pants, and she was rather happy. After that, we went to Starbucks to get her cake pop. Since I didn't want anything, I sat in the car while she went in.

​I was playing on my phone when I caught a glimpse of the uniform I had in a bag at my feet. Then, I saw him. ​The person wasn't wearing the blazer, but he had the collared shirt with the crest on it and the plaid blue pants on. He had a cigarette in his hand, taking greedy drags of it, but none of that made me look his way.

​To put it simply, he was stunning.

​His skin was like cinnamon, brown and glowing under the evening sun. His curls were catching the soft rays of sunlight, looking like a halo of dark silk. And his eyes... I couldn’t see them clearly from the car.

​Before I knew it, I found myself unbuckling the seatbelt and walking toward him, drawn in like a moth to a flame.

​"Those are bad for you," I said. Oh lord, I’m so corny.

​"You know what’s bad for you? Talking to a random stranger who could be a serial killer and telling them what’s good or bad for them," he says as he spins around to look at me. Then he stops talking and just stares.

​I’m scared I weirded him out, so I ask, "Do you go to Hawthorne Prep?" ​I realize that was a stupid question as panic fills his eyes. He looks down at the cigarette and then his shirt, clearly terrified of being caught out of dress code or smoking.

​I immediately understood what was running through his head. I took off my hoodie, the heavy fabric still warm from my skin. "Hey, it’s okay. I’m not gonna tell anyone. Here."

​I hand it to him. He looks down at it for a second, looking confused and beautiful all at once. I hold my hand out to take the cigarette and watch him as he takes the hoodie.

​"Thanks," he murmurs.

​I urge him to put it on with a nod and keep watching him as he pulls it over his head. He wasn't really short—5'8" maybe. When his head pops through, he’s looking up at me and I can see his eyes clear as day.

​They were a deep brown, as brown as his skin. There was nothing special about them; they were just eyes, but god, on him, they were something else entirely.

​A car's honk brought me back to reality. I turn my head and see Lyn giving me a look that basically said get in or I'm leaving you. "Just a minute, Lyn!" ​Heat crept up my face as I realized he’d see me get into a pink Beetle. I turn to look at him, handing him back his cigarette, and lean in close enough to say, "A serial killer could be really bad, but you know what’s much worse?"

​"What?" he asks curiously, his voice soft.

​"Lung cancer."

​And he giggles. It was this soft, beautiful sound that filled me with such glee. But then he stops, and life is bleak again. I look at him, his pretty face and his curly hair, and say, "See you later, Curly." hoping he doesn't think I’m a stalker or something.

​I start toward the car, making it just in time before that wench drove off.

​"Slut," she mutters as she gets into the gear.

​"What?" I asked, confused.

​"Day one and you're already getting your hoe on," she turns onto the road as she speaks.

"That's a talent, my dude."

​"I'm not getting my hoe on. I was just talking to a guy."

​"That was a guy?" she asks, sounding shocked.

​"Yup."

​"Well, you can still get your hoe on with a guy." I let out a laugh at her words.

​"I’m not gay, Lyn," I say for the one-thousandth time. We’d had this conversation before. I had a few guys flirt with me sometimes, but I always turned it down. I let them know I wasn't into them and that was it.​If I found myself ever interested in a guy, I would go for it—life is way too short to hold prejudice in your heart, especially when that involved your own love story. ​But, "Lyn, I like girls. p***y, coochie, cooter. Not men."

​"I knowwww, but he was real pretty," she said, eyes on the road. I hold her coffee up to her lips and she takes a sip. "I mean, he really was pretty."

​"Yeah, he was," I finally admit, the image of those cinnamon skin burnt into my brain.

​"See!" she exclaims.

​"He goes to our school too," I find myself saying. "I gave him my hoodie." I decided to mess with her. "Maybe when he returns it, I can let him know you have a thing for him—"

​"I will turn this car into oncoming traffic."

​I bark out a laugh and she laughs too. In that moment, watching the Colorado sunset hit the dashboard of the pink Beetle, I feel like we’re gonna be fine.

​KAMEO

​I dodged students as I walked to Principal Martin’s office. It was eight-thirty in the morning and first class started at nine.​I hated when he did this. Martins would have his assistant call me into the office through the speaker at different times of the day. Sometimes, it was to give tours to new students, and sometimes it was to show off his star charity case to donors. I sure as hell hoped it was the former because I was not in the mood.

​I’d lost track of time yesterday after me and AJ got back to the library. I missed the eight PM bus and took the next, and by the time I got home, Mom had already left for her night shift at McDonald’s.

​The only person that was home was Greg, my mom’s dumb husband. I hated Greg. He had this rule that if I missed his dumb nine PM curfew, I didn't get to come into the house.​Which is insane, because I had to work at the vet's office as a receptionist on Saturdays and Sundays, and my shift ends at ten PM, so there’s no way I’m making it home early. last night I skipped work because I was really behind on physics

​On those days, I know to go to AJ’s house, but last night I really thought I would make it. But I didn't.​I had to take another bus to AJ’s and spend the night there. I woke up feeling stiff, wore my uniform and my brand-spanking-new mystery hoodie, and headed to school.

​Right now, I was not in the mood to be shown off because my curls were a mess. Unfortunately, they had to be defined every morning, and I didn’t have enough money to have the expensive-ass products I had at home in AJ’s house as well.

​I mean, a toothbrush is one thing, but a haircare set from Pattern that cost me 120 bucks and a knock-off Dyson I got for 200 bucks on sss? That would set me back three months of savings if I got another set for AJ’s house too. ​My appearance means everything to me, but my future means a lot more, and losing that much money could cost me my future.

​"Hi, Emma," I said to Martin’s clerk as I walked past her desk.

​"Hi, sweetheart. You look rough," she says, and I groan, feeling my stomach drop.

​"Really?" I say, reaching up for a stray, frizzy curl that refused to clump.

​"It’s not so bad. You usually look a ten most days; today we'll say a seven. I'm sure no one will notice," she says in a reassuring tone, and I know she’s lying through her teeth. A seven felt like a zero when you were trying to survive Hawthorne Prep.

​"I hope so."

​I look up as Martins opens his door and a vaguely familiar girl walks out. I couldn’t put my finger on where I knew her from, but it all clicked when a boy walks up from behind her. ​Oh god, no. I’m wearing his hoodie. I can feel the weight of the fabric, smelling like expensive laundry detergent and him. He looks up at me and his eyes go wide.

​"Oh, hey Curly," he said, a huge, annoying smile spreading across his face.

​"Uhm, hi." I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. I looked terrible. I was wearing his hoodie, my face looked a little ashy because I was wearing AJ’s "white boy" sunscreen instead of mine, and worst of all, I was wearing his stupid, comfortable hoodie.

​"Oh, you know Kameo?" Martins asks, surprise in his voice.

​"Yes sir, we met yesterday at a Starbucks," Hoodie Boy responds and looks at me with a bright smile. "Really nice guy."

​"That’s our Kameo—friend to all, foe to none."

​He was wrong. I was Greg’s foe, and I would get rid of Greg if that was the last thing I did.

​"Kam, this is Jackson and Jacklyn Reed."

​"Jax," Hoodie Boy corrects.

​"Lyn," his sister does too, at the same time as him. "We prefer Jax and Lyn, thank you."

​"Oh, that’s fine too." Martins gestures to me, his hand heavy on my shoulder. "Kam here will be giving you both a tour of the school."

​"Mr. Martins, I have a p—"

​"Yes, yes, a physics test in a week. This is a twenty-minute task; I’m sure you can handle them both."

​"But I—"

​"Kam, you can do this. We believe in you. You’re top of the class for a reason," he says, and that seals my fate.

​That statement stands for: You’re the best, so act like the best and do what I’ve just told you. Someone else was always in control of my life. I hated it. "Now, run along kids. Kam will show you around."

​I turn on my heel and walk ahead of them, my heart hammering against my ribs. I was determined not to talk to them except to give them the info about the school I had memorized.

​But all attempts are failed when Jax jogs up to me and starts walking beside me, his shoulder brushing mine.

​"Nice hoodie," he says, that annoying little smirk playing on his face.

​There and then, as a blush crept up my face and the scent of his cologne filled my nose, I made up my mind.

​I hated Jackson Reed.