you,” I say softly, meaning it more than words can convey. It’s a situation plenty of boys would have taken advantage of. The kind of boys who bring roofies to parties and get away with things because they can. The only kind of boys I’ve known until now.
He shakes his head, pushing aside my gratitude. “You wouldn’t have died. Probably.”
“I’m glad you’re good at the whole numbers business thing, because a career in motivational speaking is out of the question for you.”
He leans forward and opens his mouth, as if he’s going to say something important. And then he stops. When he finally speaks, it’s something I never would have expected. “You’re smart,” he says, and I laugh.
“What?”
“You’re smart, but you don’t want anyone to know.”
“I’m not smart, as my grades can definitely attest. We can’t all be valedictorian, can we?”
He laughs a little. “You are so full of shit.”
“Excuse me? My report cards are very clear on this issue. I am the absolute best at failing. If there were grades given for failing, I would get straight A’s.”
When I was in third grade, the teacher called my mother in for a conference and showed her my math workbook. I had used the numbers like an abstract paint-by-numbers, turning the pages into stained-glass drawings of flowers and puppies and this one grim reaper with its scythe made out of a column of fractions. It’s not that I can’t add or subtract or even do advanced derivatives. It’s that my mind will flit away like a butterfly in a meadow filled with flowers.
“Okay,” Christopher says. “But I know the truth.”
Frustration makes me huff, which is a lot safer than letting myself smile at him. “Fine, but I know the truth about you.”
One dark eyebrow rises. “What’s that?”
The insight hits me with the same clarity as I saw every page in that workbook, the possibility rising up out of the framework. “This whole thing. The insanity of the yacht and the silver spoon, you want it so bad it hurts. That’s why you study so hard. Because you want this life as bad as your mom, but you’re working for it in a different way.”
The silence descends on us, as heavy and cold as the water. His throat works. “That obvious, huh?”
My brain, usually good at comebacks, falls suddenly silent. There are things I could say to ease the moment: I didn’t mean it, I’m sure it’s not true. But those would be lies. We’re sitting in the cabin with only nakedness between us, the same way we were last night. “It doesn’t mean anything bad about you.” At least that much is true.
He laughs without humor. “It doesn’t mean I’m a greedy asshole?”
“Oh, for sure, you’re definitely a greedy asshole. Who isn’t? Everyone wants money. Very few are willing to work as hard as you to earn it.”
“Listen,” he says, seeming uncertain for once. “What you said about that guy. The one who owned the job website. The one who—”
“I shouldn’t have told you that,” I say, my cheeks burning like fire. “It was a moment of weakness. Which I seem to be having around you with unfortunate frequency.”
“Maybe we should tell your dad. He could make sure that—”
“Absolutely not. No offense, but you’ve been my stepbrother for like a month. You don’t know the history in my family. That guy is gone, and the best thing to do is leave it alone.”
My parents alternately hate each other and love each other, but that isn’t what breaks us. It’s the money that fractures us into a million sharp pieces.
Like the men in my life, money is only temporary.
And if I never want either of them, I won’t be disappointed when they’re gone.
Chapter Six
ADMISSIONS ESSAY
Dear Christopher,
My mother married a German count, which is exactly as pretentious as it sounds. We’re moving to Frankfurt and that means a boarding school with new rules and lesson plans where I’m already going to be behind. I hope you don’t mind that I’m writing you, because I know we’re not technically related anymore.
PS. Who’s going to dive in and rescue me on spring break?
Dear Harper,
Thank you for writing to me, even if we aren’t related anymore. If it’s any consolation, you feel as much a sister to me as you did before. Which is to say, not much. I’m sorry to hear about the new boarding school. I hope they have lots of paint.
PS. Don’t sit on the rail at midnight, and whatever you do, don’t