“Hey, dude,” I say, offering my fist. He bumps it. “How was dance?”
“Good, I guess.” He grabs a handful of nuts off the kitchen table. “Except Gloria is determined to get the solo. Like every year.”
“You think you can beat her?”
“Oh, I know I can. I just need her to back off and stop being so bossy. She thinks she’s the queen.” He rolls his eyes overdramatically. “As if.”
This kid lives for drama, on and off the stage. A good feud will keep him going for months.
“Sweetie,” Mom admonishes, hovering over the stove. Her hair is a braided rope of graying hair down her slim back. “Dance isn’t about competition. It’s about expression, sharing your inner beauty to the world.”
Inwardly, I have to laugh at this. That’s a losing battle. Micha may be even more competitive than I am.
“Yeah, Micha,” I mockingly agree. “There are no rivals in dance.”
His eyes twinkle at me right before he casually drops, “So Gwen, I heard you got detention.”
I narrow my eyes. What a little punk. I try to step on his toe, but he dances out of the way, laughing. “Touché,” I mutter.
“Detention?” my dad asks, eyebrows raised in surprise. “What on earth for?”
Instead of answering, I turn to Micha. “Where did you hear that?”
“Dena Clarke is in my Sunday class.” He shrugs. “Her sister told her.”
“Why is Campbell Clarke talking about me?” I ask, more to myself than Micha. “God, I shouldn’t even be on her radar.”
“Hello, is this thing on?” My dad taps an invisible mic, which makes all of us roll our eyes in unison. “Why did you get detention?”
“She was late,” Michaela answers, happy just to be part of the conversation. “With Hamilton Bates.”
My jaw drops.
She heard, too? Jesus Christ, what kind of gossip train is running down to the middle school?
The room falls ominously silent, everyone’s gaze shifting to me. Even Brayden, who’s now in the living room watching football on the big screen TV, cranes his head around the back of the couch to shoot a questioning gaze at me.
“I was not late with Hamilton,” I explain, his name feeling foreign and abrasive on my tongue. Or maybe it was his tongue that felt abrasive on my tongue. Shit. Conjuring up that image is nothing but trouble. My ears he
at. “We were both late. Separately. To the same class.”
“And what class was this?” Mom asks, tongs dripping grease onto the floor as she stands there all shocked and dismayed.
“Dr. Ross.”
Brayden makes a sharp, sympathetic sound through a mouthful of chips. “God, Dr. Ross. She’s the biggest hard-ass about tardiness,” he explains to my parents.
“Language,” Dad gives my brother a stern look. “Was it just one day of detention?”
“No.” I sigh, slumping dejectedly in my chair. “Five Saturdays in a row. She made an exception for our afterschool activities, but it came with a compromise.”
Mom gives me a long, worried look. “Do you need me to call the dean? I’m sure they can work something out. I know being around Hamilton makes you uncomfortable.”
This is so tempting that it’s almost a physical battle to keep my mouth shut. Being around Hamilton does make me uncomfortable. And angry. And flustered. And hot. And crazy. And super confused. No one person should ever be exposed to as many emotions as Hamilton Bates makes me feel. “No,” I ultimately decide, shoulders dropping, “it’s not a big deal. I don’t want to cause a fuss.”
“It’s not a fuss, Gwen. You two have a complicated history. I know he’s not always nice to you—not anymore.”
My teeth clench. “Mom, it’s fine.”