“If anyone asks, you’re a family friend.” Dad gave me instructions that morning as to how we were going to address the newest member of our family. I couldn’t exactly say Jensen was my stepbrother when my parents have been happily married for over twenty years. For all intents and purposes, we’ve led the outside world to believe Summer and Kath are neighbors and our families spend a lot of time together. There are a few other families like ours in town, but we all live in secrecy. Dad says we live in troubled times where too many of us have deviated from our original teachings, pressured by society to abandon the heart of our religious principles. It’s up to us to restore faith in the old doctrines and combine them with modern times.
“That’s pretty much what I am,” Jensen says. He turns to me, catching my stare. My cheeks redden. “You know we’re not really family, right?”
I shake my head, vehemently disagreeing with him. “Kath is one of my mothers. The twins are my siblings. So are you. We’re all family.”
“Not in the eyes of the law,” Jensen says. “I could say I’m married to you right now but it won’t mean a damn thing because it’s not legal. This is the adult version of playing house, kid. It’s all pretend.”
“Please don’t call me ‘kid.’ We’re the same age. And you’re insinuating you’re smarter than me on some level. It’s rude.” I can say things like that to him as long as my father isn’t around.
“I’m smarter than everyone.” He shrugs. “Can’t help it. Just the way your God made me.”
“That kind of talk is what gets a person in trouble.” I’d tell him to keep sweet, but that rule only applies to AUB women. Men are a little less restricted when it comes to emotions. They’re governed by a different set of rules. It’s not fair, but I’ve never been allowed to question it. Mom compares it to asking why the sky is blue. It just is; the reason doesn’t matter.
“Oh, no, the morality police is here,” he laughs. He sticks his wrists out like I should handcuff him. I grip the straps of my backpack until my knuckles whiten.
“You’re not cute,” I tell him. I sound like I’m in third grade. Jensen brings out the worst in me. He’s testing me. I need to shower him with kindness and patience, even if it’s the hardest thing I’ll ever do. He’ll lead me down a path of frustrated destruction if I don’t keep myself in check. Jensen presses buttons. He’s a button presser.
“Not everyone can be cute and sweet,” he says, implying that I am, in fact, cute and sweet. He pulls the heavy doors leading into the east entrance of Whispering Hills high and lets me go in first. Maybe he’s not a total jerk.
“Guidance counselor’s office is this way.” I point down a long hall filled with orange, red, and yellow lockers. A group of gossiping sophomore girls silence themselves the second they see us walking in their direction. A hush falls over the hallway with each step we take, like a row of tumbling dominoes. All eyes are on us—on Jensen, actually. He doesn’t look like anyone who belongs here, and truth be told, he appears older than eighteen. There’s a worldliness on his face, in the way he carries himself. He wears the confidence of a man much older than eighteen.
I’m still dying to know what happened and why he was dropped on Kath’s doorstep like an abandoned baby in a basket. Though it’s more like the clouds parted, lightning flashed, and out came Jensen Mackey like an angry clap of thunder complete with black eyes and an attitude.
We knock on Mr. Kaplan’s door as he’s finishing up his breakfast sandwich. I observe through the half window as he crumples up his wrapper and takes a couple long sips of his soda.
“Come in,” he calls.
“Mr. Kaplan,” I say. “This is Jensen Mackey. He’s new. We’re just picking up his schedule.”
“Yes, yes.” Mr. Kaplan runs a greasy hand over the top of his shiny, bald head as his other frantically lifts the various papers that litter his desk. “Jensen, Jensen, Jensen Mackey… here we go.”
He hands me the schedule and offers a smile at Jensen, his stare lingering a bit too long. Even Mr. Kaplan can sense Jensen doesn’t fit in here.
I glance over his schedule.
Ugh.
Our first and last blocks are together: Chemistry and AP English. He doesn’t look like an AP student. He doesn’t look like someone who would consider his grades or merit.
His locker number is printed on the bottom of his schedule, along with the combination. At least we’re in different hallways. I don’t think I could survive my last three weeks of senior year being joined at the hip with him all day long.