“Oh my God,” I mumble.
“The cops came. Charlotte didn’t want to press charges, and she begged me not to tell anyone what happened—she was worried about her reputation. I told her that was stupid and no one would judge her, but she wouldn’t change her mind, so I didn’t say anything and just took the rap.” He shrugs, like that’s all there is to say, and silence descends between us.
I imagine the scene from his point of view—if it were my little sister, I’d have done the same thing. I’d have died in the process, of course, but that wouldn’t have stopped me. “That’s so…heroic of you.”
Unexpectedly, he blushes.
“Why didn’t I know about any of this?” I ask. “I mean, usually that kind of stuff gets around….”
“Well, my dad took care of that,” he answers, reluctant and maybe even ashamed.
“Ah,” I say. That’s not how it would have gone for me.
Tucker’s eyes float to the shelf containing his myriad shiny trophies. “He wants me to go to Stanford. Anything that might get in the way of that makes him pretty enraged. He shook a few hands, exchanged some money, and the charges were dropped. A few parents wanted to get me expelled, but I only missed a couple of games instead. Wasn’t much of a punishment, since I hate lacrosse.”
That’s almost more shocking than the assault news.
“So why do you play, then?” I ask.
“My dad. He almost went pro with Stanford. Wants me to follow in his footsteps. Remember last year, how I had that big accident on the field?”
I didn’t go to the game—a whopping case of bronchiolitis that season—but I heard. Everyone did. “You were knocked down by that big dude from Prep.”
“I tore my ACL. Doc said I should stay off the knee for the rest of the year, but my dad wasn’t having any of that. I missed three games for surgery recovery, and then I had to go and warm the bench for the rest of the season, just so I could say I was still on the team. That was a year ago, and my knee never really recovered, but I’m still there. Fulfilling my father’s wishes.” He scowls at his comforter.
If anyone had told me I’d feel bad for Tucker St. Clair, I would have told them to put down the pipe. But in this moment I feel a strange empathy with him—we both suffer from too much parental attention.
“My dad has some issues too.” Once I say it, I immediately wish I hadn’t. Five minutes ago I didn’t even particularly like the guy. But then Tucker is leaning forward, looking vulnerable and interested, and I feel like I can’t just not elaborate after I offered that information.
“He’s got an addictive personality,” I say. “Before he used to drink a lot, but he got clean and now he gambles. It’s like he has to be addicted to something. But he doesn’t see it that way. He thinks he’s doing us a favor by investing our money in this stuff. One time he decided he’d mine for gold. Like, bought all this fancy equipment and made us go and sift through rocks.” I give an embarrassed laugh. “And we moved here from Albuquerque after Katrina so he could flip houses, even though he has no handyman skills whatsoever, so that went well. He left after things got hard, but he’ll be back.” I stop abruptly, embarrassed by how much I’ve revealed about my family to a stranger. Heat settles over my cheeks, and I let out a brittle laugh as I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Sorry, that was weird that I told you all that.”
“Not at all. I’m happy you told me.”
I meet Tucker’s eyes. He doesn’t look away, barely blinks, and suddenly the air between us feels different. Charged. I clear my throat and grab my notebook out of my bag.
“So, history project!” I say.
Tucker chuckles softly, but I can tell he hasn’t looked away. He takes the book out of my hands, and I let him. My heart thumps hard, a buzz of warmth going into my stomach. Jackie’s words in the caf pop into my head. He’s hot! She’s not wrong. He looks like an Abercrombie ad come to life. A million girls would kill to be in this exact same position with Tucker St. Clair.
“You’re not like the other girls I know,” he says.
I hate when guys say that, like it’s some sort of compliment to say girls in general suck. But I don’t say so. I can tell he’s trying to say something nice.
“You’re interesting,” he continues. “I like that you have things to say and you don’t take shit from anyone, but at the same time you have a soft side. Like when you were talking about your dad, I can tell how much you love him even though he’s made things hard for your family.”
I dip my head to my chest. “Well…thanks.”
He leans closer, close enough that I can smell peppermint on his breath. “Can I kiss you, Hope?”