Page 61 of Forbidden Lessons

“Well, tomorrow night then. Yeah.” She nods like she’s trying to convince herself. “I could go out, after.” She holds out her hands. “You could…come with…maybe.”

“I have work. Tonightandtomorrow night.”

“But it’s Friday.”

“I work weekends too.”

She straightens, looks away, but I hear her soft, “Man.”

Then she ducks down again. “I’m not going to fail Rooke’s class because you’re working. Call in sick.”

I stare at her, because it hits me then what a privileged life Melissa Parker must have led. She’s got to know that I work for tips, right? That I don’t get paid unless I’m there…to earn those tips.

But then I think about Kai waiting for me outside the diner.

“Free foodandbooze?” I say, trying to make it sound more about the alcohol.

Melissa flashes me a smile. “Oh yeah.”

“Tonight, then. I’ll just need to get someone to fill my shift.” She just stands there, like she’s waiting for me to make the call. “And I have to go park my car again,” I add.

“Fine, yeah.” She walks, pointing to the other side of the lot. “I’m in the Aston.”

Melissa’s white Aston Martin is gorgeous, sleek, and almost too perfect. Just like her. I want to hate her for it, but she’s so methodical about how she treats her things. I want to believe she respects her possessions.

Somehow, that makes it okay. Like she’s allowed to be this filthy rich because she doesn’t take things for granted.

Guess Kai’s imagination rubbed off on me.

But in the five minutes walk to the GAZ house, I realize she’s just as ridiculously entitled as I first thought.

I stare up at the double-story building, then glance over at my shoulder where the roof of AHC is still visible through the tree.

“Is it that you don’t like walking, or…?”

“Paving ruins my shoes,” she says. “And don’t get me started on dog shit. I stepped in some once. Still trying to get the smell out of my nose.”

It’s the most enthusiastic I’ve ever heard her.

Talking about dog shit.

Wow.

Explains why she has this slightly disgusted look on her face most of the time. But like she said, we’re stuck with each other.

A girl rushes past us out of the front door as we come inside, cordless headphones clapped to her ears and an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips.

When she sees Melissa, she snatches the smoke from her lips. “Tiffany’s home!” she hisses, throwing an apprehensive glance over her shoulder before speed-walking down the street.

“Tiffany?”

“House mother. Despises smoking.” Melissa’s arm props up, her laptop bag swinging from the crook of her elbow. “Come on.”

We walk through tall columns connecting the lower porch with the roof of the red-bricked sorority house. White trim on the windows and front door, and large Greek letters in white give the building a polished, almost regal vibe.

“Let’s go upstairs,” she says, pointing to the staircase sweeping up to the first floor. I glance around as we pass through, spotting a pair of girls seated on the floor beside a coffee table near an enormous fireplace. They’re busy giggling and sharing a bowl of popcorn as they peek at each other’s phones.

Melissa leads me down a hall and through one of the many white-painted doors on this floor. There are two beds, each dressed in pretty quilts and matching pillowcases. There’s a unicorn plushie on one bed, but Melissa heads for the other side of the room, setting her laptop bag down on the foot of a floral-quilted bed.

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