Page 41 of The Secret Girl (Adamson All-Boys Academy 1)
I swallow hard and try to focus on my work. At first, it seems virtually impossible, what with this weird hot/cold thing I'm getting from Church. But after a little while, we settle into a routine, and I decide his businesslike attitude works for me.
When we're done, Church insists on walking me back to Dad's place—I'm sure only because Archie put him up to it—and I decide not to argue. I was chased by a guy with a knife, after all.
The woods are barren and spooky, the limbs stripped of their leaves from winter's chill. With the fog rolling across the lawns between the path and the forest, there's an ominous feel to the whole scene that I don't like.
“You think she died because she was a girl?”
“Maybe.”
My conversation with the twins resurfaces, and I shiver again. This secret keeps getting bigger and bigger, and it's all the more enticing because nobody will talk about it with me. I'm sure if I just sat down and heard the whole story, I'd forget all about it and move on. But there's something about Jenica's death that's nagging at me.
We reach the front steps, and the door opens.
“Mr. Montague,” Dad says cheerfully, more cheerfully than he's spoken to me in weeks. “I was just about to put dinner on the table. Join us?”
I give Dad a look that very clearly says please shut up and rescind your invitation, but he ignores me and Church smiles prettily.
“I'd love to,” he schmoozes, taking my arm and walking me up the steps. As soon as we get inside and Dad turns away, I pull my arm from his grip, frustrated that I now have to keep my uniform on for the entirety of dinner. I'd been planning on changing into a pink tank and sweats, sans bra. That won't exactly work with Church Montague in my freaking house.
Dinner is a pot roast with mixed veggies, mashed potatoes, and some fresh bread with butter. Nothing at all as fancy as I'm sure Church is used to eating. His family owns some huge conglomerate that deals in seed production and engineering, one of those scary companies worth hundreds of billions that you never hear about, but that controls everything.
I'm actually surprised Church is even going to this school. For as rich as he is, he could easily afford someplace like Burberry Preparatory Academy in California, where all the super-rich assholes go.
“This looks delicious, Archibald,” Church says, still smiling, and I frown. Archibald? Since when is the Student Council President on a first-name basis with the headmaster? Isn't that, like, a breach of etiquette?
“Thank you, Mr. Montague,” Dad replies smoothly, either ignoring or not caring that one of his students is calling him by name. They smile at each other across the table, and I frown. This is the most awkward dinner I've ever been to in my life, I think as I stab a bit of zucchini and take a bite. “So how did the studying go?”
“Chuck's basic level of understanding when it comes to math is deplorable. Clearly, there are issues here that are catching up to him, issues that probably began years ago. He's been barely keeping up for a while.”
I frown and give him a look.
“So, what you're saying is that Chuck's low grades are actually just a symptom of how much … he's been slacking since elementary school?” Dad adds, giving me a dark look. He's clearly disappointed in me, but I don't care. Church spent one afternoon studying with me; he doesn't know shit.
“Math is all about foundation. Chuck has none. We're going to have to start back at the basics, or we're not going to get anywhere.” Church glances over at me, and smiles. But as soon as Dad's phone rings, and he looks away for a moment, the asshole's smirking at me.
I flip him off, and Dad glances back at just the right moment, so that's all he sees.
“Chuck Carson!” he snaps, and I drop my hand to my lap, pursing my lips. “You've caused enough problems for the Student Council already, and now here Church is trying to help you, and you've got an attitude?”
I grumble an apology as Church smirks at me again.
Again, Dad completely and utterly misses the exchange.
“I have to say, during our Culinary Club meetings, we’ve grown quite fond of your son. If only he’d apply himself …” Church gives me this smile that’s two parts sugar, and one part sweet. Meaning, it’s all a bunch of cloying crap. The urge to flick mashed potatoes into his face is astronomical. “Friendships are here for you, if only you’d accept them.” He puts his hand to his chest and gazes at me with such adoration that I’d almost believe it … if any of that expression actually transcended the physical shape of his face and reflected back in his eyes. Nope, still a cold, cruel something-path. Why can I never remember the difference between psychopath and sociopath?! Are those even the right terms anymore? And why do I consider myself some sort of amateur psychologist?!
