“So, let’s do this, our way,” Spencer says, sliding his phone from his pocket. “I have an idea.”Showing the girls around on Monday isn’t exactly a pleasant task, particularly since one of my boyfriends called Aster out for having an affair with Selena’s boyfriend, two of my other boyfriends stuffed her locker with contraceptives, and the silver-haired one is actively plotting against her behind the scenes.
The fifth and final boyfriend decides to wait until our Culinary Club meeting on Tuesday to piss her off.
“You’re not coming in my kitchen,” Ranger says, standing in the doorway to the classroom with his apron on, arms crossed in front of his chest. His lip is raised in a snarl as he stares down the home ec teacher, Mr. Johansen. Technically, Mr. Johansen’s supposed to be our supporting staff member, but I’ve only ever seen him come by our meetings in passing. At least he gives us all high marks—even I got an A both semesters last year.
“Mr. Woodruff,” Mr. Johansen scolds, reaching up to adjust his glasses. “I’m appalled by your behavior. The Culinary Club does not belong to you or the Student Council, much as you might wish it did. Now, move aside and make Aster feel at home here.”
With a muscle ticking in his jaw, Ranger moves aside and lets Aster Hayes into the room. She’s beaming, red hair frothing around her face in frizzy curls. She even has a light dusting of freckles over her button nose. Thinking of her as a murderer is … difficult.
“I don’t like this,” Spencer murmurs, eyes tracking her movement through the classroom. Mr. Johansen quickly makes an excuse and disappears down the hall to read his erotica novels. He’s always leaving his Kindle on, and always at a questionable scene of dubious character. Old perv.
“Me neither,” I hedge as Aster spins, holding her bookbag in front of her, and beaming like a crazy person.
“I was in the Baking Club at Everly,” she explains, looking around the room at our glares, frowns, and—in the case of the twins—stuck out tongues. “This is sort of my thing. Thank you so much for having me.”
“You know we don’t like you,” Spencer says as Ranger starts to anger-bake in a whirlwind. “So why the hell are you here?”
“I know it must be tough to have true competition in the elections, but isn’t that what politics are all about? Fierce competition, honesty, and integrity?” Aster’s green eyes scan the classroom, taking in our cozy reading nook with the alphabetized cookbooks (my work), the gleaming counters, and the fully-stocked refrigerator and pantry. This is our home away from home, y’know? Having her in it feels like a violation.
“Uh, do you follow American politics at all? Because that’s pretty much the opposite of how it works.” Spencer rolls his eyes and exchanges a long, studying look with the twins. Surely, they’re up to no good, but there’s also a very good chance that Aster Hayes is guilty, so … fair is fair.
“What are we making today?” she asks, moving over to the cabinets and looking through them. When she goes for the one with the aprons in it, I step in front of her and cut her off.
“This is a private cabinet,” I say as Ranger watches stiffly from behind her.
“This classroom is for everyone,” she argues, still smiling at me. “But if you don’t want me to look in there, I won’t. I’d rather we didn’t fight. I’m here to be a part of this club.”
“Sure thing,” Spencer says, but he’s not convinced. None us are.
Instead of our usual joking and playing around, the room is silent while we each work on our own recipes. Sometimes, we work individually, other times we make things together. But with Aster here, everybody stays in their own lane.
“She seems like the type to get us written up, if we were to, say, crack an egg down her back,” Tobias whispers, looking across the room at her. I noticed Ranger cringing when she started making substitutions in a recipe from one of the old cookbooks. “You know, that’s one of the things we liked so much about you, Chuck.”
“Cracking eggs down my back?” I ask, thinking of the plastic spider from the cemetery and narrowing my eyes.
“No, silly, the fact that you didn’t get us written up for acting like twat-faces.” Micah pops the electric mixer into his bowl as I grin.
“Twat-face. That’s a new one, but I like it.” I stir my healthy banana-chocolate-oat pancake mix together as I think about that. It never really occurred to me that I could get the guys written up for the things they did to me. That’s just not my thing. After all, I’ve had a headmaster for a father my entire life and believe me, running to him and tattling never did me any good.
