“Sexual dimorphism in mammals,” she says, chewing on the edge of her phone case in thought as she leans back in her seat. “Like, how male peacocks have fancy feathered tails while the females have small brown and white tails. Humans are sexually dimorphic as well.”
“Sounds fascinating,” I say (even though it’s a bit boring), sitting beside her and looking up at the stained-glass mural on the ceiling above our heads. Ten minutes into my second class and I knew that I was in trouble; I had no idea what the teacher was talking about. To be fair Academic Composition here is equivalent to … basically nothing back home. I’m in a different league, and if I’m not careful, I’ll drown here. At my old school, all we had was plain old English. “Is that why boys are so much moodier than girls?”
Danyella flips her braids over one shoulder and then turns to give me a look.
“Actually, human males have hormonal cycles, just like girls do. Because of their higher levels of testosterone, they really can be moodier. Do you have a particular moody boy in mind?” She grins big at me, and I feel my boobs turning crimson again with a heated blush.
“You know Parrish and I aren’t really dating, right?” I ask and Danyella shrugs, closing her laptop and studying me with shrewd brown eyes.
“I figured as much. You and Lumen?”
I shake my head.
“But they both decided to go along with it for whatever reason.”
“I’d be careful if I were you,” Danyella begins, musing on the subject for a moment. “They could be using you in their war against each other. They’ve been playing this ‘will they, won’t they game’ for years.” My heart drops and my stomach roils with nausea. Is that what this is? Both Parrish and Lumen are using me in some sort of social chess match against one another? “Are you interested in either of them?”
“I’m not interested in anyone,” I lie, but I’m not exactly sure if I’m lying to Danyella or myself. Or both of us. Yeah, probably both of us. I spin in my seat to look at her, reaching out to take her hands in mine. She cocks a brow, but doesn’t pull away. “Is it creepy to be interested in your stepbrother?” I ask her, and she grins.
“Are you fetishizing his role as your stepbrother?” she asks me, and I balk. “Well then, why would it matter? If you like him, you like him.”
“I might also … hate him? Question mark?” Yep. I actually say question mark aloud. Like a twelve-year-old. Chasm had me nailed right through the heart. Maybe I’m a tad naïve for the craziness of Whitehall Prep. Danyella just keeps smiling at me, like she’s waiting for me to figure it out on my own. “Is this a lot for our first official day as friends?” I ask and she throws her head back with a wild laugh.
“Oh, I knew I liked you straight-off,” she says, standing up just as the bell rings, signaling the end of the lunch period. “Listen: come over to my place on Friday. We can stay up all night and discuss how the medial preoptic area of the brain processes sexual behavior and attraction.”
“The medial what?” I ask, standing up and scrambling to dig my phone out of my bag so I can check my schedule. Danyella just laughs at me and holds the door open to the hall.
“We’ll … go over all that,” she continues, gesturing me into the hallway.
And who do I run into?
Parrish himself.
Rather than avoiding me—like he’s been doing all day between classes—he comes right up to me.
“You’ve thrown in with the theater geeks?” he asks, the edge of his mouth curving up in distaste. “You worked so hard to improve your social standing in the school; why throw it all away now?” He rolls his eyes at me as Danyella comes up to stand at my side, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I didn’t think it was possible, but you’ve actually become even more of an asshole as of late,” she remarks as I narrow my eyes at my much-taller stepbrother. He looks stupid good in his uniform, like absurdly good. It’s sickening, the way the blazer clings to his strong shoulders and sturdy frame. His tattoos peek tantalizingly from the end of his sleeves, and I realize that I’m staring at his hands like they hold the key to … something.
“Don’t worry about him: he has serious unresolved mommy issues,” I blurt before I can stop myself. We made some sort of connection last night, didn’t we? So why are we doing this now, in front of everyone? And believe me: people are staring.
“Better that than spending all my time dreaming about a family that I don’t belong to or begging to be called by the name of somebody’s dead baby.”
He shoves past me, and I spin, clenching my hands into fists by my sides.
“You know I’ve never cared that you have a micropenis!” I scream after him. “It’s not your tiny dick that I have a problem with: it’s your personality.”
Parrish stiffens up, but when he lazily throws one of this pouty rich boy looks over his shoulder, I almost die. Don’t let your shitty teenage hormones get to you, Dakota, I tell myself, but I can’t seem to help it. There’s just something about Parrish that breaks down all of my boundaries.
“We both know I don’t need my dick to make you feel good,” he says, making a crude gesture with his fingers and flicking his tongue out. I end up quite literally throwing a book at him—a paperback that I snatched from Whitehall’s admittedly impressive library—and then balking as he picks it up and actually bothers to look at the title.
One should only read a novel titled Stepbrother Inked on their phone or Kindle if they don’t want said real-life stepbrother to see it. Maybe, also, one should not throw said book at said stepbrother.
The words hot mess come to mind when I consider going off on an internal diatribe against myself.
“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs under his breath, taking my book along with him as he sweeps down the hall. I grit my teeth, but there’s no point in going after him and drawing attention to the novel of my choice. To be fair, I wasn’t lying when I told Danyella that I’m not fetishizing his role as my stepbrother. I was just … curious.
“Wow. Please spend the night at my place on Friday. We have a lot to unpack.” Danyella pats me on the arm and then leaves me to my next class: Beginning Japanese.
I’m surrounded by freshman which isn’t surprising, but which is also remarkably embarrassing, especially considering my only knowledge of the language comes from manga, anime, and video games. I can pretty easily say, I’m embarrassed, I’m home, and goddamn it in Japanese, but not much else.
Fortunately, my teacher—which just so happens to be Ms. Miyamoto—is kind enough to pretend like I’m not a total failure as she offers me extra guidance through my first lesson. I keep myself going with the mantra of one more hour to go, just one more hour.
Mr. Volli (took me three tries to pronounce—it’s voh-lee), the instructor of my next class, Software Tools: App Development, seems nice enough. He lets me sit in a spot in the back and use my phone to look up any terms I don’t understand (meaning: all of them). Interestingly, my first day at the school is his as well; he’s taking over for the previous instructor who got into some sort of hiking accident (told you these Pac Northwesterners were obsessed with hiking). When Mr. Volli talks about coding, I decide that he has a pleasant, comforting voice, even if I don’t understand a damn word that he’s saying.