Page 16 of Hush Money
Probably not smart to get in cars with strangers, but I imagine my mom would be happier about me getting into a car driven by an adult security guard than another teenager. And getting out of this stuffy building for a little bit sounds a lot better than cramming into a busy cafeteria with hundreds of people who either don’t notice me or pretend they don’t.
“Sure,” I say with a shrug. He slings his bag over his shoulder, and we walk toward the doors. The man gets the door for us and leads us to the side of the building where a black SUV is parked next to the sidewalk.
As we walk through the courtyard toward it, I freeze when I see a large metal plaque that hangs over the garden.
“‘Everett Garden,’” I read, making the connection. Our eyes lock, and he rolls his lips together. He runs a hand down the back of his perfectly tousled sandy locks.
“Uh, yeah,” he says. “My great-grandfather sort of built the school.”
My eyes widen.
“Sort of?” I ask as the man in the suit opens the car door for us.
He smiles and shrugs, waiting for me to slide in.
We drive a little ways off campus, and I meticulously check my watch. I have class in exactly fifty-three minutes, and if I’m not ten minutes early, I will feel like I’m late. I don’t want tocome off as stuffy or stuck-up, but I don’t imagine that the kid whose name is on the damn school has to adhere to the same rules as the rest of us—particularly those of us whose parents don’t make hefty donations each year.
“We will be back before sixth period,” he says, and I look up at him. He isn’t saying it in a mocking way. He’s smiling, but he’s not laughing at me. I think he can just tell that I’m anxious about it. “Promise,” he adds with a wink, and I feel my stomach flip.
A few minutes later, we park, and he slides out, holding the door open for me to get out. I follow behind him and realize he’s headed for a taco truck. I smile. Wouldn’t have pegged him for a food truck guy.
As we approach, he says good afternoon to the owner and then places his order. He turns to me.
“Know what you want?” he says. I step forward. Everything looks delicious.
“I’ll just do two chicken tacos, please,” I say, but then I become conscious of the fact that he’s reaching for his wallet. I reach into my bag and yank mine out, pulling a wad of cash out and slapping it on the counter. The man looks at both of us with a peculiar look, but before Keaton can protest, the man slides the cash away.
“Why did you do that?” he asks me, his tone soft and curious.
I shrug.
“I don’t need you to pay for me,” I say.
He just stares back at me for a second, eyes wide. Then he narrows them on me, nodding slowly. A few minutes later, we’re sitting on a park bench, eating the tacos that I just bought for us.
“Did you grow up around here, Genevieve?” he asks. I nod slowly as I finish my bite, wiping my face with a napkin. “What was that?” he asks.
I look at him.
“What was what?”
“That face you just made,” he says. “Did I strike a nerve?”
I cringe. Sometimes my face is louder than I intend on it being.
“Oh, sorry, nothing,” I say. He turns his whole body to me.
“No, no,” he says with a boyish smile. “What was that? Something I said?”
I smile and sigh.
“Yeah, actually,” I say. “My name.”
“Your…your name?” he asks, one eyebrow raised.
I nod.
“I sort of…hate it.”
