Page 13 of Enemy Crush
“Ambrose Manor,” I said, mimicking a posh accent. “Dad calls that archway a monstrosity. It’s falling apart.”
Brayden laughed. “She’s cute though.”
I couldn’t deny that, but neither did I want to be seen agreeing. “I saw her talking to Ronan yesterday. Probably skiing buddies.”
Brayden shrugged. “Yeah, bound to be. Hey, did you work on the car yesterday?”
“I’m working on my bike at the moment,” I said. “I’m not riding the bus for another week if I can help it.” I chuckled. “But nah, waiting to order some parts.”
“You gonna work Spud Break again?”
“Heck yeah,” I said. “I need the money. Are you?”
“Not sure. I was thinking about it. But I pretty much nearly died last year.”
“Yeah, I think every year I say I’m never doing it again, but the money’s worth it,” I said. Harvest Break, or Spud Break as we called it, was a community initiative where students got two weeks off of school to help local farms with their potato harvest. I’d done it since freshman year, earning close to a grand for my hard-earned labor which is how I’d bought my motorbike. Because we’d had a hot summer, the harvest was set to be earlier this year, the dates set for less than a month away.
“I wanna do it,” Brayden said, “but it’s brutal trying to fit in soccer practice too.”
“Yeah, would be tough,” I said, knowing he was serious about his sport.
Not everyone volunteered for the harvest—twelve hour days weren’t for the faint-hearted—but Dad was big on me building a work ethic, learning responsibility, being productive with my time. Plus, the money definitely helped.
He had learned welding when he left school and worked at a large company that built storage facilities like water tanks and silos. I’d probably end up in some job like that, not being the college type according to my Career Pathway Plan. Solid B student, no AP classes and a schedule that wasn’t too stressful.
Brayden had told me the Health and Nutrition elective was an easy credit which is why I’d chosen it. He’d done the class last year and it involved meal planning, food preparation and properuse of equipment—probably how to turn on a stove. I already shared the cooking with Dad—if he worked late, I could easily whip up dinner for Mason and me. If there was pasta and a can of tuna in the pantry, you’d never starve.
At first glance, it seemed like the class was full of juniors, making me inwardly groan. I headed to the back of the room and sat at a bench next to Ash, a senior who always did the Spud Harvest.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” he replied, and that would be the extent of our conversation. Ash didn’t talk much and that suited me fine.
Miss Deeley was clapping her hands trying to attract everyone’s attention as the stragglers filed in. I scrolled through my phone, suddenly immersed in a cloud of familiar perfume. I looked up to see Quinn Devereaux standing next to our work bench.
“Yes, quickly, that’s the last seat. Sit there.” Miss Deeley directed an annoyed look at Quinn.
Quinn didn’t say a word but her soft sigh and the roll of her eyes spoke volumes. She pushed the stool back and inspected the top before lightly brushing at it like she was a germaphobe. She shifted it to the edge of the bench, moving as far away from me as possible before perching herself on it like she might be in danger of catching something.
For some reason, that stung. Sure, I was wearing the same jeans as yesterday, but my t-shirt was clean and I showered every day and used a deodorant spray that boasted a 48 hour anti-sweat formula. But her action had me worrying I smelled like garbage or sweaty gym socks, and put me on edge. “Gotta problem with this seat?” I snarled.
Quinn blinked her inky blue eyes, quite stunning and mesmerizing and shook her head. She quickly turned away from me, her vibrant eyes suddenly jaded. I winced, feeling a momentof disappointment in myself but quickly reminded myself that she was a Devereaux—the enemy!
Thankfully, Miss Deeley addressed the class, her pen squeaking on the whiteboard and I feigned total focus.
“The semester is broken into three units: Nutrition Basics, Culinary Fundamentals, and Meal Planning & Execution. Each unit builds on the last. By the end of the semester, we’ll design, prepare, and present a three-course meal for a panel of judges.”
A collective groan rang around the room with one kid calling out, “Judges? Like in Master Chef?”
“Yes, just like Master Chef,” Miss Deeley said with a look of sheer delight. “But first we’ll learn about what’s in our food and how our body uses it and how to make smart choices.” She tapped the board at what she’d written and stepped to the side. “Hands up if you skipped breakfast this morning. And an energy drink isn’t breakfast!”
A couple of hands raised in front of me, gaining momentum as at least half of the class owned up to skipping. The movement of Quinn quietly lifting her hand from the desk surprised me and yep, I foolishly opened my big mouth.
“What? No avocado toast? Or spinach smoothie?” I gasped in mock horror.
But Quinn didn’t miss a beat. “I think you’re getting confused withbrunch,” she said with complete ascendency that made me want to shrink under the table.
A murmur rang out around the room as Miss Deeley said something that Quinn and I hadn’t heard because we were talking.
