I open my laptop and tell myself to focus. I will not let the pain of being unloved by my own parents bother me today. I won’t think about the Shelfbrooke kids and how they don’t talk to me. I won’t think about Viv, and the five unread Snapchat messages I’ve sent her this week.
I pull up the essay I share with Declan online. It’s saved in the school’s cloud-based server, so Declan and I can both work on it at the same time. The little icon in the top corner tells me he’s also logged in right now, working on the essay. Since we have split up the work evenly, he writes some pages, and I write others.
A message pops up on the screen. I didn’t realize this document website had a chat feature.
Declan: Someone isn’t pulling their weight with this project.
I lift an eyebrow and type back.
Sophia: Excuse me?
Declan: I checked the word count. I’ve written 4081 words and you’ve written 4044 words. Tisk tisk, Sophia…
I grin, and think of a comeback.
Sophia: I shouldn’t be punished for my ability to eloquently state facts without extraneous words.
Declan: Ouch. Insulting my intelligence… Hold on a minute while I delete 38 words… There we go. I am now one word more efficient than you.
I throw my head back and laugh.
“Sophia?”
I freeze. That was Declan’s voice I just heard, coming from the other side of the garden wall. “Declan?” I call back.
A few moments later, he appears, laptop tucked underneath his arm. He’s wearing his Shelfbrooke uniform because the rules state that they must be worn on campus at all times.
I, however, how know to sneak the short distance from the staff dorms to the gardens without being seen. And once I’m behind the garden walls, it doesn’t matter what I wear. So I’m in jeans and a Harvard sweatshirt. Still, even in uniform, the boy is really attractive. I swallow.
“What are you doing here?”
“Me?” Declan says, putting a hand to his chest. A little dimple appears in his right cheek when he smiles. “These are my gardens. I’m always here. The question is what are you doing here?”
I shrug and slide over on the blanket, offering him the spot next to me. “This is my sanctuary.”
“Sanctuary…” he says, settling down next to me. “I like that. All my hard work that keeps this garden looking beautiful has clearly paid off.” He brings the smell of his cologne with him and it makes my heart race. He smells so deliciously like summer and boy, and I wish I could breathe him in all the time.
“How much of this is your work?” I ask.
He gazes up at the pink rose bush across the pathway. “A lot. But if you count my family history, then most of it can be attributed to the Moss Family.”
“What do you mean?”
He opens his laptop and logs in. “My family made these gardens from the roots up. A few generations ago. They were hired as the gardeners, and they grew and tended to the gardens. The labyrinth was the creation of my great-grandfather. My family’s soul and blood and sweat are in these gardens.”
“Wow,” I say. “So you’re related to the other gardeners I see around campus?”
His expression darkens, his lips pressing together. “No. A few years ago, one of the Big Five took over the school board—”
“Big Five?” I say.
“The five most prominent families around here. Their kids are the meanest, most entitled students here.”
“Ah,” I say with a nod. “I think I’ve seen some of them.”
He snorts. “Well, the school board changed, and they took over the gardens. They didn’t want to pay my dad’s company, which was the same company passed down through my family each generation, and instead they hired outside gardeners. But my dad needed a job, so he got hired on by the new company. You should have seen it. Within six months, this place completely fell apart.” He shakes his head and exhales. “Companies who hire random people with no gardening knowledge and tell them to garden, well, it was a disaster. My dad worked so hard to get the gardens back to where they should be, and as soon as I turned sixteen and could legally work, I got a job here, too. Even if the gardens aren’t officially my family’s any more, I can’t let them get ruined. They’re a Shelfbrooke tradition.”
I look over at him. “I’m sorry I made fun of you for being a gardener the day I met you.”
