*
Two days later, the doorbell rings. I remain at my desk for a minute, expecting Senior to get it, when I remember he’s gone to out to see a friend.
With a sigh, I push my chair back and head down the hallway. The doorbell rings again. “I’m coming,” I grumble, even though the visitor can’t hear me. It’s probably someone looking for Senior.
I open the door. It’s Jasper, his hand about to press the doorbell again.
“Hi,” he says, dropping his hand. “Took you long enough.”
He’s wearing a Burberry jumper and dark jeans, the front pockets bulging with his phone and house keys.
“Senior’s out,” I say as he pushes into the house, arm brushing mine. “He won’t be back until after dinner.”
Jasper, halfway down the hallway, turns around to face me. “I’m not here for Senior.”
After a moment, I close the front door. Jasper marches into my room and inspects it like he owns it. One day, he probably will.
“Were you busy?” he asks.
I nod at my desk. “Studying.”
His brows jump up.
“What, did you think I spent my time cooking drugs?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, walking over to the desk and flicking through the pages of my maths workbook. “As if you could cook drugs here. Senior would notice.”
“Stop that,” I say, walking over and slamming my workbook close. The last thing I want is for Jasper to see all the questions I got wrong. “And hypothetically, I could. Senior’s out of the house pretty often.”
Jasper stares at me.
“Jesus,” I say, loud enough to make him jump. “I’mjoking.” I don’t know anything about making drugs except from what I’ve seen onBreaking Bad.
“Did you get expelled for dealing drugs?” he asks.
I take a step back. “What? No. Why would you think that?” I shouldn’t be surprised, and yet I am. Of course Jasper thinks the very worst of me.
“Something Fin said,” he says.
“Right, because Fin’s an expert on my past,” I drawl, but my blood boils.
Jasper moves around the room, glancing at the pile of laundry I’ve thrown on the ground, the rubbish on my bedside table, my school bag I threw in one corner. He doesn’t do anything like opening drawers or peeking in my closet, but all the same, I feel like he’s undressing me and judging what he finds underneath.
I get sick of watching him in silence. “What do you want?”
Once again, he jumps a little at the sound of my voice, even though I didn’t speak loudly. He clears his throat and points to my desk chair. “Mind if I sit?”
I grunt in assent and sit on the edge of my bed, facing him.
“Single bed,” he points out.
“What do you have, a king?”
He nods, then inspects his hands.
“Jasper, what do you want?” I repeat, getting impatient now.
He takes a breath, and I tense. Then he speaks in a clear and confident voice. His school captain voice.
