He’s inviting me over to his house. Only it’s not just a house; it’s a mansion.

I don’t know which one is specifically his, but it’s in a ritzy area of the city, and they all are triple the size of mine.

Some of them even have guest houses and swimming pools, which is such a weird concept to me considering that my own yard barely exists. It’s basically three feet of grass that breaks up the space between my house and James's. What does a person need a guesthouse for, anyway, when the actual house has six bedrooms?

Maybe I’ll find out tonight.

9

There’s something intimidating about the stature and size of the Archer family home.

I can’t decide if it’s the way the driveway seems to go on forever, taunting me with a never-ending paved road, or if it’s the dark exterior that feels a little too much like something from a horror movie, but it all makes me a little nervous.

If a house could exemplify Dylan Archer and his personality, this is it.

He opens the door before I can knock, and I can’t help but gawk at the interior. It’s all high ceilings and marble, and the furniture is all ornate and beautifully crafted.

It’s actual, livable art.

I’m afraid to touch anything.

It’s clear I, with my frayed backpack and wild hair, do not belong in an immaculate place like this.

I clutch my belongings to my chest as he leads me down the hall and up the stairs to his bedroom. It takes, maybe, twelve big steps to get from my front door to my room at my house, but I swear we walk for at least five minutes before I step into his bedroom.

Correction: I step into his suite.

Because there’s a full sitting room and multiple doors that are open wide enough that I can see the corner of his bed, the tile of a bathroom, and the entrance of a massive walk-in closet. This might actually be bigger than the entire second floor of my house.

“Are you going to just stand there?” Dylan asks, not bothering to look up from his laptop as he speaks.

He’s already made himself comfortable on the expansive leather couch, so I take a deep, calming breath before I sink in beside him.

I pull out my dinosaur of a computer, planner, schoolbooks, and the study schedule, delicately placing each one on the sleek coffee table. I focus on organizing them neatly because I’m still feeling a little jittery and out of place.

“I see you’ve decided to move in, Reed,” Dylan says, watching me restack my books.

There’s a playfulness in his voice where there’s usually a sharpness.

I can’t decide if he genuinely thinks what I’m doing is funny or if he can sense how on edge I am and he’s attempting to reassure me. The latter seems completely impossible, so I’m just going to assume my organizational skills are hilarious.

Before I can overanalyze that one sentence any longer, he adjusts his posture so that his computer rests comfortably on his knees. He angles them, and his sleek MacBook, toward me so I can look at his work.

I frown at his progress. “You’re behind schedule,” I tell him, gesturing to the study schedule I created. “You were supposed to have this argumentative essay done on Monday.”

He rolls his eyes. “Such a stickler for your own made-up rules.”

“They’re not rules. It’s how I’m helping you get back on track.” I stop and take a breath to refocus. “Okay, so let’s see, at least you’ve chosen a poem. ‘The History Teacher’ is a good choice, and Billy Collins is one of my favorites. What stance are you taking?”

“That he is a horrible teacher.”

“Because?” I ask, trying to make headway on his messy outline.

“He lies about history and sugarcoats events in an attempt to make the children less cruel.”

“You don’t think there’s something noble about that?” I argue, glancing at him once more to see his reaction.

He’s in full debate mode with a ghost of a smile and a gleam in his eye. “He’s supposed to be an educator, not a storyteller.”

“You don’t think there’s anything morally okay with stretching the truth?”

I, myself, think it’s circumstantially okay.

Like when Audrey asks me my opinion about an outfit that I think exposes way too much skin for me, but she is radiant in it. My telling the truth would only hurt her feelings because I’m holding her to my own set of standards.

But James not telling me about his “taking things slow” with Lyla…that still feels like a betrayal. On some level, I’m aware it’s not my business, but when you set the standard of telling someone things, then abruptly stop, it hurts.

“Not necessarily,” he answers. “In this case, it has no effect on the outcome except that he’s defying his obligation to tell the truth and not spread misinformation.”

“You’re acting like he’s a journalist or a scientist not a children’s school teacher. I agree, there should be standards, but every single sentence—”

“If we don’t hold the people responsible for teaching the events correctly, how can we ever expect people to learn from mistakes? Textbooks are notoriously slanted to an exclusive narrative, but how can we trust anything we’ve learned if those responsible for teaching us are revising truths on whims?”

I snort. “I’m not sure I agree. Life is cruel enough, and as long as the message gets across, I’m not sure the details are important. We spent years learning bits of history from Egyptian times, but what do we recall? A few names maybe? But if we learned the truth of every single bloody battle, would it really have any benefit? Or would it rationalize more bloodshed and war in our young, impressionable minds?”

“I guess that’s for your own essay, not mine.”

“It was,” I admit. “It was exactly what I said when I turned in this assignment when it was actually due in January.”

Dylan sighs. “Let me guess, you got an A plus for your brilliant argument.”

I feel the redness creep over my cheeks. “Actually an A minus. She warned me she was going to start docking points if I continued to double the required word count, but I didn’t believe she actually would.”

“And after your entire pro-teacher stance and everything? Wow. You must really be driving her crazy.”

“Well, at least she seems to like you just fine,” I huff.

It’s maddening because even though he hasn’t put in the work by any means, he’s got a safety net that I definitely do not have.

“Maybe she’ll let you donate those words to me.”

“I might have to. This outline doesn’t even make sense. You’re burying your argument in the third paragraph.” I pause. “How did you get this far in high school without me?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Cheating.”

I gasp, completely horrified.

“I’m kidding. Now tell me the foolproof Harper Reed method to absolutely crushing an essay. But actually within the word count.”

I jump right into problem-solving and planning mode. “First, let’s fix the outline. It doesn’t have to be pretty, but it does need to follow the rubric if you want to actually pass the class.”