Читать книгу Stir Me Up - Sabrina Elkins - Страница 11

Chapter Seven

We’re all sent to check out copies of Hamlet at the start of English class. Joy.

“Good morning,” says Mr. Hague once we have our books and have taken our seats. “What you have before you is arguably the finest play ever written. Now, how many of you have seen Hamlet, either onstage or in a film?”

I raise my hand a little while I secretly text Taryn:

Julian moved in last night. That’s the Marine. He’s an even bigger A-hole than I remembered.

I HAVE TO SEE THIS GUY! Taryn texts back.

Why? I type in.

“How about you, Broussard?” asks Mr. Hague.

Shit. I hide the phone. What did he just ask?

“What it’s about,” the boy next to me whispers.

Oh, okay. “Uhh...It’s about a prince who finds out his father, the king, has been murdered by his uncle.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Hague says. “Hamlet is a play about a young man who believes his father has told him to commit murder. He spends most of the play, as you’ll soon see, wrestling with this request. The theme of parental pressure is still very relevant today. Have any of you ever been compelled by a parent to do something extremely difficult—not murder, I hope, but something else you wouldn’t have done otherwise? Let’s see a show of hands from any of you who’ve faced a difficult parental demand—and no, I don’t mean stuff like being forced to take out the trash.”

A few people laugh. I think, of course, of how Dad wants me to go to college. We’ve only talked about it once since I was in Bethesda, and then he just said he wanted to make sure I had my application done on time for the University of Vermont. I told him I would. Even though I don’t see the point of an expensive four-year interruption to my culinary career. I mean, why on earth would he of all people not understand this? For him, cooking schools are a waste. Okay, I get that, no cooking school. But why college? So I can sit behind a desk and stare at a computer all day? What if I want more than just to earn money to pay the rent and make sure I get home at a reasonable hour? Besides, I hate school. I’m sick of it. All I want to do is cook and maybe come up with a culinary style of my own someday.

I raise my hand in response to Mr. Hague’s question about parental pressure. Most of the class does as well. We start going through the play and it kind of builds on me, this idea of kids throughout history being forced to do things because of a parent. Stay. Go. Do this. Do that. Guess they even had pushy fathers back in Shakespeare’s time.

“You still with us, Broussard?”

“Yes.” I snap out of my daydream and try to focus on the first scene of Act I until the bell rings. English is my last class, so after it I’m free to leave for the day. But instead of heading straight to Luke’s, I have to stop at home first to pick up a clean uniform. I’m constantly washing my chef’s coats, because I’m a bit of a slob, truth be told. It drives Dad crazy, but he’s given up trying to get me to be neater as I work.

LUNCH TODAY! Taryn texts. DON’T SAY NO!

Sorry, can’t today—but soon! I text back.

I head inside, throw my backpack on the floor―and see Julian there in his wheelchair, staring up at the kitchen cabinetry and frowning. It’s the first time I’ve seen him out of his room, so this is a bit of a surprise. “Hi,” I say. “Do you need help getting something? A glass?”

He scowls and turns away from the cabinet. “No.”

I watch him wheel to the door.

“Wait, my backpack’s in...”

“Goddamn it,” he says.

“...your way.”

“Can you pick up the damned thing?”

I go to move it, and my copy of Hamlet falls out. I bend to get it, and find myself at eye-level with Julian’s legs.

He’s in sweats, the right leg of which has been cut off just below the knee. There’s a white cotton sock-type covering on his half leg.

“Stop it,” he says.

“Stop what?”

“Staring.”

I feel my face start to burn. “Sorry. Are you in a lot of pain from it?”

“From what, having to deal with you?”

I sigh and set my bag on a kitchen chair. “Must you always be such an asshole?”

“Must you always leave your crap all over the place—your bag and wussy play...”

“What wussy play?” I ask.

“Hamlet,” he says with a grimace. “Total wuss. Once he received the order to kill his uncle he shouldn’t have hesitated.”

Wait, hold on. Is Julian trying to make actual conversation with me here? “Maybe it wasn’t that simple for him,” I suggest, having seen the movie.

Julian gives me a hard look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

And we’re back to arguing. “It just means maybe he didn’t find the prospect of killing someone so easy.”

“You think I find killing easy?”

I stare at him in shock. “I never thought anything even remotely like that, Julian. Look, I know you like picking fights with me. But this one’s ridiculous.”

“You’re saying I’m ridiculous?”

Before I can think of an answer, we’re interrupted. “Oh, Cami, you’re home for lunch. How fantastic.”

Enter Estella—the Broussard family’s very own UN peacekeeper.

“Did you take your noon meds?” she asks Julian.

“I’m not a child,” he snaps. “I don’t need you checking up on me.”

Estella is quiet. Shelby comes in behind her and wags her tail at me. I reach down to pet her. “Hey, baby.”

“And by the way, that ‘baby’ of yours needs to stay off my bed,” Julian says.

Hah. Good job, Shelby. Way to annoy him. “She thinks it’s my bed still. That’s why.”

“While I’m in there, she needs to stay off it.”

I glance at Estella, who gives him a scolding look. “What?” he says. “She wipes her ass all over my pillow.”

“She does not.”

“She does, too. She snores and drools and makes a hundred disgusting noises.”

“Cat person,” I say, petting Shelby still.

“I’m not a cat person. I love dogs. Normal dogs who aren’t annoying and disgusting.”

“I’ll have you know Cavalier King Charles spaniels are a highly desirable breed.”

“Yeah, sure they are,” he says.

“Don’t worry. Shelby’s mostly deaf, but she’s not blind or stupid. I’m sure she’ll start avoiding you soon enough.”

“Good, because I’m kicking her to the carpet from now on, I don’t care how old she is.”

“Yes, let’s pick on the old and infirmed,” I say, glaring at him. In his wheelchair.

Julian’s face clouds over, and suddenly, I feel slightly guilty.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Estella says. “Let’s just try to survive lunch, all right? Julian, we’ll do our best to keep the dog out of your room.”

Julian turns his back on both of us and heads for the door. “Good.”