Page 22 of The Rebel (Covington Prep: The Girls We Love #7)

VALENCIA

I had arrived at Miss Creighton’s door to see her stacking rolls of paper with several other students. Miss Creighton had taught me in sophomore year, but Mr. Moreno was my art teacher now.

I knocked and entered straight away. Miss Creighton spun around, her eyes widening as if I was an unexpected visitor. For a moment, I hoped my punishment might have been rescinded, that Mrs. Hayman decided Mrs. Fox had indeed overreacted.

“I think I’m supposed to be here?” I said with a cutesy smile.

Miss Creighton was, however, unaffected by it. “Yesterday, Miss Reid,” she said, a sharp glance at her watch.

“Yes, Miss,” I said, immediately deflated. “Sorry. It was a misunderstanding and...”

“I’ll get you to start the washing up,” Miss Creighton cut in, not interested in my excuses, “all the jars and brushes need to be cleaned.”

I had liked Miss Creighton as a teacher and she’d been extremely encouraging of my art. And as Head of the Department, she might have some sway in the selections for the art exhibition. But her heavy frown indicated she wasn’t the least bit impressed by me.

“Of course,” I said agreeably, though disheartened to see the trays of jars next to the sink.

I set to work, internally grumbling as three other kids sat around the table and proceeded to make icicles for the school winter dance.

That looked like fun, cutting out templates, adding glue and glitter.

How was that considered punishment when I was cleaning up paint jars?

I worked faster, not only to worm my way into Miss Creighton’s good books but to join the kids who were chatting and laughing.

I wanted to be making icicles! My fingers twitched to be creative.

Glancing over my shoulder periodically, I only knew one of the girls, Padma, and she certainly didn’t look like someone who would get into trouble.

Miss Creighton left through the adjoining door and I carried one tray across to its rightful place.

“Hey, they look amazing,” I said.

All three smiled but nobody said anything, like I was the outcast.

“Are you finished, Valencia?” Seemed Miss Creighton had sneaked back in.

“I just have one more tray,” I said, scurrying back to the sink. “I was just admiring the icicles. They’re cool. I could help, if you like.”

“Why don’t you finish that job first?” Miss Creighton said, “Then I’ve got some paper that needs to be cut and stacked.”

“Sure,” I said. But Miss Creighton’s definition of ‘some’ was slightly understated. I would be cutting paper into the next century if the bundle was anything to go by.

An hour later, I was still cutting paper, whereas the girls had left. And no, they weren’t making icicles as punishment but were part of the Craft Club. I’d overheard Miss Creighton say that they could lay the icicles onto the trays to dry and I would clean up the glue and glitter mess.

The glitter, especially, was notorious to clean up and having worked in silence the whole time, I was looking forward to leaving. Thankfully, nothing had been mentioned about extending my detention so I hoped that meant I only had to do this for a week.

I’d driven Mom’s car to school today. I didn’t have a choice with Gabby declaring she wasn’t able to take me. I was too embarrassed to ask Jazmyn or Aaron or any of my friends—and then I realized I didn’t have to—Mom’s car was right there at my disposal! And no one needed to know.

Except Jade found out. He said he’d seen me driving it.

That was typical of my luck, but surprisingly he didn’t make an issue out of it.

Just like he hadn’t made a big deal when he’d found me in tears at home.

He was quite concerned at Volley scratching me, as he was when Oliver and I had crashed on the sledding hill.

Kind, caring, protective—or so I thought.

Today, I was learning he was bossy and controlling. And he didn’t like to break rules.

Oliver and I decided it would’ve been a perfect evening for sledding, but Mr. Goody Two-Shoes was all about homework and ensuring we all ate the recommended daily vegetable intake.

Though to his credit, he told Oliver to finish his homework while he cleared the table and stacked the dishwasher.

And he suggested I should get on with my own, too.

I didn’t hesitate, going to my room. I needed to get on with my art portfolio, but first I wanted to message Paris and congratulate him on his first win in the qualifying round.

With the difference in time zone, it would be the middle of the night in France, so I could only text him and wait for his reply later.

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Jade and Ollie’s father had died the summer we were in California.

We were staying with Aunt Caroline, Mom’s sister, who was a junior tennis coach.

Aunt Caro had arranged for Paris to play a whole bunch of tournaments with our younger cousins, Zane, who played in the 14s, and Flora in the 12s.

We loaded into a minivan and traveled every day.

While I’d hated playing in tournaments, I didn’t hate being at tournaments, though a lot of that might have actually been because I had no choice.

It’s what we did most weekends and during summer.

I’d gotten into a routine with Dad, helping with Paris’s equipment and his food and drinks.

Dad checked the racket grips and strings; I mixed up the electrolyte drinks and made sure he had his bananas.

Which might not seem like much of a job, but Paris was particularly picky and only ate bananas that were yellow and firm.

The skin couldn’t be tinged with green, nor could it have brown spots.

He insisted the banana in this form was easier to digest when eating between games and optimal for supplying his muscles with quick energy and preventing cramps.

That ritual was carried on over the next season and through to the US Open.

Dad was in charge of Paris’s rackets, shoes and clothing, Mom took care of his massages and his pre and post game stretching routine, and I ensured he had all his nutritional needs.

It was pretty easy really, because Paris was incredibly pedantic about certain things.

Once he had a winning formula, he never deviated, down to the same clothing, and especially his food.

Every morning he ate the same thing—oats with apple, dried cranberries and raisins, pumpkin and sunflower seeds, almond milk and plain Greek yogurt.

They were staples that were easily available wherever we traveled.

And along the way, I became an expert, knowing the exact ripening process of a banana that kept Paris happy.

And the happier Paris was, the better he played.

Anyway, we’d been at a tournament in Huntington Beach when Mom broke the news that Mr. Sinclair had died.

Admittedly, I didn’t feel much at the time, like of course I felt sad for Dani and Jade and Oliver, but I hadn’t seen Mr. Sinclair for ages.

His illness happened around the same time that Paris quit Covington Prep, and there had been a natural progression of the families hanging out less.

Mom immediately flew back for the funeral, but Paris had made the semifinal of his tournament, so Dad and I stayed on with Paris. When we returned home three weeks later, we all visited Dani but I can’t honestly remember whether I saw Jade and Oliver.

Seeing the many photos of Mr. Sinclair on the mantelpiece made me wonder what it had been like— what it was like —for Jade and Oliver not to have their Dad around anymore. I remembered freaking out at the possibility of Mom having cancer, so I couldn’t imagine their reality.

Hearing a light knock on the door, my heart rate suddenly accelerated as I anticipated it might be Jade, (because it was too early for Dani to be back.) He’d probably want more details on why I’d driven Mom’s car to school and tell Dani about it. My voice was feeble, “Yes?”

But it was Oliver who entered, and though I was relieved, I was also strangely disappointed. “Hey, can I see your drawings?”

“Have you finished your homework already?” I asked, sounding exactly like his older brother.

“Yeah,” Ollie said. “I’d still be locked in my bedroom if I hadn’t.”

I gasped. “Jade locks you in your room?”

Ollie nearly choked on his laughter. “Nah, just kidding. He wouldn’t do that.” He loitered near the end of my bed.

“Here,” I said, clearing my laptop and assortment of books out of the way for him to sit. I repositioned myself into sitting cross-legged and opened the art pad I’d used in Florida.

The pictures were pencil sketches of Paris in all different action shots—serving, forehand, backhand, volley, on the stretch, ready to return.

My plan was to add more depth to them using a tinting method with colored pencils and add them to my portfolio.

With detention all week, I didn’t have time to draw new pictures.

“Cool,” Ollie said as I flicked through the pages. “They’re awesome.”

I scrunched up my nose, only seeing the flaws in every picture—the wrong angle of the tennis racket, the unnatural flow of Paris’s hair and headband, the poor definition of his biceps. Paris would be critical that I hadn’t captured the true bulge of his muscles!

“Nah, they need a lot of work,” I said.

“Are you going to come snow tubing with us?” Ollie asked.

“Me?”

“Yeah. Jade promised.”

“He promised he’d take you,” I said. “Not me.”

“Aw, you should come too.”

Ha! I loved Ollie’s innocence—as if Jade would want me hanging around with him and his friends. Though, I liked the way Jade was willing to include Ollie in things he did. Unlike my own brother at present.

“Anyway, I didn’t think Jade liked sledding or tubing,” I said.

“Yeah, he does,” Ollie said.

“Well, he wasn’t sledding at Oak Brook the other night.”

Ollie giggled. “Yeah, he was too busy talking to his girlfriend in England.”