After Julian said my name, he seemed to do a double take.
I gathered myself quickly, aware of his father watching us. "Julian. Hello."
"Be nice, Julian," Mr Jones warned. "Miss Miller got mugged recently. You're lucky she's here at all, in her condition."
Julian turned to glare blackly at his father. It was so powerful, so dark, I could only stare. That look belonged in the depths of Hell.
"Why have I got a tutor?" He gritted out.
"Your grades have been more than disappointing as of late, son. Especially in English."
"I can pick them up."
"With Miss Miller, yes."
"Please," I interrupted. "Call me Brooke."
"Brooke." Mr Jones smiled warmly. Not like his son, then. Was that a relief, or a worry? "I'll leave Julian to do the house tour, if that's alright?"
I looked to Julian, but he was still glaring at his father. When the atmosphere got too awkward, I spoke, "that's fine!"
Then, feeling brave, I started up the stairs, pushing Julian back up. Surprisingly, he let me; when his father was out of sight, those dark eyes fastened on me.
"What are you doing here?" His voice was cold.
"I'm tutoring," I told him flatly. "You, apparently."
"You didn't know you were tutoring me?"
"No! God forbid, no!"
His eyebrows raised. "Forceful."
"As if I would have taken the job if I knew! I'm not that desperate, you know."
He frowned. In the dim light of the hallway, half of his face was shrouded in shadow; I stared, thinking he looks just like a devil in a painting. The most irritably handsome devil I've ever seen.
"Why wouldn't you have taken the job?"
Was he stupid? My mouthed twisted, and I catch him trying not to look at the dark patches on my face. They were ugly, I knew, but something told me it wasn't about how unattractive they were. "I certainly wouldn't have come here today." At that, his mouth opened, but I was too quick. "Are you going to give me a tour or not?"
"There isn't much to see."
"You have a big house."
"Everything looks the same." He said bluntly. I looked around; pale cream walls, dark wooden floors, the same wood as the doors on either side.
I sighed, losing interest. "Fine, if you're going to be difficult, let's get on with it. I need cash. Where do we work?"
"We don't work anywhere." His dark eyes were testing me.
"Julian," I was exasperated, "I've been hired to tutor you, so that's what I'm going to do. An hour, tops, and then I'll get the hell out of your hair."
He blinked. "Again with your potty mouth."
"You annoy me."
"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"
"Certainly not," I spat, and regretted it.
He seemed pleased to have got a reaction. "Difficult parents?"
"Maybe." I looked up at him with hard eyes. "I'm here to tutor, Julian. I need you writing essays like a pro."
"Excellent," he said, but turned and started stalking down the hall. I followed, and soon he opened a large wooden door into a wide room. There was a floor-to-ceiling window taking up the whole of a wall, looking out onto a tree-filled garden, behind a large desk. It was the same dark wood as the door.
Shelves lined the walls on either side, full of books. I was in awe, but Julian just strode inside, grabbing the chair from the front of the desk and shoving it next to the one behind, seating them together.
He snapped me out of the daze, barking, "let's get on with it, then."
I watched him sit, coming around to join him. Too slowly, I sat, wincing at the shooting pains in my side.
I knew he was too sharp to miss it, but nothing was mentioned. End of responsibility, I reminded myself.
"So," I placed exercise books and texts in front of me. "What do you think you struggle with most? We'll start from there, and then begin to--"
"Why have you been telling people you've been mugged?"
I turned to him. "What?"
"Why didn't you tell the truth? Bleu could have been arrested by now. Hell, all of us could. Isn't that what you want?" Black curls stuck up around his head, in his eyes so you never got a clear view of them: were they black or brown? "Why do you lie?"
I shrugged. "Why does it matter?"
The curls bounced as he shook his head. "Why does what matter?"
"Why does it matter who did it?"
"I don't understand."
I sighed; of course he wouldn't. "I just want to move on, Julian," I tried to explain. "I don't want to press charges and put you and your friends in jail, even if that's what you deserve. I don't want to look at the bruises in the mirror and feel angry. I just want to deal with it, and the sooner I can accept it, the sooner I move on."
His mouth opened, closed. "And revenge isn't your way to move on?"
"No." I shook my head, smiling at the confusion on his face. "It's not. It never has been."
"How do you move on, then?"
"This isn't English."
"It's more interesting."
I remembered, suddenly, when he'd called me boring back in the library. "The way I deal with getting beaten to a pulp is more interesting than English?"
He snorted. "Yes."
"Fine," I looked at him. "First I get angry."
"Then?"
I watched him, his eager expression, the way he was leaning toward me subconsciously. "Then I look at the situation from an outsider's point of view and gain perspective, decide how I feel about it. After, I accept that it's happened and choose a way to move forward."
Julian ran a hand through his wild hair. "What stage are you now?"
"Looking from an outsider's perspective."
He pursed his lips. "So you haven't decided how you feel yet?"
"Not yet," I said eyeing him. "Can we do English now? I really don't want to get into the ins-and-outs of my brain's trauma-process."
"We don't have to."
"Yes, we do."
"I'm not bad at English."
"You don't think you're bad at anything," I said, and his lip twitched. "If that's the case, why am I here?" I adjusted my glasses, sticking into the eyebrow bruise.
He hesitated. "Fine."
"I need the money, Julian."
"What for?" He snapped suddenly. "To go out? Like last night? Look what happened then."
Anger building, I pinned him with my eyes. "No, you look at it, Julian. Look at me. This wasn't my fault. Why should I let this stop me from going out?"
The stubborn boy still didn't look at the bruises. "It's dangerous out at night."
"Don't, Julian. I'm not seven."
He was quiet for a few moments. Then he reached out, touched my bare elbow on the desk. I jumped; the same electric feeling coming as when he grabbed my knee.
My heart thumped.
"What are you doing?"
His eyes were dark and wide as he looked at me. I remembered the way they'd looked up-close, in the light of the fire, golden brown. "Get lifts places, Brooke," he said quietly. "Don't go walking around at night."
"Why not?"
"Just don't." He shook his curly head, pulling his hand away. My skin felt cold without it.
Looking away, his eyes stared out of the window. I didn't know how to grab his attention back, apart from the one question I'd been itching to ask, but was bound to get a reaction to. And probably not a good one.
Right now, though, I just wanted his eyes on me. His long fingers wrapped around my elbow.
"What did Bleu mean?"
"What?" His voice was rough, but he didn't turn.
"What was he talking about the other night?"
Julian stiffened. "What did he say?"
"You know what he said."
"What did you hear, then?"
I took a deep breath, preparing to say what had been bouncing in my head for days, cartwheeling and taunting and making no sense at all. Just as I opened my mouth, though, a hysterical giggle burst from my lips.