I’m a good AUB daughter. At least, on the outside.

“What’s wrong with you?” Jensen snorts as he plops into my passenger seat.

“We’re going to be late because of you.” I start the car and let it run for a few seconds before checking my mirrors, buckling up, and shifting into drive. He reaches for my radio, messing with the stations. “Hey. Don’t do that.”

“God, are there any decent radio stations out here?” He twists knobs until some classic rock song blares from my speakers. The singer’s screechy voice and wailing guitar hurts my ears.

“The polite thing to do would be to ask if you could turn my station.” I place my hands at ten and two after adjusting the volume using the steering wheel.

“Sometimes you have to forgo politeness when you’re trying to save somebody.”

“Save me from what?”

“From yourself. You need to loosen up. I’ve never met anyone so tightly wound.”

“What are you talking about? I’m a good person. I don’t need to be saved.” My blood boils. I can’t go to school all worked up like this.

I momentarily close my eyes when we approach the next stop sign and suck in a cleansing breath like my life depends on it. If I don’t collect my nerves, I’m going to have to kick him to the curb and make him walk the rest of the way.

“You look in the mirror and see a good girl,” he says. “I look at you, and I see someone who’s so molded and shaped she doesn’t know who the hell she’s supposed to be. You’re like one of those Stepford wives. You’re a Stepford daughter. Everything about you is too perfect. It’s fucking creepy.”

I slam on the gas and turn the radio off. “Stepford?”

“Never mind.”

He grips the handle above the passenger door as I slide into a parking spot in the back of the senior lot far away from my usual spot. Jensen climbs out and slips his bag over his shoulder. For someone heading into their first day at a new school, he doesn’t show a lick of apprehension. His eyes are a lot less swollen, his gash is virtually gone. The plastic girls are going to eat him up with his dark hair, golden eyes, and those permanently upturned corners of his smug little smile. I can practically hear them scrambling to secure dates with him before the rest of the school catches wind of what just rolled into town.

“If anyone asks, you’re a family friend.” Dad gave me instructions that morning as to how we were going to address the newest member of our family. I couldn’t exactly say Jensen was my stepbrother when my parents have been happily married for over twenty years. For all intents and purposes, we’ve led the outside world to believe Summer and Kath are neighbors and our families spend a lot of time together. There are a few other families like ours in town, but we all live in secrecy. Dad says we live in troubled times where too many of us have deviated from our original teachings, pressured by society to abandon the heart of our religious principles. It’s up to us to restore faith in the old doctrines and combine them with modern times.

“That’s pretty much what I am,” Jensen says. He turns to me, catching my stare. My cheeks redden. “You know we’re not really family, right?”

I shake my head, vehemently disagreeing with him. “Kath is one of my mothers. The twins are my siblings. So are you. We’re all family.”

“Not in the eyes of the law,” Jensen says. “I could say I’m married to you right now but it won’t mean a damn thing because it’s not legal. This is the adult version of playing house, kid. It’s all pretend.”

“Please don’t call me ‘kid.’ We’re the same age. And you’re insinuating you’re smarter than me on some level. It’s rude.” I can say things like that to him as long as my father isn’t around.

“I’m smarter than everyone.” He shrugs. “Can’t help it. Just the way your God made me.”

“That kind of talk is what gets a person in trouble.” I’d tell him to keep sweet, but that rule only applies to AUB women. Men are a little less restricted when it comes to emotions. They’re governed by a different set of rules. It’s not fair, but I’ve never been allowed to question it. Mom compares it to asking why the sky is blue. It just is; the reason doesn’t matter.

“Oh, no, the morality police is here,” he laughs. He sticks his wrists out like I should handcuff him. I grip the straps of my backpack until my knuckles whiten.

“You’re not cute,” I tell him. I sound like I’m in third grade. Jensen brings out the worst in me. He’s testing me. I need to shower him with kindness and patience, even if it’s the hardest thing I’ll ever do. He’ll lead me down a path of frustrated destruction if I don’t keep myself in check. Jensen presses buttons. He’s a button presser.

“Not everyone can be cute and sweet,” he says, implying that I am, in fact, cute and sweet. He pulls the heavy doors leading into the east entrance of Whispering Hills high and lets me go in first. Maybe he’s not a total jerk.

“Guidance counselor’s office is this way.” I point down a long hall filled with orange, red, and yellow lockers. A group of gossiping sophomore girls silence themselves the second they see us walking in their direction. A hush falls over the hallway with each step we take, like a row of tumbling dominoes. All eyes are on us—on Jensen, actually. He doesn’t look like anyone who belongs here, and truth be told, he appears older than eighteen. There’s a worldliness on his face, in the way he carries himself. He wears the confidence of a man much older than eighteen.

I’m still dying to know what happened and why he was dropped on Kath’s doorstep like an abandoned baby in a basket. Though it’s more like the clouds parted, lightning flashed, and out came Jensen Mackey like an angry clap of thunder complete with black eyes and an attitude.

We knock on Mr. Kaplan’s door as he’s finishing up his breakfast sandwich. I observe through the half window as he crumples up his wrapper and takes a couple long sips of his soda.

“Come in,” he calls.

“Mr. Kaplan,” I say. “This is Jensen Mackey. He’s new. We’re just picking up his schedule.”

“Yes, yes.” Mr. Kaplan runs a greasy hand over the top of his shiny, bald head as his other frantically lifts the various papers that litter his desk. “Jensen, Jensen, Jensen Mackey… here we go.”

He hands me the schedule and offers a smile at Jensen, his stare lingering a bit too long. Even Mr. Kaplan can sense Jensen doesn’t fit in here.

I glance over his schedule.

Ugh.

Our first and last blocks are together: Chemistry and AP English. He doesn’t look like an AP student. He doesn’t look like someone who would consider his grades or merit.

His locker number is printed on the bottom of his schedule, along with the combination. At least we’re in different hallways. I don’t think I could survive my last three weeks of senior year being joined at the hip with him all day long.

“We have to get to class,” I say, pulling on his shirtsleeve. “I’ll show you your locker later.”

He yanks the schedule from my hand. “Going to let me see what Kath signed me up for? Good. Drawing II and Mixed Media.”

We blaze into chemistry with thirty seconds to spare before the tardy bell rings. All the window seats are taken, so we settle for a table in the back row. Mrs. Davenport takes roll call, and when she gets to Jensen, she makes him stand up.

“Tell us a little about yourself,” she says with an open-mouthed smile. She shows the same kind of enthusiasm when she talks about thermite reactions because, you know, thermite reactions are super exciting. She pulls on her long necklace that holds a bedazzled charm in the shape of a beaker. “I realize we’re in the final weeks of the school year, but it’s never too late to make new friends and get to know each other.”

Jensen stands, his head leaning to one side and a hand on his hip. He rubs his eyebrows and clears his throat. He is literally too cool to give a crap about all the people staring at him. “I’m Jensen Mackey. Just moved here from Charter Springs, Arizona. Finishing my senior year.”