10 | Mango Croissants

Dreaming that I was being chased by mango croissants wasn't exactly the ideal thing to wake up from.

I had only decided that it was a hint from the universe that I should go back to the Dales' bright and early to make up for my mistake yesterday, assuming I wasn't already fired. That led me to spend only three minutes in the shower (belting out only one song over the raging water), putting on decent clothes in a rush (almost had my shirt inside out there) and taking soft steps to the kitchen to grab a bite and at the same time not to wake Mom up (she was watching last night, while I ate as I sobbed). After finishing up last night's leftovers and throwing the dishes at the sink, I went out to the blue chilly city.

It was dawn. So early. This might be a mistake. Instead of lacking food, I could be sleep-deprived instead. I was surprised I wasn't nodding off.

Last night was absolute torture. Mom did cook me up a humongous dinner which was all ready on the table after I broke down on the floor, curling up in fetal position and rolling all over. However, most of the food was drenched in tears before it could even touch my lips. Nonetheless, I ate to my heart's and stomach's content. Mom was there to both sermon and to cheer me on.

That wasn't over though. After eating, I had dragged my poor body upstairs and sat myself in front of my desk. My homework was far from done and so that added up to hours of crying, staring aimlessly at the papers, notebooks and screens and having every answer a shot in the dark. Then, I slept and dreamt about a certain French delicacy running after me all around the Dales' mansion.

I had caught the early bus and I had stared hopelessly at the front of the Dales' house gates, rethinking my decision over and over again. It was then that I had realized how ridiculous this idea was. Who was even awake at this time of the morning to let me inside? How could I even get in? I would look like a lost little girl if I waited just outside the house, hoping for someone to open the gates. A pathetic lost little girl who had packs and packs of chocolate bars and soda cans inside her backpack.

Anyway, I had lacked time to overanalyze and be anxious about going to work this early because the gates had creaked open, giving me a way to step inside. I didn't know if I should be relieved or scared. This meant one of them – or more – was already up and I crossed my fingers behind my back, wishing it was Brennan Dale. He was probably still wondering what had happened to me last night.

As usual, wish not granted.

Jackson stood watching, leaning against the side of the door with his arms crossed. It almost took me aback to see him already freshly bathed, wearing the slacks of his uniform but a white shirt for his top. Was this his daily routine? Or did he have secret mind powers that predicted I was coming?

As soon as I realized I was staring, I averted my eyes and continued my way inside. He closed the door behind us and followed closely. The words he said yesterday circled and echoed in my head. I decided to keep my mouth shut and my presence away from him for the meantime, because one wrong move from him or me, chaos was going to peek from the depths of hell. Ignore, ignore, ignore, Ollie, I told myself, like you always do. That mantra certainly didn't help when I glanced at him through my peripherals to see him wearing an unreadable mask.

What are you onto now, Jackson?

Neither of us said a word when we arrived in the kitchen. Instead of hurrying up the stairs and disappearing from my sight, he stayed in the kitchen. Jackson hopped on a stool and looked down at the notebooks and papers piled in front of him. He took a pen and started writing away. Meanwhile, I stood there with a dumbfounded expression, still clutching onto my bag. Two thoughts ran in my mind.

First was that seeing him like that reminded me of Walter yesterday. It was now clear that he took after his father. Only this scene was less glum and disheveled. Second thought was, what was he doing early in the morning, with all these papers in the kitchen?

I was staring again. Jackson looked up and one eyebrow rose. I shook my head slightly and looked away. If he wasn't saying anything after the whole burst-out last night, then so be it. I shook off my bag and set it down at the foot of the fridge, away from Jackson's stealthy grasp. Then, I set to work and explored every cupboard and every nook of the refrigerator for ingredients to make the perfect apology breakfast.

As I took out the tools and food, I felt Jackson's burning gaze behind my back. No, he wasn't actually looking, when I took sneaky peeks at him but his presence was just suffocating me. Like he could ruin my life with just a snap of his fingers – I bet he could. The kitchen was silent but the silence was loud that it made me in every sense, uncomfortable.

Finally, I snapped.

"Why are you up so early?" I asked, with my back still turned to him. I heard a little shifting.

He took a while to reply, "Studying."

Was this guy serious? I had crammed a week's worth of homework last night and here he was, on the other hand, studying early in the morning. As if he didn't have that magnetic pull that permanently glued a person's heart to his or her bed. As if he had supernatural eyelids and the immunity to the lack of sleep. The whole world would encounter an apocalypse before I became that hardworking.

"Studying?" I repeated incredulously, "Are you real? Or am I still dreaming and that mango croissant is still out there somewhere?" I glanced around real quick.

Don't ask why I knew that croissant's filling flavor.

"What?"

Okay, maybe I wasn't dreaming. But just in case, I bit on my forearm to make sure.

"Why are you biting your arm?"

"Nothing." I quickly put it down. "Never mind that. But really, Jackson, studying?" I took that moment to be brave and to turn around. He was looking down at the notebooks and fiddling with the pen.

"Yeah," he replied nonchalantly, "What's so wrong about that?"

"Nothing at all," I bit my lip, briefly recalling Mitch's accusation of me studying, "But I might have to rub myself on you to catch that disease." Then I added hastily, "Rub in most non-sexual way, of course." Oh my cakes, why was my mouth running like a waterfall? It would've been comfortable to say that if he hadn't insulted me to the point of breaking down yesterday.

Jackson laughed a deep sound that came with a snort. I had heard Brennan let out the same sound once before. Hearing it from Jackson, that laugh became one of the most attractive and most disgusting sounds that had tickled my ears. But soon after he finished, his words before sounded in my mind again. Had he forgotten what had happened yesterday? Or was this even the same Jackson?

I gazed at him warily as he continued his work with a smile plastered on his face. Maybe if I acted just as casually, we could go on with life normally. I turned back and continued cooking, aware that Jackson was still a danger alert.

"Brennan," I cleared my throat, "Is he – uh – "

"Awake? No not yet," he answered, amusement lacing his tone, "He raided the kitchen last night for cereal. He finished half a box before he passed out on his dresser. Believe me; I had to drag him to his bed." So there was enough action around here even without me.

"Wait," I tensed all over, "Why was he still hungry?"

"Dessert, he said. "Cereal for dessert."

"But I made him a strawberry smoothie . . ." Oh no. Did I screw that up, too? Swapped the sugar with salt? It looked like I owed Brennan an apology, too. He had looked so concerned about me before I had left.

"The smoothie was fine, sweets," Jackson assured, "He said it wasn't enough for him, though. He needed more sweet food."

"So dinner wasn't sweet enough?" I snorted.

He laughed again in response. My shoulders sagged as I allowed myself to become more comfortable. Why didn't we have this kind of conversation before? I liked Jackson more when he wasn't threatening, taunting or teasing me. He was more tolerable. And if he kept this up, I would have to prefer him over Brennan.

"I'm sorry about dinner last night, Jackson, I'm so sorry," I explained in a low voice, "I didn't eat well yesterday so I got a headache and messed things up. I'm really sorry – I get whatever I do wrong whenever I'm really hungry."

"It's okay," his voice softened.

"I won't be surprised if they fire me – "

"They won't fire you."

I blinked several times, again, doubting if this was reality. I brought my arm up to my lips and bit, hard, and then I yelped. Putting my arm down, I narrowed my eyes at the red mark. "You're not dreaming, Ollie," said Jackson, "And if you don't stop eating your arm away, I'll be forced to feed you myself."

I chewed on my lip instead.

The days have transitioned into cold yesterday, and warm and toasty today. What had happened with Jackson?

"My favorite girl has arrived!" The voice came from the top of the stairs. Brennan. His footsteps thumped against the steps as he came down. He ran to me and suddenly slipped on his long pajama pants, tumbling on his butt. I tilted my head at his Disney-themed sleepwear that looked three times his size.

"Don't look at me like that!" he pointed a finger at me, "Jackson was the one who dressed me!"

Jackson scowled at him, "Liar. You like wearing Dad's old clothes." My eyes shifted towards him. What if he shifted to the other moody Jackson whenever Brennan was around and being annoying? I liked our calming peace before the immature one showed up.

Jackson met my eyes, his own soft and calm.

"Whatever," Brennan stood up, waving me off. He managed to slide his way towards me without any more tripping. Instead of a wide grin, his eyebrows knitted together as he leaned beside me against the counter.

"Are you okay?" He asked, "What happened?"

I hated it when he was a sweetheart sometimes.

"Just some food issues," I said softly, "I didn't get to eat that much yesterday, sorry. I heard you had a cereal-fest last night."

A smile tugged at his face, "It was awesome." He touched my arm lightly, "Just don't starve yourself again, okay? I need someone to cook food for me."

I replicated his grin, "I wouldn't dream of it."

Jackson cleared his throat behind us and stood up. "I'm going to get ready," he announced in a low voice and jogged up to the stairs. I turned back to Brennan, who had a smug look on his face, looking to where his brother disappeared.

"What is up with him?" I hissed at Brennan. "He's so confusing."

"I know," he faced me again, "Don't mind him and continue cooking, peasant." He tapped my forehead lightly a few times. My eyes shot skyward and continued cutting some vegetables and meat.

"Seriously, though," I told him, "Is he serious with waking up early? Is there something wrong with his brain?"

"Oh, his brain's perfect, so you know. That's just his habit that keeps him up at school. I told you he's one of a kind. Actually cares about the horrible system we call 'education'." I didn't know how he put up with that. I almost wanted to share the pain.

"He treated me so nicely when he let me in," I poured out my suspicions, "Did you know what he said to me yesterday?"

"I already heard his and Mom's fight. I know enough."

I began to ram the knife into the cutting board furiously to impale the poor dead chicken. "How come he's like that? How come he's so angry at me?" What did I ever do wrong to him?

"You should know by now that Jackson takes time to warm up to people," Brennan put it into words calmly, "He's confused with his emotions so that gets him to test out different ones. In his life, he'll know soon where to place you so you just have to wait." Yes, he will place me at the aim of a gun, probably.

"What do I do now, then?" I blew out a breath, "What if he . . . finds out?"

"We'll do what we can if he does that." He added after a pause, "Doesn't your Dad back you up in these kinds of things?"

My shoulders sagged a little more. One chop. Two chops. Three chops. "I don't know about him anymore," I said to him in a whisper, "I don't even know if he's going to help me out in this."

Brennan took the time to be quiet, as if mulling over the topic. "I can't play at this game Grant's playing, Ollie. I could only help out as much."

"How co –"

But I cut myself off with a sharp shriek. Slowly and carefully, I dropped the knife I was holding and put the other hand's finger up to my face. There, trickling from my middle finger was blood. I couldn't even register the sting as I only stared at it.

What just happened . . . ?

"Whoa," Brennan's hand flew in front of his eyes to shield himself, "A little squeamish here."

I turned my head towards him, glaring. My finger still hung midair. "You sick person, do you even know what girls go through every month?" I said menacingly.

"They become werewolves?"

I stared at him blankly.

He chuckled. "I'm not stupid –" I begged to differ. "– I know about the female reproductive system, thank you."

"Then you could probably stomach this – "

"No, not really," said he, "Glad I don't have uterus." Oh, but he did have an ultra-sensitive pair of nuts I would love to kick.

Silence.

"You should probably put a band-aid on that."

I held my wrist tight, letting the blood fall down on the sink. I would know better than to taint their breakfast chicken with my fluid. It still bled, and I still watched. "You think?" I said to Brennan softly.

"I think there might be some around here," he moved over to rummage through the cupboards for the first-aid kit. I noticed he still refused to look at my bloody finger. What a man. I could probably raise this finger up to his face.

"Here it is," he returned and held out a piece of band-aid that had a cartoon drawing on it. I kept my mouth shut as he peeled it and began to put it on.

"Wait," he stopped short suddenly, a millimeter away from the cut, "I have to put tape on this."

"Tape?"

"Yeah, so it can stick on your skin, right?"

"Do you even know how a band-aid works? How to put it on?" I asked.

He looked down on the ground and dropped the band-aid on the counter. His lips pursed as if he had just failed me (and indeed he had). "I'm sorry," he said.

"Haven't you put on one yourself?"

"Mom or Paul put it on for me whenever I have cuts – "

"Who's Paul?"

"My manager."

If my other hand had been fine, I would have slapped myself on the face. I groaned and continued to glue my eyes on the finger. It stung less now, but it was affecting me in ways I couldn't imagine. I couldn't get myself to treat it.

"What happened?" Jackson's voice came from the stairs. Brennan scurried away and pretended to busy himself on the kitchen table to escape. I only glared at him.

Jackson went over to my spot and examined the cut for himself. He held my hand and turned and touched it. "What did Brennan do, sweets?" So he always suspects Brennan when trouble came knocking.

"Nothing," I said, "It was me. I cut myself." I almost choked on the words I never thought of saying myself. I turned my gaze towards the chicken, knife, and the chopping board that started it all.

Jackson sighed. He held the cut below the faucet and let the running water wash away the blood. He swiftly took another band-aid from the cupboard. "Why did it take long for you to treat it? Ever thought of that?"

"You don't understand what this cut's doing to me!" I exclaimed suddenly as he carefully put the band-aid on. "I never cut myself in the kitchen – never! In my thirteen years of being a cook and baker, I've never had an accident with myself. This is my first."

"It's alright," he said soothingly, putting down my hand gently. It was suddenly cold. "First time for everything."

"No," I put that hand far from me, "I don't want to look at it." I knew when I came home and explained the colorful kiddy band-aid on my finger, Mom would laugh at me. Never in her years as a cook did she have an accident but now, her daughter, just had one. It was shameful.

"My finger has betrayed me," I mumbled.

"You were distracted, weren't you?" Jackson looked at me. "Thinking about something?" It wasn't suspicious tone, though. It was gentle and it was driving me crazy, wondering if this was really Jackson Dale.

"Why did you treat my finger?" I asked bluntly.

"Sweets, it doesn't mean that I acted that way about you yesterday, it doesn't mean I'm going to completely shut you out. You needed help and that cut could've been infected."

I sighed, tired of thinking.

I guessed it would be hard to cook with one hand now.

But before I continued cooking, I turned towards Brennan, who had his back turned to me. I raised three fingers side by side, the pointer, ring and middle (which was the one previously injured) and held it out to him. "Read between the lines," I whispered threateningly.

Jackson fell into chuckles beside me.

♫ ♫ ♫

Breakfast was fairly alright. The chicken fillet tasted gorgeous and the sauce was perfection. And those were Walter's words, not mine. It turned out that he questioned my cooking last night, but it was Maira who convinced him to give me another chance because I was having a rough day. Fortunately, he liked the legit meal I cooked up so that was one thing off my worry list.

Brennan wanted to drive us to school again – I certainly didn't – but he had this morning talk show (along with Montana) that he had to rush to so he had to leave right after eating. He had bid me with a goodbye and an apology for the finger incident before he had dashed off.

And that left Jackson to drive me. At first I insisted to take the bus instead but the jackass himself convinced me to ride with him. I hesitantly agreed, but I was starting to have thoughts about him stabbing me in a dark alley and sending my remains to Sweet Moments. I was gory like that, but that was the kind of thing I half-expected from Jackson.

I hopped into the backseat of his car, which was too beautiful to exist (it had white tires! White!) and I positioned myself near the window farthest from the driver's seat. Apparently Mitch predicted that I caught another ride with the Dales so she had bombarded me with texts asking for pictures of their hot cars so she knew what to choose for her next. I sent her pictures of the floor, with my dirty sneakers on the lovely view.

"Does your finger still hurt?" Jackson asked all of a sudden. My head snapped up in a blur that I almost cracked my neck. He was still possessed by the niceness bug, it seemed. That or he was being cunning and wanted to get close to me – to slash me open and spill my secrets.

"It's okay," I murmured. As if by reflex, I inched that hand farther from myself as I eyed my middle finger. "It'll survive."

Was it a trick of my eyes or did I see him smile? Smile really genuinely?

I blinked rapidly, several times. He was still smiling. Oh, cakes.

"Is it true?" he tried to make small talk as he drove. It was making me uncomfortable a human was talking to me. And it was Jackson Dale. "Are Clevemore and Acewell really rivals?"

After a long troubling patch of silence, I answered, "I don't know about that that much." Mitch relayed news every now and then about steaming competitions and fights, but besides those, nothing. "Some say it's just petty. Others are more focused on rumors about Acewell-Clevemore couples who sneak around. And the main rivalries involved sports."

"But you . . . how do you feel about those?"

Was this even relevant?

"I don't know and I don't care," I shook my head, "These fights are stupid and I don't want to be a part of them. Clevemore people stereotype Acewell and rich, stuck-up and bratty – and honestly, I do too – and Acewell people see Clevemore as low poor beings. It's sick."

"You haven't heard of all the fights?" I asked him. At Clevemore, you weren't a real student if you didn't know of the enemy school.

"I stay low-key all the time," Jackson said, "Away from the drama. I'm trying to focus on my studies." Of course.

"How can you do that? Aren't you Brennan – man boobs – Dale's brother?"

"Yes, and my schoolmates are sons and daughters of great CEOs and business tycoons – the biggest names of any industry. They couldn't care less," he chuckled as if the fact was a huge advantage for him, "But if Brennan arrives, that's a whole other story."

Unlike Jackson, Brennan hadn't gone to Acewell, and definitely not Clevemore. He was homeschooled as soon as he hit jackpot in the Hollywood career ladder so as not to be pestered when he was learning. Brennan told me this himself, saying he had this strict teacher who never let him slack off. It changed my views on homeschooling.

"Okay," I said to Jackson as we went past his school to get to mine, "What is really wrong with you Jackson? Why are you acting like this?"

He met my eyes through the mirror. "Why, sweets? Would you rather I go back to my man-period? Because I'd gladly give you the cold shoulder."

My eyebrows arched. "I like you like this. But it's weird. It's creeping me out. What about yesterday?"

"Yesterday?" he hummed, "We'll talk about this later." It sent Goosebumps rising on my skin. I heaved in a breath. Later? Was he planning to kill me later, this afternoon?

"Please make my death quick and painless," I mumbled.

A grin popped on his lips, "You think I'm going to kill you?"

"There is emotional murder, besides physical, Jackson Dale."

He laughed lightly. He thought it was a joke? "We're here, sweets. Hop off." I looked out to see that we had stopped a bit near Clevemore, like I had told Brennan yesterday.

How . . . considerate.

"Thanks," I cleared my throat. Then I turned back to him, the dangerous feeling still crawling in my stomach. "Aren't you going to be late?"

He leaned closer to get near the window, "It's worth it, anyway." He put his hand on top of my head, smiled then sped off.

I'd rather go back to those mango croissants now.

    ♫ ♫ ♫