5 | Chocolate Gold Coins

"Are those black eyes?"

Mitch leaned towards me to get a closer look. She was holding her books in her arms, to her chest and her eyes were narrowed. She had her hair down today and wore one of her many ribbon headbands, which came from her collection. Meanwhile, I was leaning on my locker, looking like I would be signing up for a Walking Dead audition.

"No, they're –" I cut myself off with a yawn. I seriously needed coffee. But we ran out at home and I knew getting coffee pops or a coffee smoothie from the shop can make me extra hyperactive because of the caffeine and sugar.

Thanks, but no thanks. I'd rather look like a zombie rather than zipping around like Sonic.

"Eye bags," I continued hoarsely. Guess I'll catch some z's in Math class.

Mitch put the back of her hand on my forehead, "You sure you're not sick? Diseased? Suffering from cancer?"

I swatted her hand away but mustered a smile, "I'm all good, Mitch. I won't get sick because of a little lack of sleep."

She rolled her eyes, "I was talking about you studying. When do you ever stay late to study? Finals are still far, you know."

I groaned, "When I thought you finally cared for me . . ."

"I have no time for your speeches. I better go before I catch your studying disease," She started scurrying off, but I held her elbow.

She screamed and flapped her other limbs wildly, "Help! It got me!" That earned a few stares from the students walking by in the hallway.

"God, would you shut up!" I held her back with a tight grip and put a hand on her mouth.

Despite my tiredness, I dragged her to a corner where there were less people. She was lucky – and so were other people who'll be trying to get in my way today – because when I get tired and sleepy, I don't get cranky like others. Just tired. And extra lazy.

Mitch was biting and licking on my hand to get it off. I released it and wiped it on my colored pants. "I know you love my hand, dear, but you can make out with it later," I told Mitch.

"Funny," she murmured, "What was that all about?"

"I need to get this out or you'll scold me for not telling you even if you were insisting I had a 'studying disease'."

She made a gesture saying, "Go on."

"I wasn't studying last night," I crossed my arms as I heard I sigh of relief from her. Then, I told her about the contract and my answer to Mom, who told me she'll relay the message to Dad right away. I had decided to tell Mitch today instead of yesterday because I was too busy having inner battles with myself. Last night, I spent hours going over the contract word per word – I really read it. Seriously.

I made sure that every bone in my body was positive that there were no loopholes or catches in the agreement. Nothing that can make Dad come up with another way. Sure, I also searched for loopholes for my advantage, but the contract was made flawlessly. Besides reading, I had also laid on my bed, thinking if I'd made the right decision or not.

"Oh my," Mitch said breathlessly when I finished, "No way."

"It's crazy," I agreed.

"You're going to be under the same roof with Brennan Dale!"

I stared at her, "Huh?"

"You're so lucky, you girl dog, you get to stay in the same house as Brennan and the Dales, too oh! Do you think you can ask him to sign my poster? Please! I need for my signed-by-celebrities-posters collection."

Oh, so now she's fangirling over him.

Don't get me wrong. Mitch knows about my broken family, Montana, Dad and Brennan. It's just that I never let her see or mingle with them because I don't want her to get mixed up in the trouble. And Brennan will be a bad influence on her. Tsk tsk. Very bad.

I only trusted her, my one best friend, with my family secrets (besides a particular immature college boy). I went to school as Oliver Ridge, as in my mother's surname, and not Reynolds. I didn't want people befriending me to just take advantage from that. They'd think they'd be famous too if they hung out with me.

Good thing, I knew Mitch was completely loyal to me.

But that didn't stop her from admiring Hollywood's Duke, Brennan-egomaniac-Dale. If she'd known him as long as I do, then she'd probably have second thoughts about it.

"I don't even know when I'll start," I told her, "So please be quiet. And if I were you I wouldn't want that autograph so much. I'd even burn down that poster."

Mitch gasped, "Hey, just because he ran over your sandwiches, doesn't mean you have to hate him. Plus, he saved you from being stranded! Think of that!"

"That's not the only reason I half-hate him." I said, "Better save your Brennan posters, t-shirts and bubbleheads, because I'm definitely not getting you an autograph."

"For the record, there are no Brennan bubbleheads," she paused for a moment, "But I want one."

She pouted at me, "Why can't you, anyway? You'd probably see him every day. He leaves at around seven in the morning and gets home by six. Tell me what's the definition of "lucky" if it isn't that."

"How do you know when he leaves his house and gets home?" I arched an eyebrow at her. Suspicious.

"I so do not stalk his Facebook," she answered defensively.

I sighed, "And to answer your question, Brennan would just bug me about it, saying I'd finally 'came to my senses' and admired him. If I tell him about you, he'd insist on seeing you."

"I don't see what's so wrong with that," Mitch had a dreamy look in her eyes.

"Listen up, Morgan. I know Brennan, and you don't. If you did, let's just say you wish you hadn't. Brennan only cares for himself. He stands in front of the mirror naked, because he's turned on by himself."

"Does he?" her eyes lit up.

"No," I burst her bubble, "But basically, Brennan's conceited and so full of himself. I was just trying to make my point clear."

"I'll get him, soon." Mitch licked her lips, "My delicious Brennan."

Yuck.

"Whatever. I'm heading to class," I told her as I started walking down the hall.

"Your first period's the other way!" she called out to me. I didn't say anything back, yawned and turned to the opposite direction before the bell can ring.

I thought I was holding up pretty well in my classes for a sleep-deprived teenage girl – well, sort of.

Wait, hold on. What's that cold thing on my mouth?

"Miss Ridge!" My head instantly shot up as I snorted in an unladylike manner. Turned out I fell asleep on my desk and that cold liquid dribbling down my cheek was drool. The rest of the class was staring at me in amusement. I resisted the urge to give them the finger.

"Good morning," I yawned sleepily, stretching out my arms. "Chill, I know the stuff. Multiply, subtract then divide by – "

"Miss Ridge, this is Biology, not Math," my teacher looked at me disapprovingly. I merely shrugged as the others laughed. I never cared about getting detention because of pissing off teachers. As long as I got decent grades, I was cool.

"If you're going to sleep, better not do it in my class." He pointed out the door. I blinked several times and got my bag and books then headed out. "I'll let you off with a warning," he said, "But next time, you're getting detention."

I nodded silently and continued down the hall to get to my locker. Lunch was only minutes away, so better put the time to good use. Thankfully, I hadn't gotten detention. I didn't want any more sandwiches to be brutally killed, after all.

When I reached my locker, I jammed the books inside. Beside the set of lockers was a little nook. I smiled to myself proudly. Perfect.

I leaned my bag against it to use it as a pillow and settled down to catch some more sleep. Screw the other people. Mitch would find me and hopefully drag my body to the cafeteria. And maybe shovel food down my throat if I didn't wake up.

Before I knew it, I was snoring.

♫ ♫ ♫

One thing that's good about this public school is that the lunch they served wasn't some green mushy liquid classified as "soup" or ketchup and mayo forced into a bun classified as a "hamburger". They were okay food, but not really my Mom's cooking.

I was munching furiously on a hotdog in front of Mitch – picture it as me downing this food in three bites. Mitch was observing me skeptically as she stabbed her salad lightly. "Slow down, you'll puke."

"Puke isn't in my dictionary unless I'm hungover or sick." I said after I swallowed it down.

"Why are you even eating a bit faster than you usually do?" she held her index finger and thumb a little apart to emphasize that "bit".

"They said if you don't get enough sleep, you need to eat a lot to restore the energy," I glanced down at another hotdog on my tray, some fries and a juice box. Yep, it's not enough to restore the energy, but I'll take it instead of falling asleep in class.

Mitch got out her handkerchief and dabbed the corner of her lips, "I would eat with good manners, if I were you. Not like a starving animal."

I made a face and paused my eating, "Stop being all poise and proper. You finish a pint of Ben and Jerry's as fast as I do."

She chuckled and continued eating her salad. Soon, I was done with my hotdogs and now turning to my fries, hoping they haven't got all soft and soggy.

"So," she smiled mischievously, "About your new job . . ."

"Not now," I held up a finger, "The others could be listening." I glanced around at the busy cafeteria. We didn't have tables that looked like plastic picnic tables, just circular tables and a couple chairs for each one. I almost felt sorry for the larger lunch groups who had to put two or three round tables together.

"They're probably listening to some gossip," she pointed her fork at me, "I want to talk about . . . you know what."

One fry. Two fries. Three fries. Four fries.

"What did your Dad offer you again?"

"Bridgeshade, extra money and a record deal." I recited monotonously, like a memorized poem. The summary of the deal should be stamped on my brain by now, considering I had read the contract over and over again.

"I don't even see what's so bad about it! You get rewards from Mr. Reynolds, and you get to stay at the Dales'."

I put on a face of disgust. "You don't understand. What if I get caught? Unless I get plastic surgery and change my name, then there's a ninety nine point nine percent they'll know my intentions."

"Look at you, Ollie, all worried about things," she cooed, "And I thought you were a risk taker."

"You're saying that because you're not in my shoes –" I said, munching on a fry but she cut me off.

"If you'd wear anything else apart from those gray Chuck Taylors, I'd probably consider that."

I rolled my eyes and continued, "And like I'd survive a day with . . . him." Seriously. What if Mr. and Mrs. Dale planned to leave me all alone with Brennan? He may be my almost big brother, but like all big brothers, there's something about him I hate, too. And like Mitch said, he comes home at six. Personally, I knew he took frequent day-offs, too.

"I have a li-ttle feeling you're talking about Brennan," said Mitch.

"Who else? Their dog, Bobo?"

Her face lit up, "They have a dog?"

I snapped my fingers in front of her face, "No, they don't. I don't really know. But that's not my point! How can I possibly stay in the same room as Brennan for more than an hour? It's going to be longer than our dinners go."

"You're right," she nodded, "You'd probably faint from his gorgeousness once you see him."

That was not what I meant!

I groaned, "We're never on the same side, are we?"

"Ollie, keep your cool," Mitch put her hands up, as if to calm me. Right, as if I'm a wild animal that escaped from its cage. "You look like you're going to launch that fry to my nostril."

I look at the poor fry I'm pinching with my fingers. Mentally saying sorry to it, I popped it into my mouth and grabbed another one.

What can I say? I get bored easily with one fry.

"I'd gladly trade places with you," I told her.

Her eyes brightened, "Really?"

I thought for a moment. Actually, only a second. "On second thought," I said to Mitch, "You and Brennan don't mix well."

"Have thou no concern for thy best friend?" she pouted.

"Exactly," I told her pointedly, "I'm looking out for you because a daily dose of Brennan Dale definitely isn't good for you."

I managed to avoid getting detentions for the rest of the day. So when the bell rang for the end of last period, I was finally a free woman. I told Mitch to step on it, because I wanted to head to the shop before she rushes to her grandma for an "emergency".

I had my feet up the dashboard – much to Mitch's chagrin – while listening to one of her CDs, Adele's Chasing Pavements.

"You can't fool me, Mitch," I stared at her while she drove, eyes on the road.

"What?" she asked innocently.

"You're playing these sad songs because you're still disappointed about what I told you about Brennan."

She scoffed, "No, 'course not."

"I know you from cover to cover, Morgan," I winked at her.

"We're here," she announced as we pulled up in front of the shop. I got out with my bag then slammed the door shut.

"Are you coming in with me?" I cocked an eyebrow at her. "We can go get ice pops."

She shook her head, "I don't think there are any new flavors. Tell me when there is. But you have to tell me if Raq says anything about your new job."

"Will do." I mock saluted her and then she drove away.

Before my hand could even touch the handle of the door, Mom burst outside, her bun in a mess and a spatula in one hand. She looked like she was in the middle of cooking but stopped when she saw me get off the car.

"You need to go now," she told me bluntly.

"Go . . . now? Where?" I asked her, confused. Did the smell of sweets get into her head or something?

She pushed me away from the shop and into the sidewalk, "I already called your father last night. He didn't get to reply. I only got a call a while before you arrived, saying you need to go now."

"But – but now?" I repeated incredulously. He can't be making me go to work right away.

"You need to make snacks and dinner, he said. They're expecting you today. Your father already took care of the application and everything," Mom nodded vigorously, "I'm sorry Oliver, but you need to rush."

"But what about the shop? The ice cream station?"

She waved me off, "It'll do fine."

"My bag? And my clothes?" I looked down at my outfit. I had hastily thrown on a random striped tee and Capri pants this morning. It should be good enough for first day of work as a cook, right? Or maybe they have uniforms . . .

"Oliver, you need to go now." Mom hissed, "I'll go back inside. The shop's busy. See you later tonight." Then, she was gone.

What, no goodbye hug or kiss?

I couldn't believe this is happening so suddenly. It was not every day your mother wildly runs out of your house, insisting you have to cook for a rich family at that moment. Then she leaves you to attend to her work. I kept myself from groaning and ditching instead.

I carried my heavy bag and walked a few steps to hail a taxi. I knew the Dale mansion wasn't that far from here, but I've never actually been inside it, even with my friendship with Brennan. Dad doesn't particularly like Mom and I mingling with other Dales besides Brennan.

I got into the taxi, thankful that I still have some money. The thing was, I didn't know what to expect. It was like they handed me a pencil and a question sheet and told me to answer everything perfectly when I don't even know what it's all about. I haven't even worked anywhere except in the shop.

New things never hurt, right?

About ten minutes later, I arrived at the mansion. After handing the driver some bills, I walked in front of the place. It was huge and definitely stood out in the skyscraper-infested streets of L.A. There was a gate and barriers surrounding the mansion – something I'm not used to. All my life, I lived in a building on top of a shop or else an apartment when I was younger. Dad, Harmony and Montana all lived in a condominium near Reynold Records.

It was clearly a whole family living in here together. Unlike mine.

I sighed and rang the doorbell I spotted near the gate. The gate opened, welcoming me inside.

Although I felt new to a larger home, I didn't bat an eyelash when I saw the grand pavement leading to the front steps, surrounded with a lush garden. I was born into riches – I was used to seeing expensive things owned by rich people.

But I felt like an oddball. Like a lost hobo looking for directions from this mansion.

There were two brass knockers on the front doors – two, you read that right. I knocked one of them but no one answered. I tried the door. If that person who let me in the gates knew I was supposed to be there, then I should come inside.

I didn't even know if there was single person inside. For all I knew, the gates were automatic and can detect criminals.

I let myself inside. It wasn't that rude, right? I've never actually met the rest of the Dales. But judging by Brennan's conceited ways, they could be classy elegant perfectionists.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

The mansion looked empty, but the lights were on. I shut the door quietly behind me.

"Hello?" I called out warily. Such an idiot move, Ollie.

Something shiny caught my eye (or shinier than the other things around here) when I faced the wall beside me, which contained some sort of a dresser with a mirror on it. Curious, I went over to it. There was something perched on the wooden dresser.

It was a note:

To the new cook, Oliver

I'm sorry we couldn't welcome your properly on your first day because my husband and I have to rush to a social gathering with his business partners. The boys should show you around and give you anything you need. You can ask them what snacks they like. I'll be sure to get home before dinner

Maira Dale

P.S. Please take the little welcome treat beside this note.

I blinked. Maira Dale doesn't sound so formal at all. I think I'm getting wrong assumptions of the Dale family. I looked at the "treat" she mentioned. It was that something shiny I saw earlier.

I held up the treat. "A chocolate gold coin?" I said to no one in particular. According to the label, it was imported.

My stomach rumbled and I quickly unwrapped it. Anything chocolate is good enough for me.

I licked – or sucked, more like – my fingers after eating the whole thing and I tucked the foil inside my pocket.

I suddenly remembered the note. She said, "The boys". Then that means . . .

Brennan.

You know what to do with that big fat butt

"What the hell?" I whispered to myself as the song came blasting from another room. And the music was loud.

Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle

I took a deep breath, adjusted my backpack strap on my shoulder and walked to where the music came from.

I found out it was from the kitchen. I was mesmerized by it at first. The living room looked old and antique, but at the same time grand but the kitchen was modern and sleek. All I saw was black and white. Dark marble counter, white cupboards, white tiled floor, a black stove, black and white fridge.

Boy, the Dales had taste on kitchens.

The only thing damaging its beauty was the sight to hurt my eyes on the countertop. A familiar boy was dancing along Jason Derulo's Wiggle. He had his back turned to me but I could see that his eyes were shut as he danced. The loud music was coming from the speakers.

And really. Brennan was wiggling his bum.

I didn't know whether to roll on the floor, laughing or to ram my head on my palm repeatedly.

He suddenly saw me and stopped dancing – not because of embarrassment, but confusion. Brennan hopped off the counter and turned off the music.

"Missed me?" he asked, smirking.

"No," I deadpanned and made my way to their huge fridge, "But I love your kitchen." I hugged it. You and I are going to spend some time, fridge.

"For real now," he said and turned to me, "What are you doing here?"

"I thought your mother may have mentioned a new cook?"

"You're the new cook?" his eyebrows shot up, "No way. I thought it would be some fat Italian guy named Gustav."

"Don't stereotype," I hopped on one of the stools by the counter and wiggled my butt (no pun intended) to move it around and around.

"This is awesome!" he exclaimed, "I get to eat Oliver food. You're going to be the best cook ever!"

What a child.

"Shouldn't you be at work right now?" I asked, crossing my arms.

"Shouldn't you be at the shop working right now?" he mocked.

"This," I gestured around us, "Is going to be my new job. Mom doesn't pay well, so I decided to get a new one. In my area of expertise."

I think I'm pretty convincing. That's what I do. Lie smoothly.

"Isn't eating your area of expertise?" he asked. I answered him with a glare.

"Isn't your Dad going to be mad you're working here?"

Totally. Because he's not the one who made me sign a contract to work here.

I snorted, "Who cares about him? He can't control my life."

"What about you?" I asked, "And your new song?"

"I got out early," he leaned on the counter, his elbows resting on the top, and faced me. "There's not much to do because it's almost done."

"Congrats." I mumbled.

I heard an earthquake.

Oh wait, it was just Brennan's stomach.

He pointed to his stomach and rubbed it, "Me hungry."

I hopped out of the stool, "That reminds me. Your mom wrote in the note to ask you what snack you'd want."

"Pancakes and milk!" he yelled out.

Was he serious? "You want pancakes and milk? Last time I checked, kid, it's afternoon not seven a.m."

"Now, now, servant. You shall not question the requests of your master." He moved his finger up and down, as if lecturing me.

"You know, it doesn't mean I'm going to be a cook here, you have the right to be all superior and boss me around."

He pouted, "Hey, it's fun! You're the only one who works around here so I get to – "

But he was cut off in the middle of his sentence because someone strolled in. He raised an eyebrow at me and Brennan. "Cheat on Montana?"

Brennan's eyebrows rose, "Nice to grace us with your presence."

"You're welcome."

I put on an impassive face, "Who's this?"

Brennan turned his attention back to me, "Oliver, meet my little bro, Jackson. Jackson, our new cook."

Jackson narrowed his eyes at me, as if scrutinizing every detail. His nose and cheeks were the same as Brennan's, but he had deep brown eyes, a darker shade of brown hair than his brother (that it was almost black), tanned skin and a sharper jaw structure. I knew from Brennan that he was eighteen, as old as me, and we were both seniors.

I've never met or seen Jackson Dale until now, and I could already tell he wasn't any better than Brennan.

He tore his gaze from me, "Oliver's . . . a girl?"

Trust me, man, this isn't the first time someone had said that to me.

"Yes," I replied brusquely. Jackson went to the fridge – pushing me aside roughly on the way – and pulled out a carton of OJ. The lazybutt didn't even get a glass; he drank straight from the carton.

"Blech," Brennan scrunched up his face in disgust. I could see orange drops dribbling down Jackson's chin and then down his neck.

As if you don't do the same thing, I wanted to say to Brennan.

"He's a douche, Ollie," Brennan told me, "You better stay away from him."

I was planning to.

"Look who's talking," Jackson's finished drinking and put the carton back, "Prissy bastard. You're probably screwing her when she barely even said a word to you."

"I think that's more of your forte," Brennan snapped back.

If they start a food fight, I'm going to laugh at Brennan's face.

I put my hands on my hips and stepped in between them, "Just hold it up there. This is a glorious kitchen and I don't want any of you tainting it with your little catfights."

Jackson looked at me curiously, "An attitude, huh? You're interesting."

"I'm not playing bias or favorites here," I faced him, "if you fight, you both face my wrath."

Amusement danced in his eyes, "Watch your tongue, sweets. It might get you into trouble."

I glared at him. Sweets? Nuh uh, no one's calling me that and getting away with it. I love to eat sweets but every time I hear the word, it reminds me of pink candy houses and the hideous walls of our shop. And I'm anything but sweet. How dare him . . .

"You watch your tongue, jackass, because you're definitely in trouble if you mess with this." I pointed to myself, "kind of cute right? We have nicknames for each other." I smiled tightly at him.

"You children continue your banter," Brennan said, "I'm out." He walked out of the kitchen, leaving me and Jackson inside.

"Do you need food?" I asked Jackson.

"Send me some chips upstairs, will you?" he started towards another opening – leading to the stairs, I guessed.

"Why don't you get it yourself?" I called out after him.

"Can't. You're the cook, remember?"

He's really starting to get on my nerves. Before I can argue back, he's already gone.

♫ ♫ ♫