Chapter 3: The Boy Who Wouldn’t Smoke

I couldn’t help but ask, “Are you sick or something? Why are you wearing so much?”

He snorted, “If you want to borrow my clothes, just say so.”

Before I could answer, he’d already shrugged off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders.

It was warm from his body heat, and, weirdly, my stomachache faded away the second it touched me. Magic or just luck?

Huh?

Stomach pain?

Could it be…

I dashed to the bathroom to check, stuck a tissue in my underwear just in case, and hurried back to class.

I turned to the girl in front of me. “Do you have a pad?”

She shook her head.

I was just about to ask the girl behind me when Carter pulled a pack of Always pads from his backpack and handed them over: “No need to thank me.”

He did it so nonchalantly, like it was totally normal, but his ears were bright red. The girls around us started giggling, and Carter just shrugged, pretending he didn’t care.

I was grateful, but couldn’t help asking, “Why do you carry a pack of pads around?”

He thought for a long time, then finally blurted, “I—I have sweaty feet… can’t I use them as insoles?”

He mumbled it, eyes darting everywhere but at me. I almost lost it, but managed to keep a straight face.

Carter went quiet for two days before stirring up trouble again.

He accidentally flashed his wrist, showing off a giant gold watch. “See? Rolex!”

He held his arm out like he was posing for a magazine ad, hoping someone would notice. A couple of kids rolled their eyes, but Carter just grinned wider.

I said, “Oh, so this is the legendary Rolex.”

If he hadn’t bragged, I never would’ve known—honestly, it just makes me laugh at how broke I am sometimes.

But he accused me of being sarcastic: “You want to see more? Let’s see how long you can keep your cool!”

Then he flashed his shoes: “Yeezys.”

His backpack: “GUCCI.”

His belt: “Hermès.”

His heavy motorcycle: “Harley.”

I was dazzled, not really sure what his point was. “Thanks for the luxury brand crash course. Your family must be loaded… oh.”

But he didn’t seem to mean it like that. He just scowled, “I’m just new money, my taste is garbage! Prada, Burberry, whatever that Zegna thing is… If you think it’s tacky, I’ll just stop wearing it!”

Me: “Huh?”

Prada, Burberry, Zegna turtle-neck or whatever…

I’d never even heard of them before.

The neighbor across the street suddenly moved out, saying someone had rented her place for a sky-high price. With that kind of rent, she could probably buy another house in a few years.

I was dying to know who was rich enough—and wild enough—to pay that much.