Chapter 1 Property Of Gravy

The front door is white. I notice this because I've been staring at it for four minutes, unable to knock. It's the kind of white that costs more money to keep clean than my mom makes in a week scrubbing it.

My mom, Lydia Reyes, is already inside, rattling off instructions in her broken English about the "pH balance of the pool tiles." She's the housekeeper. I'm the... upgrade? Downgrade? The live-in babysitter for the Sterling family spawn.

"Just knock, Maya," I mutter, shifting the duffel bag on my shoulder. It's full of my life: sketchbooks, oversized band tees, and the industrial-sized bottle of Tums I need because stress makes my stomach feel like a washing machine full of rocks.

I don't belong on this street. Oakhaven Lane is where the lawns are chemically engineered to be greener than envy and the mailboxes are custom-built to look like the houses they belong to. My house—a duplex near the highway overpass—has a mailbox held together by duct tape and spite.

I raise my fist. The door swings open before I can knock.

It's not Mrs. Sterling.

It's him.

Caleb Hayes Sterling. Six-foot-three inches of muscle, tan, and the reason I eat lunch in the art room closet. His hair is damp, dark curls clinging to his forehead like he just stepped out of a commercial for expensive shampoo. He's wearing a gray t-shirt that fits like a second skin and basketball shorts. His feet are bare.

He looks at me.

I look at him.

In my head, I run through the last time we spoke. Monday. Third period hallway. He'd dropped his physics book—a class I'm also in, though you'd never know it because he sits in the back with the gods of this school and I sit in the front with the mortals—and I, being a decent human being, picked it up.

I held it out. He looked at my hand, then at my body, then at his friend Travis.

"Nah, I don't want gravy stains on it."

Travis had snorted. The hallway had laughed. I had dropped the book and walked away, feeling the heat of humiliation climb up my neck like a rash.

That was Monday. Today is Friday. And I'm standing on his porch.

"You," he says. His voice is flat, but his eyes are scanning me, cataloging the threadbare duffel bag and the stain on my jeans that looks like coffee but is actually acrylic paint.

"Me," I say. My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "I'm Maya. Lydia's daughter."

"I know who you are." He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "You're the one who eats lunch with the art supplies."

The Property of Gravy.

He doesn't say it, but I hear it in the pause.

Mrs. Sterling appears behind him like a puff of expensive perfume and yoga-toned arms. She's beautiful in that ageless, Botox-smooth way. "Maya! Sweetheart, come in! Don't mind Caleb, he's just grumpy because I told him he has to clear out the pool house for you."

Caleb's head whips around. "The pool house? Mom, you said she was staying in the guest room."

"The guest room is now my Peloton studio, honey. You know that." Mrs. Sterling waves a dismissive hand. "The pool house has a private bath and a mini-fridge. It's practically an apartment."

"Practically an apartment" is a generous description. Later, when Mrs. Sterling shows me the space, I see it's a converted garage with a fold-out couch and a window that looks directly into the turquoise abyss of the swimming pool. It smells faintly of chlorine and old sunscreen.

"It's perfect," I lie, because my mom is standing behind Mrs. Sterling, her eyes wide with that desperate "Please don't mess this up for me" look. The Sterlings pay twenty-two dollars an hour. That's more than our rent.

Caleb stands in the doorway of the pool house, his shadow long across the concrete floor. Mrs. Sterling chirps about "the children"—twins named Sophie and Sam, age six—and their schedules.

"He'll help you with the heavy lifting," Mrs. Sterling says, patting Caleb's cheek. He flinches almost imperceptibly. "Won't you, honey?"

"Sure," he says, his jaw tight. "I'll lift the heavy stuff."

She leaves us alone. The silence is louder than the highway traffic I'm used to.

"Look," Caleb says, not looking at me. "I don't know what sob story your mom told my mom to get you this gig, but let's get one thing straight."

I brace myself. Here it comes. Don't touch my stuff. Stay out of my way. Don't look at me.

"I don't need a babysitter. I don't need a shadow. And I definitely don't need you telling anyone at school that you're living in my pool house."

That's it? Not the Gravy joke?

"Fine," I say. "And I don't need anyone knowing I'm living in the pool house of a guy who thinks 'throwing a ball good' is a personality trait."

His eyes narrow. It's the first time he's actually looked at me. Not through me. Not past me. At me.

"Whatever," he mutters, turning to leave.

I watch him walk back to the main house, his shoulders hunched against the evening air.

The pool house is cold. The mini-fridge hums like a dying bee. I unzip my duffel bag and pull out my sketchbook. On the first page is my latest drawing: a girl with my hips and my hair, standing on a rooftop, holding the moon in her hands like a Frisbee. She's laughing.

I turn to a fresh page and start drawing the white door.

A shadow falls across the page. I look up. Caleb is standing at the window of the pool house—the one that faces the pool. He's not looking at the water. He's watching me draw. When our eyes meet, he holds up a box of stale crackers and a jar of peanut butter.

"Dinner," he mouths through the glass. "Kitchen. Five minutes."

Before I can respond, he disappears into the dark.

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