The Boiling Point | ✔️

03 | skater boy

SUMMER

The town of Cloverbrook is a desolate wasteland. All right, that's an exaggeration, but being surrounded by nothing but mountains and forests, it really is in the middle of nowhere.

Not to mention how everything seems to be stuck in the nineties. There's still a video store open for Pete's sake. Not a DVD store, a video store. Despite that, when I step out of my car and get a good look at the culinary school campus, it exceeds expectations. I half-expected it to be a catfish situation.

I smooth down my skirt as I walk over a cobblestone path, taking in the vine-covered redbrick buildings and towering oak trees. It's like the campus is in a bubble separated from the rundown town. But I have to admit, the suburbs aren't too bad either.

Even though the campus is on the small side, it takes a little searching to find the right classroom for freshmen. A printed 'orientation' sign stuck to the door leads me in.

My stomach is a mess of squirming eels. I can't believe I'm here. With only a couple minutes to spare until nine, I make a mental note to get here at least a half hour early tomorrow. It's not like me to cut it so close. I wouldn't have if it weren't for the hold up earlier.

The classroom is buzzing with chatter, students leaning on desks or finding seats. I approach the girl sitting next to the first empty chair I see.

"This seat taken?"

Concentrating on the study guide booklet I recognize, she jumps at my voice but quickly smiles. "Nope. All yours."

With smooth, fair skin, a round face, and straight cherry-brunette hair, she reminds me of a porcelain doll. Before I can introduce myself, a cheerful-looking woman who must be in her late thirties tells everyone to take their seats and settle down. She's flanked by a tall man with snowy hair and wrinkles. They're both wearing spotless white chef uniforms.

"Okay, everyone," the man says in a commanding voice. "Welcome to the Cloverbrook College of Culinary Arts. The name is a bit of a mouthful, but you'll get used to it."

The class chuckles, but his face remains tight.

"Or Clocul, if you want to avoid the mouthful," the woman chimes in with a much warmer tone.

He nods and continues talking. I can't help but tune out and glance around at the strangers who I'll be getting to know in time. About sixteen of us all together, and most of the class looks like they're straight out of high school like me. I scan down the second row from the front, backtracking when a familiar body stands out among the rest.

Oh god. You've got to be kidding me. The sharp jawline alone is enough for me to recognize the boy who watched my little meltdown mere hours ago.

Please, little is an understatement, Summer. Anyone who saw a person standing on the street in their pajamas, surrounded by trash and cussing themselves out, is bound to think they're a raving lunatic. You are no exception.

What are the chances of this guy being in my class, let alone in culinary school? Freaking small towns.

The man's voice tunes back in. "Anyway, I'm Dean Weller, and this is the freshman year head chef and professor, Chef Kent."

Trying to focus on the introduction, my mind can't let go of the embarrassment I'd shaken from earlier. I sneak a peek at Skater Boy again. He's slumped back in his seat, arms loosely folded while he listens. Maybe I'm overthinking it. Who's to say he'd even recognize me, anyway? It was such a brief interaction.

As if he can sense my gaze on him, he shifts and meets my eyes. A look of blankness, thought, then knowing. He faces the front again, long, tattooed fingers moving over his mouth to cover a smirk. Fantastic.