Paid to Catch

Hanging Out

     Having Trace around was much more comfortable than having my crazy babysitter stick with me. At least I had someone to talk to about how annoying Cerice was. The time was now eleven A.M., and I was sitting on a velvet couch next to Trace with the television turned on. Cerice was back at the  kitchen with some of our other maids, cooking us up some dinner. I silently prayed she knew how to cook decent meals.

     "You know what's funny?" Trace says, absently flipping through numerous channels. I'm not even sure if he was interested in watching television at all. "Your house is all high-techy, with the gadgets and all— you can even order it to do stuff for you."

     I snort. I know where this is going. "So now you're going to ask why the heck do we have maids for if we have this fancy house?"

     Trace nods once, not taking his eyes off the television. "Well, yeah. It just doesn't make sense."

     "I know it doesn't make any sense," I admit. "But my mom insists. She hates seeing people with no jobs, and you know that." I shot the kitchen a quick glance. "Also, she likes homemade food better."

     Trace lets out a low laugh. "That I already know."

     He yawns for the umpteenth time ever since I called him on the phone, and stretches both of his arms above his head. "Boy, am I sleepy."

     "No kidding." I fight back the urge to slap him across the face to keep him awake. Darn, what a sleepyhead this cousin of mine is. Sometimes I wish I called for Philip instead. Or Ann. At any rate, both of those Fuente siblings knew how to deal with problems, especially one that involves teens. They had an annoying babysitter, plus they have a seventeen-year-old step-brother. No doubt they know how to cope with adolescents by now.

     I hear Cerice humming a tune of one of One Direction's songs as she cooks— I can't tell whether it's "What Makes You Beautiful", or "Live While We're Young", I don't know, all of their songs sound the same to me (1D fans, please don't kill me, that's just how I roll). "You boys up for some Chicken Curry?"

     At the mention of food, Trace snaps his head in her direction. "Curry?"

     Cerice smiles at us as I turn my head to her, too. "Yeah. I can cook a different dish, if you want."

     Trace vigorously shakes his head in disapproval. "No, no, it's okay. Curry sounds good." Then Cerice goes back to cooking. We look back at the television screen, and Trace resumes with his channel-flipping routine. He stops at a certain one. "Dude, check this out."

     The television screen shows a commecial of some sort of boarding school in Los Angeles. A school for highschoolers, I assume. Boys wore all black, and girls wore all white for their uniforms. They all wore hats. Their teachers were dressed in green, and in my mind, I first thought of the military. I mentally laughed. No way I'd ever go to a school like that. That is, until, I see the next scene.

     Horseback riding lessons, the massive cafeteria, self-defense lessons (aikido, taekwondo, karate, you name it) and more cool stuff that catch my interest. I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out. I continue to watch. At the nearing end of the commercial, the camera flashes three teenagers— a petite, little girl with blond hair pulled up in a tight, high ponytail who looked a lot younger than she actually was, next to her was a taller boy with dirty blond hair and pale blue eyes. Trace seems to recognize him.

     "Stefan Queensley." He states. "He's a son of a famous actress." He was smiling at the camera, but my gut told me that he wasn't a guy to mess with. His eyes hid something— secrets, maybe. And cruelty. I don't know how I know, but I just do. He had a pretty face, for a boy. If he were in a dress, I would've mistaken him as a woman for sure. A flat-chested one.