OyMG Read Free

for sixty years, but it didn’t feel old in a run-down way. It felt old in a rich way. The campus itself was off a main street in the downtown area, but it was tucked back behind a screen of old trees. The front courtyard had a fountain, ceramic statues on pedestals, and cobblestone walkways leading to the main doors. I actually wiped my sandals on the mat before I walked in. It just felt different .
    Like everything else at Benedict’s, the auditorium was amazing. There were movie theater chairs with blue seat cushions, a stage with full-length curtains, and hanging lights. At Canyon View, the cafeteria doubled as a stage, and you got metal folding chairs to sit on. Even the air at Benedict’s smelled better. I could get used to this.
    A woman stood behind a podium on the stage, but we ignored her and checked out the other campers. Most of the kids were dressed like me, only with better logos over their chests and their butts. I saw one girl toss down a blinged-out backpack that must have cost more than my clothing allowance for the year. Someday, I’d have enough money to trash nice things, too.
    Megan rolled up her sleeves as she looked around. “Not bad,” she whispered. “Definite potential.”
    There were about eighty kids, I guessed, more girls than guys. Not that Megan was wasting time on the girls. She had an internal radar system for a certain type of guy. Unfortunately, not the tall, dark, handsome type that might have come in handy. She went for the intense, brooding, angry guy who wore black everything, snapped rubber bands against his wrist, and looked slightly twisted. If he had a book of poetry or something depressing from the AP list—even better.
    â€œCheck him,” Megan breathed, nudging my shoulder. “Two rows up, far right.”
    I looked. Then looked again. Holy crap. The guy was definitely intense, as in intensely hot . He was sitting at an angle, talking to the guy next to him. He had short, black hair with that perfectly messy look. Squarish face, tanned skin, nice lips, and the arm that hung over the back of his seat had actual muscle attached. If he had nice teeth, he’d be a perfect ten.
    Megan leaned closer. “Isn’t he—”
    â€œHot!”
    Megan’s surprised eyes shifted to my face. “Please! He’s probably as fake as my mom’s boobs.”
    â€œThen why are you scoping him out?”
    â€œBecause that’s Devon Yeats.”
    I sucked in a breath. “You mean—”
    â€œDoris Yeats is his grandmother.”
    I leaned forward, my heart quickening. Doris Yeats was the private donor who funded the Benedict’s Scholarship. There would be a panel of judges to determine who won my oratory event, but Mrs. Yeats would determine who won an all-expenses-paid trip to Benedict’s in the fall. “How do you know that’s Devon?” I asked.
    â€œI met him at a charity event last Christmas.”
    Megan’s mom was the queen of charity events. Not because she liked helping people, according to Megan, but because she loved to dress up and schmooze.
    â€œYou didn’t tell me that!”
    â€œIt was for all of two seconds. My mom insisted.” Megan rolled her eyes. “I didn’t pay much attention. He lives with his mom in Chicago or somewhere. He was just visiting for winter break.”
    â€œSo what’s he doing here now?”
    â€œI don’t know. My mom said something about Devon’s dad dying a few years back and how Mrs. Yeats wanted Devon and his mom to move to Phoenix. Maybe she talked them into it. Or maybe he’s just here for summer camp. Supposedly, he’s big into speech team. He’s in oratory, by the way.”
    â€œMy event? Is he any good?” I slanted another look at him. He was too pretty to be smart.
    â€œAccording to Granny Yeats, who bragged about him the entire time, he was practically unbeatable. Junior high stud. Four