Bright and early Saturday morning, I found myself turning up the Savvonskis' long driveway. As I let the whole deal sink in, I couldn't help but notice that my hands were shaking slightly. Swallowing hard, I gripped the steering wheel harder in attempts to calm my jitters. Breathe, Maine. Breathe.

Thankfully, the deep breaths did help—mostly. I mean, everything would solve itself, right? It couldn't be that bad, right? But that inspired a million thoughts of things going wrong. What if I turn their socks pink? What if I drop their plates on the kitchen floor? What if I kill Pam's plants? What if I blow everything and lose my job?

And these thoughts were all dancing around the only one that really mattered. How am I going to deal with Ashton?

Calm yourself, Maine. Everything is going to be fine.

I brought my car to a stop in front of the Savvonskis' three-story traditional house. Well, I thought, pausing to look up at the magnificent structure for a moment, here goes.

Then I stepped out of the car and approached the door. Steeling myself, I reached up and wrapped on the door with the charming bronze knocker. Almost immediately the door opened wide to reveal the small frame and gigantic smile of Pamela Savvonski.

"Come in, come in, dear! No need to knock—from now on, you can make yourself at home here," she insisted, bringing my heartrate back down to at least a relatively calm pace.

Something about this woman just made me feel at ease. It also disarmed me for the battle that was sure to ensue once Mr. and Mrs. Savvonski were gone. I had to be extra careful around this family.

Speaking of family, Mr. Savvonski walked in with briefcase in hand and, noticing me, commented, "Good, you're here, Maine. Because we," he checked his watch, "need to leave promptly."

"All right, just give us a moment, honey," Mrs. Savvonski smiled so sweetly at her husband that I almost felt like I should go into a different room to give them some privacy. But the moment passed, and Mrs. Savvonski turned back to me. "Let's just go over everything once more, shall we?"

I nodded, hoping that I would remember everything. "So," she began, "your break room is the third door on the second floor—oh, and try not to mistaken it for Ashton's, which is the second door. He's been known to throw things if you wake him."

Trust me, that won't be a problem.

"Your tasks will be as follows: clean the dishes and the tables; dust the counters and cupboards; make and wash the beds periodically depending on the weekends; and, don't, under any circumstances, let Ashton trash the house. Now I don't think that one should be a problem, but I'll have to apologize for my son...he might be a little hard to handle."

That was when my heart picked up the pace once again. Noticing my face, Mrs. Savvonski laughed and added, "Goodness me, sweetheart. I didn't mean to scare you! I'm sure things will go just fine." That didn't help much. "Anyway, as Jacob said, we've really got to run. We don't want to miss our flight."

Not five minutes later, I watched despairingly as their car disappeared through the trees. The weight of the situation suddenly came down on me, and I slowly turned around to view the vast, seemingly empty house. I felt as if I were in a horror film, except the sun's shining cheerily—not eerily—through the windows told me otherwise.

Time to get to work.

Cautiously inching my way up the stairs for no apparent reason, I made sure to count the doors—as if the number three were so difficult—before opening the door to the room I would be keeping my stuff in for the time being.

Upon entry, I saw that it was more of a guest bedroom than a workroom. A large navy blue bed lay in the middle, and there was a neat dark wood dresser standing snuggly against the far wall. The walls were a paler shade of blue, while the floor was made of polished wooden tiles, laden with a couple opulent rugs.

I could hardly help myself. Dropping my backpack to the floor, I charged toward the bed. Leaping into the air and landing with a 'flop' onto the soft blue covers, I let out a long breath.

Staring up at the textured ceiling, I allowed myself to take a few moments to calm down. This room was perfect. Mrs. Savvonski was perfect. I could, for a second, almost force Ashton's existence from my mind.

And in this free state of mind, I imaged a world where I worked easily for the Savvonskis on weekends in the solitude of their big house, earning money for college, and avoiding delinquents and detention and bad influences and any other—

"Having fun, are we?" a voice suddenly shook me from my thoughts. Flinching, I glanced in the direction the voice came from and spotted Ashton leaning against the door frame. My face grew hot. Had he been watching me this whole time?

Forcing myself out of my two second stupor, I rose to a sitting position on the bed. It was hardly eight o'clock yet, but I suddenly had to be on high alert. Pulling an absurdly blank face, I replied, "I hate fun." Then I stood up completely and turned to smooth the sheets.

"At least you're honest."

I had to brace myself before turning back around. "Don't you have literally anything else to do right now?"

One corner of his lips twitched upward, before he pulled it back into restraints. "I really don't see why my mom is so taken with you—you're quite rude."

Feeling a spark of irritation under my skin, I stepped closer to the doorway. "That's really fresh, coming from you."

He furrowed his brow for a second, as if confused. But then he tilted his head back in acknowledgment. "Don't tell me you're still upset about detention."

I gawked at him. I wanted nothing more than to tear into him right here and now, but something stopped me—be it a lack of energy or a desire to hold out for the ultimate revenge. Thus, instead of going off, I swallowed a couple thousand words and settled for, "Please step out of the way. I have counters to clean."

He surprised me by actually moving.

Brushing past him and marching on down the steps, I noted that I didn't actually have a clue where the cleaning supplies were. Isn't that the sort of thing Mrs. Savvonski should have told me? Well, she did tell me, but now I can't remember.

"You seem lost." His voice came from behind me when I paused at the bottom of the steps.

"Nope, I'm perfectly fine," I lied, not even offering him a glance. Then, hastily shifting my gaze left and right, I chose right and set off in that direction confidently. Supply closet, supply closet, where art thou? I desperately called out in my head.

All I got was an unwelcome comment from Ashton. "Where are you going?"

I whirled around in exasperation. "Where does it look like? The supply closet!"

He snorted.

"What?"

"Are you sure? Because the supply closet is that way." He pointed in the opposite direction.

I opened my mouth and then closed it, coming up with nothing. Once again, his face broke into that maddening grin. Walking past him in angry humiliation, I soon spotted the closet that had a small panel reading 'utility room' in the middle. Right.

"I knew that," I called back half-heartedly. I don't even know why I try.

"Oh, of course you did!" came his reply.

I grimaced, opening the closet and finding a couple cloths and some soap. Gripping the materials tightly in my hands, I closed the closet and turned back the way I came. I made it a point to flip my dark hair over the right side of my face as I slogged past Ashton.

"Are you mad at me?" his voice followed me into the kitchen.

I blatantly disregarded him as I wet a cloth under the sink, lathered it with soap, and began aggressively rubbing the glazed wooden counters—at least, as aggressively I could without feeling as though I was destroying Mr. and Mrs. Savvonski's property. Just pretend Ashton isn't here. Maybe he'll disappear then.

By noon, I had washed most of the tables and counters on the first floor, done two loads of laundry, and cleaned up a spot on the living room carpet where someone's dinner must have been spilled weeks ago. The highlight of my morning though had come when Ashton had actually left for a couple hours—I must have bored him by ignoring him.

Thanks to his boredom, I had been able to cherish a few hours of peace and quiet by myself. Nothing like mindless labor unhindered by obnoxious delinquents.

Somehow my nerves about the new job had caused me short term memory loss, for it wasn't until twelve o'clock that I actually remembered what my purpose here was. I was supposed to be gathering blackmail material on Ashton. So far I had uncovered nothing—because so far I had put in zero effort.

However, when the minute hand of my watch settled on the fifteen past twelve mark, it became apparent to me that if I wanted results, I was going to have to get down to the real work. I genuinely didn't want to snoop—I was starting to feel like a bona fide criminal—but I knew it was now or never. The longer I put off snooping, the longer I'd have to work here and put up with Ashton.

It was with this in mind that I cautiously made my way back up to the second floor and stopped outside Ashton's room. Why I was sneaking made little sense—no one was home—but it seemed to be the only way for me to go about it.

Before I could chicken out, I closed my fingers around the doorknob to his room. Opening the door just a crack, I let my eyes peruse his space. There was nothing immediately drawing, but what could I really find by just peeking through a crack?

Glancing back the way I had come from and seeing that I was indeed alone, I quietly slinked into the vacant room.

A nervous smirk eased itself onto my lips as the door clicked behind me, and I couldn't help myself from whispering dramatically, "I'm in." That, of course, led to a hysterical giggle on my part, but I managed to muffle it by throwing a shaking hand over my mouth. I'm losing it.

I set to business by scrutinizing the expanse of the room, from the bed to the most remote corners. I checked under the bed; I swept the book shelf—wait, book shelf? Anxiously—for that seemed to be my only mode of snooping—I began reading the titles of the compositions that were standing in neat rows on Ashton's shelf.

There weren't many selections that I recognized, but I did notice The Lord of the Rings Trilogy which I had completed last summer. There were various Stephen King novels that I had heard of, but never read. I also saw a couple books that looked like they had been from the dark ages, and their sleeves were patched with a few different kinds of tape, implying that there had been more than one occasion in which they required repair.

I frowned. This wasn't what I'd had in mind.

I was about to investigate Ashton's dresser when I was alerted of peril once again by the sound of the house back door's slamming. Nearly jolting out of my skin in surprise, I hastily glanced around the room to make sure I wasn't leaving any evidence of my trespassing. Upon noting that it was free of indication, I dashed as quickly as I could out of Ashton's room.

I could hear his footsteps at the bottom of the staircase; so I, in frenetic movements, whirled this way and that in attempts to find something to innocently 'be doing.' Where's a broom when you need one?

The footsteps neared.

Losing it, I hastily threw myself into the guest bedroom, and slammed the door behind me. I pressed my back against it, breathing heavily with the sense of relief that only concealment could provide. Or maybe I was just respiring deeply because I was so worried about whether Ashton would take the slamming of my door as a sign of my wishing not to see him or of blatant guilt. Honestly, it was both, but I desperately hoped that he wouldn't suspect the latter.

The footsteps stopped outside Ashton's door.

Trying to calm my breaths, I placed a hand on my chest and forced my eyes shut. Oh, please don't catch me. Please don't catch me—

Upon the sound of Ashton's fist knocking against my door, I felt my heart literally jump in my chest, and my body followed suit by convulsing. Well, now I'm toast. Turning around, I wracked my brain desperately for excuses, but came up with none. Instead, I swallowed hard and said stupidly to the door between us, "What?"

No response. Instead, I heard his hand turn the doorknob and felt the door push against me. Curiosity getting the best of me, I stepped back to allow it open. I never did see Ashton's face though—I'm not complaining—since all he did was use his foot to shove a box of pizza into my room.

For a few breathless seconds, I stared in wonder at the box. Then, cautiously—for I had little trust for the delinquent—I reached down to open it. To my disappointment, all that was inside was a pizza. A completely normal, boring old pizza.

Well, the pizza looked delicious to be exact, but I was disappointed at this gesture which vaguely resembled a truce. I was not here for a truce. I was here for revenge.

That, of course, did not stop me from drawing up a piece of pizza and devouring it heartily.

Three hours later, after I had done some of my homework—Mrs. Savvonski had said I could do some of my own work while house-sitting—, cleaned more of the Savvonski's vast house, and squeezed in a much-needed phone call with Britt, I found myself standing ten rungs up on a ladder outside the house. Why was I here? Well, I had been clipping the tall grass skirting the house, when I had looked up and spotted a pair of boxers—can you believe it?—lying ever so elegantly atop the shingled roof.

So here I was, climbing the rusty ladder of doom to the heaven of the underpants. I really did not want to know whose boxers they were—nor did I want to know how they had gotten up there. It was with no small portion of horror that I acknowledged they were on the roof right above Ashton's room. Don't tell me...

Ashton's voice suddenly jolted me from my disturbed thoughts. "What in the world are you doing?"

"Ah!" I let out a startled yelp as I nearly lost my grip on the ladder. When I did recover my position on the rung, I twisted around and yelled, "You idiot! Can't you see that I'm on a ladder here? What if I had fallen? Don't—don't do that!"

"Sorry?"

"Ugh!" I let out an infuriated breath before turning back to the ladder and climbing up a couple more steps.

I heard his deep voice call again. "You still haven't answered my question. What in the world are you doing?"

Groaning, I answered in annoyance, "Maybe if you stopped yelling at me, I'd actually tell you."

No response.

I smiled to myself as I neared the roof. But silence never lasted.

"What are you doing?" Ashton muttered so quietly I barely caught it.

With a sigh, I reached up over the roof and carefully plucked the boxers up between my fingers. Then I called begrudgingly back down to him, "I'm fetching some idiot's underwear!"

I heard a snort leave Ashton's lips as I began descending from the ladder, boxers held loosely in my left hand. The clunk, clunk, clunk of my feet sounded upon the rungs of the ladder of doom, reminding me that I would all too soon be face to face with that punk.

As soon as my feet landed on the ground, I turned to train my wary eyes on Ashton. His were, for some unfortunate reason, filled with a gross amount of amusement. Eying him uncertainly, I muttered, "What's with you?"

He paused for a moment before saying off the cuff, "So that's where Aria threw them."

There was nothing else to be said, for I knew precisely what he was referring to. Aria was the Olson family's Italian exchange student—who had conveniently been sent back to Italy after only one third of her proposed stay. It had never been confirmed, but everyone knew that she and Ashton had started seeing each other shortly after her arrival in the States.

She was just like him—aloof, scary, somewhat volatile, and very, very hot. It had only made sense for the two of them to join alliances during her brief stay.

Still, the image of the two of them up to no good in Ashton's bedroom was enough to make me gag. Somehow the words came out on their own. "Oh, ish."

It looked like he expected a different reaction, for this one caught him by such surprise that he burst out laughing.

Feeling both repulsed and embarrassed, I lifted my hand and threw the boxers at him. To my success, they hit him squarely in the face. "You're so—despicable."

When he reached up and pulled the boxers from his face, I saw that the smile had been wiped off with them. Instead of saying anything though, he just looked at me with this peculiar expression.

I stared back, waiting for whatever he'd come up with next. I should have just gone, but some streak of insanity held me back.

"Why are you here, Maine?" he suddenly said, catching me totally by surprise.

I opened my mouth, but found I had nothing to say. Why was I here? "I—I—"

"Yes?"

Something in his tone snapped me back to reality, and I instinctively returned to my script. "I already told you: I'm here to work."

Disappointment was the only word I could use to describe the look in his eyes now. Not that he had any right to be disappointed. "Of course you are," he said then, and smiled again.

I hated it when he smiled. The way his eyes turned to half-moons. The way one side of his lips turned up more than the other. He seemed to be plotting something.

I didn't care to discover it, so I turned back to my grass cutters, which I had left lying beside the house. Over my shoulder, I told him, "Clean up after yourself next time, yeah?"

He scoffed but walked away, surprisingly.

Ashton left me alone for the remainder of that Saturday, and it wasn't too long before I found myself driving home. My parents were ecstatic, of course, and begged to hear all about my day. There wasn't much to tell when I removed Ashton from it, but I still tried to deliver an interesting report, and they still ate it right up.

Then I had supper, crashed in my bed, and fell into a deep slumber, all the while praying that I would make it through the morrow.

Ashton had other plans.