Three years ago.
Rebecca
“I need to talk to you,” Dean said to me as he grabbed my hand and dragged me into the backyard of his mother’s house.
I’ve known Dean most of my life. My mother started working at his parents' house when I was thirteen, and he was sixteen.
He was homeschooled and had a multitude of tutors, and because Mrs. Marcel thought I was sweet, she let me learn with Dean. I was smart, I knew it, my mother knew it, and so did Mrs. Marcel. My mother bragged that I had skipped kindergarten and first grade and gone straight into second grade to anyone who would listen. My mother was very proud of me.
Because I excelled in academics, I tutored Dean instead of the other way around. But because I was the daughter of the live-in housemaid, I was constantly told my place by
