Crap.
Up front, Mr. Reed droned on about the importance of memorizing the Constitution. I was all for reading the Constitution, but memorizing it? Yeah, not so much. Wonder where he put that in his planner? Under A for Anal maybe.
Twenty minutes into class, as I scribbled notes in my binder—one page for me, one page for “show Chris where this fits”—a note hit my desk. I glanced around to see who it was from, but everyone was looking at me. Which meant it could only be from one person.
Subtlety was wasted on him.
He thinks I cheated.
Wow. He must have done really well on the quiz. I’m betting at least a B-, maybe even a straight B.
Everyone was looking to see if I’d respond, waiting to help pass the note from the freak to the golden-boy.
It was absurd. If I’d wanted to get up and walk it over to him, the class probably would have caused a diversion they were so curious about what was going on. Instead, I folded it up and put it in my specially-for-autumn school tote, and gave him a nod.
Of course I’d back him up.
The minute hand trudged by as if it were on depressants until the bell finally rang. Everyone leapt from their seats, but then no one really went anywhere. I’d never seen people pack their stuff up so slowly.
They made that drugged-up minute hand look speedy.
When everyone had given up and taken off, Chris ambled to the front of the room. Mr. Reed had seated himself behind his desk, straightening the few things there and looking as in charge as possible.
He continued ignoring Chris and putting together the class assignments in little binder clips. I had a moment’s envy when I saw his clips were color-coded. Maybe owning up to that quirk would get us some more brownie points.
Instead, I bumped Chris to get his attention and whispered, “How’d you do?”
He slipped the paper out of his book and handed it to me, looking pleased and miserable at the same time.
92%
Holy shnickies.
I ran through the questions to find where he’d lost the points. The same question I missed plus he messed up the presidential order in the essay question.
Once again, holy shnickies.
“Mr. Reed?”
He finally looked up. “Miss Wells, I’m afraid I don’t have time right now. I’d be happy to help you with whatever you need after school.”
Yeah, right. I’d just gotten a 97% on his surprise quiz. Did he really think I was sticking around after school to get help?
“Actually, it’s about Chris’s test.”
Mr. Reed pushed his planner aside and propped his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers in a very Mr. Burns-Is-Plotting-Evil kind of way.
“I’m afraid I don’t take academic discussions to the girlfriend level, Miss Wells.”
Before I could respond, Chris was on that quicker than New York fashion trends changed. “We’re not dating.”
I knew we weren’t dating. I knew we wouldn’t be dating. But there was something hurtful about the force behind his words. The surety that there was no way he’d ever be interested in laying a hand on me. I tried to get the words out, to agree with him. But they just wouldn’t come. I pushed the anxiety down…the comparison I knew Chris was running through his head of every girl he knew compared to me.
“She’s my tutor,” Chris finished. He looked at me, waiting for me to back him up. I mean, that was my job.
“You’re tutoring him, Miss Wells?”
Did the man have to end every sentence with my name? I wanted to throw something at him. I wanted to throw something at both of them. I wanted to scream and jump around and throw a tantrum until someone, anyone explained what was so wrong with me that everyone claimed I was normal but no one wanted me.
Instead, I drew in as deep a breath as my thick throat allowed and nodded.
“Is this why you wanted to know about the final project?”
They expected me to speak? I’d just been humiliated and they expected me to talk about class projects?
“Partially. The charts I’m creating for tutoring Chris would be a great final project. I also wanted to plan my time and the tutoring time…if we’re still working together.” I could see Chris’s hand fist out of the corner of my eye. “This week was kind of a trial run.”
“So, when Mr. Kent’s grades drop, I’ll know the trial run is over?”
What’s a girl to say to that?
“Don’t worry, Mr. Reed,” Chris answered. “They won’t drop.”
Mr. Reed gave us a dismissive wave of his hand and what looked suspiciously like a roll of the eyes over his 1940’s glasses, before returning to study his ever-precious-planner.
I rushed out the door, not wanting to be late for study hall two days in a row. Once again, Chris had other plans. He grabbed my arm.
“This isn't a trial run.”
He said it with the same finality he told Mr. Reed I wasn't his girlfriend.
“That's all I agreed to.” I pulled my arm free and headed toward the admin wing before calling over my shoulder. “Take it or leave it.”
Chapter 15
Apparently Chris decided to take it because he showed up at my house at six-fifteen. In other words, he showed up just in time for dinner.
Mom didn't seem to be surprised, just added another plate to the settings.
“Doesn't your mom feed you?” Heather asked as he settled onto what was quickly becoming his seat.
It would be nice to be twelve again and say whatever you wanted.
“Of course she does.”
All of us had stopped for the answer. It did seem odd how regularly he showed up for food.
“It's just that I typically eat by myself.” He suddenly blushed right to his ears. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Wells. You don't have to keep feeding me.”
I looked down at his plate and realized something I should have noticed days ago. He wasn't eating that much. I mean, compared to Heather and Cassie he ate a lot. But for a guy who'd just come from three hours of soccer practice, this had to have been a snack. I glanced up at my mom. She was looking at me, waiting for me to realize that it wasn't the food he was coming for.
“You eat by yourself?” Heather asked. “No one wants to eat with you?”
Oh, Lord. If I could have stolen the words back for her, I would have. His mouth tightened into a sharp line and his eyes kind of blinked really fast, the blush that had tinted his ears was nothing compared to the red they were now.
“I guess not.” He tried to laugh, but it came out a low, sick sound. It broke my heart and Amy's words rushed back fast and sharp—he isn’t just dangerous, but fragile.
“Heather, you know that's not true.” I couldn't help it. I had to make that look go away. “He has practice late and his parents probably work.”
“But—” Before she could ask any other Chris-view-shifting questions, my mom stepped in.
“Heather, if you're done you can clear the table. There's pudding in the fridge.”
Heather—like all the Wells women, quick to be diverted by chocolate—pulled out a tray with five bowls set out on it. Five.
Mom shrugged when I gave her a look. She scared me sometimes with the things she knew. After the pudding had been slurped and the dishes cleared, Chris pulled out his backpack—a quick reminder of why he was really there. Although I was beginning to think he had mom-napping on his mind as well. Think of all the chicken and pudding he’d get if he locked her in a kitchen somewhere.
All right Rachel, focus on something slightly more likely to happen. Like Chris doing his homework. I said slightly.
The chart and History seemed to be working, so we focused on that. Instead of taking all the time to do it myself, we worked on it together, transferring notes from class and highlights from the book. It was obvious Chris just needed the right tool to get things to click. Once everything was put on the chart (and we established that his horrific handwriting wasn’t coming anywhere near my final proje
ct) I switched gears.
That gave us an hour for math. Yes, a whole hour to do one page of math. That C wasn’t looking like it was going to move at all. My frustration level was shooting up as I ran through another problem to check my solution. I forced myself to slow down, which—let’s be honest—the last thing you want is for your homework to take longer.
But then I spotted it. A mistake. One I’d made originally. I fixed it and handed Chris my paper. I knew when he quirked his lips I’d been right to fix it. He handed me back the page. One wrong. A huge improvement. I’d have figured that out percentage-wise, but that would have meant more math.
Maybe that C wasn’t sticking around.
“How’s your reading for English going?” I loved History, but I never understood how people didn’t do well in English. All you had to do was read some great stories and then answer questions. I mean, half the stories we read had more drama than the latest movies out.
He rooted around in the bottom of his backpack and pulled out a dog-eared copy of Much Ado About Nothing which—let’s be honest—probably was the catchphrase for most of my life right now.
“Not bad. It’s kind of interesting. I’ve been reading it, but the one dude is hard to make sense of. He’s all weird with how he talks…even for dead British guys.”
“Dogberry. Yeah. He’s crazy. My friend Megan said in class that he makes more sense in the movie.”
I could see the thoughts running between those ears of his.
“Don’t do it.”
“Do what?” Chris Kent hadn’t been innocent since birth, playing innocent wasn’t going to work.
“Do not rent that movie. You have to read the play first. Mrs. Lester always has test questions that you can get wrong if you skip reading the book for the movie. She’s tricky like that.”
He stuffed the book back in his bag.
“Fine. Like I said, it’s kind of all right anyway. I like how she keeps nagging at him and he picks back at her. They seem to know each other really well. Like they were best friends or something.”
Huh. Chris liked Shakespeare.
“You know what?” He flipped to the class schedule Mrs. Lester had given us. “We should watch the movie the night before. Make sure we didn’t miss anything.”
Movies equaled couches and darkness. That was a horrible idea.
“Makes sense.” Why do the things that come out of my mouth never match what’s in my head?
A study movie was not a date. There was no reason to stress about it.
I stacked my homework on the edge of the counter for the morning and toed my shoes on. We’d fallen into such a pattern the last couple days that it didn’t surprise me to find Chris already standing by the kitchen door with his stuff.
He waited until we were in the car to start the tutor-campaign up again.
“So, when are you going to know if this trial run is working?”
We’d studied every night since Saturday. Wasn’t he overdosing on me yet?
“You said a week. And besides, we’re almost caught up. I’m not sure we need to meet every night anymore. Maybe—this is a maybe, if we continue after the trial run—we could just meet before tests.”
He was shaking his head, a small unconscious movement as if he didn’t realize he was doing that while he thought.
“Maybe we could just study together.” He continued as if I hadn’t just said no to that. “You could do your own thing and I could just, you know, ask you questions as we go.”
I did not like where this was going. “Like on email?”
“I thought we could, you know, still get together.” He cracked his knuckles, a move I hadn’t seen from him yet and couldn’t interpret. “I’d do my thing. You’d do your thing…”
I tried not to look at him, to keep my eyes on the road. But all I could think about was that fifth bowl of chocolate pudding in the fridge and how mom had known he’d be there.
“Maybe,” I finally said not wanting to agree either way. Knowing that eventually I’d have to say no. Tired made me stressed and stressed made me anxious and anxious was the enemy.
I stopped in front of his house and glanced over the perfectly manicured lawn to the well-lit front porch. And the Acura sitting in the driveway.
What was that all about?
He snagged his pack from beneath his feet and shoved the door open before I could even throw the emergency brake. “Thanks. See ya.”
He was half way out of the car before I spoke up.
“I won't be home tomorrow until late.”
His hand stilled on the handle.
“How late?”
“Like, nine-thirty.” I still didn't have a clue what I was going to tell him if he asked. “I have plans.”
That was true. I did have plans. And they weren't any of his business.
“Too late to study?” he asked. Again, a good reminder of what this was.
I should say yes. I’d probably be drained by the time I got home. But I knew we had three more nights before the trial run was over. Tomorrow night I’d be deciding if I’d keep tutoring him, if the time/stress/anxious factor was too much. It was only fair to give him a little warning.
“I guess we could get together for a short time if you want. If it’s too late, just don’t come over.”
I figured it wasn’t like we’d be having a meal at nine or anything so there was a good chance he wouldn’t show.
“Yeah. Okay. See ya tomorrow.”
And, with his typical lack of clarity, he was gone.
Chapter 16
For the last three years, I had not been a lover of Wednesday. Wednesday was my Monday.
But that was part of life now. Wednesdays. Getting up, going through the motions at school, just waiting to get the whole darn day out of the way. Like one big checkmark on my own cosmic to-do list.
School was the first to-do—not to mention the easiest part of the day. Sad life commentary there. Amy was waiting to head to English and I was just tucking the books for my afternoon classes into my bag when my phone twirledtweetertwirled. I’d forgotten to turn it off—obviously—and was really hoping there were no adult-type-people around to confiscate it for the day.
Which was weird since Amy was standing right there and who else would be sending me something?
“Who’s it from?” Amy leaned around her locker door to try to grab a glance at my cell.
See? Even Amy knows she’s the only person who might text me. Flipping my screen open, I sucked in a bit of air, shocked at the name at the bottom of the message.
English. Pop quiz. Ch 5-7. Subplot Qs.—Chris.
I made a mental note to discuss that plays weren’t broken into chapters as I stared at the surprise gift.
I’m pretty sure Amy had to ask what it was twice since I couldn’t hear her over my heart Ka-Powing in my chest.
“What is it?” She finally asked—again?—as I tossed my phone in my tote.
“We have a pop quiz in English. What do you remember about the subplots?” Because suddenly, I couldn’t even remember what we were reading.
“Um. Yeah. Not much.” She kind of blushed a little. Amy’s main reason for going to school was because they let her play with paint for two periods. She wasn’t stupid, just focused. Also, if one of us was going to need a homework reminder, it wasn’t me. “I kind of skimmed last night so I could paint. My portfolio is due to Mrs. Cleary for scanning by next week. Plus, I have no idea how you find all these Shakespeare people so interesting.”
Great. Neither of us were ready. I’d been all about History this week trying to make the chart work and when we had time, math. English, not so much.
My hand searched the bottom of my tote and wrapped around my phone. At least I knew there was a quiz. Why’d he send me that? This whole good guy thing was feeling weirder and weirder. Chris was becoming too nice. Too real.
Amy closed her locker and we fell in step toward the caf.
“Who was it from?”
> I’m a strong believer in playing dumb. “What?”
Amy thinks having bangs hides her eye-rolling from the rest of the world. This is not true. I humor her. It’s what friends do.
“The text.”
“Oh. The text.” I dropped the phone and pulled my hand out of the bag. “Just a friend in an earlier class.”
I smiled at the word again, afraid of the happy shiver it gave me. Friend.
This was either going really well or was on a crash course to disaster.
~*~
As always, besides not being my friend, Wednesdays were always a little scattered, especially if there was an after-school game. Which, of course because we’re talking about my luck, there was.
And, of course, there were rules to stick to.
I go home and do my homework instead of going to the game. I finish my homework. I do not go sit with Amy unless my homework is done.
This was definitely more a Mom rule than a Dr. Meadows rule.
Just after five, as I was putting the finishing touches on my not so wonderful math pages for Chris to look over, the phone played Amy’s ringtone. I already knew I was going to agree to whatever she invited me to.
I hit talk.
“Sure.”
“Yeah, I haven’t said anything yet.”
I could hear the guys shouting behind her. It was always a plus when they win. Amy could definitely suffer from the Stats Girl Grumps.
“You were going to say, ‘We won. Want to blah blah blah?’ Which I would have replied to with, ‘Sure.’” I was already stacking my books on the corner of the kitchen table.
“Great! Just so you know, blah blah blah was actually going to be pizza at Jovi’s. Hold on.” Amy’s voice faded away like she had covered the phone. “No. No. Stop that. I was—”
“Rachel, sweetheart. I just wanted to make sure you know that I’m going to be at this outing in case you want to cute yourself up a little special.”
World’s. Biggest. Flirt. All of Ben Harrison’s T-shirts should have that written in ultra-bold font on the front. Again I wondered if there was any substance behind the carelessness. Maybe that’s what I liked about him—fluff can’t hurt you.
Secret Life (RVHS Secrets) Page 13