I go to bed knowing that I’m going to basically fail the test. But I don’t even know what has me feeling worse—knowing that I’m doomed in math … or that I’ve lost Conrad.
Well, I know what has me feeling worse, of course.
It’s not math.
CHAPTER 75
Conrad taps on my window late at night, after I’m already in my bed, bawling my eyes out. “January, let me in. I brought my books, and notes. I promised I’d stay up all night to help you—and I will.”
“It’s too late. Wayyyy too late.”
“I got here as soon as I could—I swear!”
“Where were you?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Were you with Bridget?—on a picnic?”
“Yes … but January, let me in so I can explain.”
“No. I’d rather fail my test than be anywhere near you—and I am. I’m going to fail my test. Thanks a lot. Now go away and never talk to me again. Ever.”
CHAPTER 76
In math class, Conrad silently slips into his seat just as the bell rings. And then he proceeds to look anywhere but at me. It’s like he’s mad at me—but maybe he just feels guilty? Boy, boy, boy he should.
It’s seriously because of him that I’m going to do so rotten on the test. I mean, if he hadn’t said he would help me, I would have signed up for a tutor yesterday morning. But no. I had naively believed his promise, gobbled it up, wanting to believe his eyes and words so bad—that I was still truly important to him, and he wanted to help me.
I’m such a gullible sap! How many times does he have to let me down before I realize he’s no longer my best friend? That he’s totally changed from the way he used to be. He used to be my hero … now he’s the cause of my broken heart. Over and over.
Towards the end of class, Conrad clears his throat loudly. “I’m feeling sick,” he tells our teacher.
“Oh dear,” she says, looking concerned. “Do you need to see the nurse?”
“I need to see a toilet,” he says, getting up. “Maybe then the nurse—we’ll see.”
He tells her, “I’ll leave my test right here, it’s almost done. I’ll come back and finish it—if I can.”
He angles it like he wants me to copy down his answers. No way. Then he’s out the door.
If anyone else were to do this—leave class during a test—a teacher would be suspicious and think the student went to look up the answers or something. But all the teachers know Conrad—they remember him from when he went to school here last year, they know he is honest and super smart. They also know he’s having a hard time emotionally these days. Everyone knows about his girlfriend dying—they read about it in the school paper, thanks to me.
Conrad comes back into class only a few minutes before the bell rings. He works on the rest of his test until the bell rings.
The teacher asks him, “Do you need more time?”
“Nah, I’m done. But maybe if I did awful, you know why.” He murmurs, “I’m a mess.”
He says it as he hands his test to the person in front of him, just as we all do. When the time’s up, which unfortunately it is, we all hand our tests forward. I do it with a weary sigh. Conrad glances at me as he takes my test, but then he quickly looks away.
Still no apology.
I guess he’s done.
He sucks.
CHAPTER 77
As I leave the classroom, Conrad is waiting for me in the hallway. Unexpectedly seeing standing there does something jolting and dramatic to my heart. Also, curiously, the way he’d had his head pressed against the wall, then snapping to attention when he sees me—it’s slightly gratifying, for some reason. I guess because he’d seemed so resigned to giving up in class. Giving up on us. (Even though I told him to. Still.)
“I can’t take this, January,” he says. “Please talk to me.”
“No,” I growl and stomp into my next class.
While I’m searching through my backpack, I get passed a note. The teacher has just started talking, but I freeze, no longer able to move. Or breathe. The note is from—Conrad! But he’s not even in this class!
I sneak a peek at the back of the classroom. Um, yeah. There’s Conrad. He gives me the tiniest wave. Like lightning, I turn back towards the front of the class. When I can breathe right, I wad up the note. I do it dramatically, so Conrad gets my point. I don’t care what he has to say, and I’m not even going to listen to it … or in this case, read it.
When the teacher asks for a volunteer to read their notes on the book we’ve been reading in class for the past week, Conrad shoots up his hand.
Mrs. Lark looks surprised. “Conrad, are you even in this class?”
Conrad clears his throat without answering her question. Instead he says, “These are my notes about—about the book,” he emphasizes the word “book.” Probably because he has no idea what book we’re reading, therefore can’t say the title of the book—because he doesn’t know it.
He goes on whimsically, acting like he’s reading a piece of paper, but it’s pretty apparent that he’s not, and he knows it, but doesn’t care, because well, the boy’s not shy, “Uh, the guy in the book really likes the girl in the book and feels really bad that he disappointed her, but he did disappoint her—and accidently keeps doing it—but he feels really bad about it—low and despicable—and he would really like a chance to talk to the girl and let her know how sorry he is, and what happened.”
Mrs. Lark puts her hands on her hips, then says with exasperation, “Go to your own class, Conrad. And if you ever disrupt mine again you better have read the book.”
(We’re reading Huckleberry Finn.)
As Conrad starts to open the door, I raise my hand and gush out, “I’d like to make a comment about Conrad’s screwed up observation about the book.”
I see Conrad freeze at the door. Slowly, slowly he turns to face me, looking like he’s holding his breath.
Before Mrs. Lark can comment/protest/say a word, I quickly go on, “The boy in the book treated the girl unfairly. She tried her hardest to always be there for him, but he let her down when she really needed him. I think the book ended realistically and for the best—when the two ex-friends went their separate ways.”
I see Conrad wince and turn white. Then he leaves the classroom without a word.
Mrs. Lark sighs. “Did anyone read the book?”
CHAPTER 78
After Conrad left my class looking so dejected, I couldn’t get his sad eyes out of my head, or the way he’d winced at my words. I feel so sick about it, I finally can’t take it anymore and ask to be excused.
Mrs. Lark sighs. “Do you know what book we’re reading?”
I hold it up for her.
She nods, “Grab a hall pass.”
As I’m heading to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face, I run into Conrad’s mom in the empty school hallway. I’m sort of stunned to see her. I mean, she lives in Connecticut, so this feels sort of surreal, I guess because I’d just hurt her son, and also because I haven’t seen her in so long … and because she used to make Conrad and me root beer floats and toast them with us to being ‘best friends forever.’
“I was just talking with Conrad’s school guidance counselor,” she explains since—apparently—I look confused. Which I am.
“Oh?—you flew here to talk to her?”
“No,” she smiles happily. “My fiancé and I are moving here—back to town—so I can be near Conrad. The sweet boy supported me when I needed him desperately. Now he needs support. He’s had a hard time dealing with Lydia’s death, poor boy.” She shakes her head with a sad little frown, then says, “He was there for me, I feel I need to be there for him, you know?”
I nod, because I do—I know. A strange feeling goes through me. I try to shake it away.
“Well, it was good to see you,” I tell her quickly, then hurry away from her.
I don’t want to feel bad for Conrad.
I’m furiously mad at Con
rad. I mean, okay. I’m truly, truly sorry that his girlfriend died. Truly. But—but that doesn’t make up for him treating me so poorly.
… does it?
I mean, I don’t have to be more understanding here … right? I mean, I have every right to be absolutely furious at him for standing me up again, right?
Yes—right! Darn right! I DO!!!
And I am.
I so am.
CHAPTER 79
Confused and torn between a strange combination of sympathy, nausea, and anger I dejectedly stomp into the bathroom.
Just as I’m turning on the faucet to splash cold water on my face, Conrad silently comes through the door behind me. Conrad!
Gasp! He’s in the girls’ bathroom with me. What the—?!
Finally, I get my mouth to work. “What are you doing here?”
Without a word his warm hands come on either side of my face and his lips softly press against mine. Whoa!—tingles scatter through my body. For a moment that’s all I can dwell on, warm glorious tingly sparks dancing through me. But then I remember—reality.
He chose Bridget over me, he stood me up, he let me fail.
With a growl, I push him away and stomp to the door, he sighs but then blocks my way, edging me against the wall. My breath catches and my knees go weak. His hungry eyes linger on mine, heating up my body. Gentle, gentle he brushes my hair back behind my shoulders.
I swallow, being this close to him, feeling his warm breath on my neck, makes me tremble. So does the hunger I see in his eyes. It fills me with a longing, aching desire, making my heart yearn so bad I can’t breathe.
He makes a soft groaning sound, drawing closer, breathing my name. Tenderly, he cups my chin in his warm hand and now it’s my turn to moan, my breath catching as his soft, tantalizing lips slowly press against mine, first lightly—sweet, so sweet—then hungrily, his velvet tongue searching, entwining with mine, sending more tingles through my body, making me light-headed and dizzy, ready to explode.
He leans into me deeper still, his lips insistent, his hot hands tangling in my hair. The passion and intensity has me breathless, so weak he has to hold me up, but still his kisses go on. On and on. His hungry, hot tongue tantalizing my mouth, ravenous.
When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against mine. “Not over,” he murmurs. “We’re not over.”
His huskily murmured words fill me with warmth—just like that amazing kiss. Mmm. But as he holds me, his forehead pressed to mine, this moment feeling so perfect and scrumptious—still, I know things aren’t as wonderful as they feel in this magical moment.
This moment is a lie.
That knowledge makes me snap back awake, out of the magical spell caused by his magical kiss.
I shove him away, angrily. “Okay, you’re a good kisser, I admit that. But it doesn’t change anything. I meant what I said.”
His shoulders rise and fall as he does this sigh. “Look, you still love me, January—we’re not ‘done.’ You’re wearing my sweatshirt.”
I look down at the shirt and groan. Face-palm! I grumble, “I didn’t even know what I was doing. It—it was just for luck.”
“Okay, well, I feel lucky that we became friends too.”
“Feel lucky that we become friends?” I scoff. “That’s not what I said, and definitely not what I meant. I hate to inform you of this shocking fact, but I in no way feel ‘lucky’ to be stood up, forgotten, thoroughly let down, and ditched by you—many times—all because you’re just so enraptured by Bridget and her ‘perfection’ and unearthly angelic qualities and—”
“Stop, okay? She kidnapped me. I mean, literally kidnapped me.”
“Wh—what?”
But even as he says it, I sort of believe him. Bridget is very dramatic. Very. Things others would find ‘out-there’—well, that’s what she does: she goes out there.
I change my question. “How? What do you mean?”
“At school yesterday I told her that I was going to have to take a rain-check on her picnic plans because you needed my help with math. She seemed okay with it. I thought she was. So, after school when she said she needed a ride to her friend’s house out of town because she didn’t want to be alone in her house because her ex-boyfriend might come over, I was worried for her—but I did it. I took her to her friend’s house, and then I said I had to go. But the next thing I know, I wake up on a blanket on some friggin’ mountain, and I’m clueless where I am. Her friend put something in my soda—Bridget said that must have been it. She said her friend wanted us together and away from Bridget’s stalking ex-boyfriend because she was worried for Bridget, so she intervened my leaving by slipping whatever she did into the soda she offered me before I left—which I took, because she lived a long ways away—and I didn’t have a clue I was being drugged.”
He says this dryly, then squeezes his eyes shut. “Then the friend talked Bridget into having me go to her picnic after all, since I was out of it and wouldn’t be able to help my ‘controlling’ ‘manipulative’ best friend—her words. Well, according to Bridget. Bridget said her friend convinced her that when I woke up, I’d be in a pleasant mood for a picnic, but in no mood to do math. But when I woke, I wasn’t in a ‘pleasant mood.’ I was pissed, and ready to strangle Bridget’s friend.”
He draws out a breath, like he’s trying to not get angry again. “I told Bridget I wanted to leave, and she started crying. I was mad, so I had said some really not nice things. I felt bad that she was crying, and got nicer. But then, she couldn’t find her keys, which made me get mad again, which made her start crying again—harder. So, yeah. I felt bad about that, and told her okay, I’d eat her picnic—which I in no way was in the mood to do—oh, and I should mention my phone was missing. Bridget told me it must gotten left behind at her friend’s house, and Bridget never has cell-phone reception, so it’s not like I could call you, or even call anyone to help us out, and we seemed to be in Timbuktu, so I ate her friggin’ picnic and tried not to growl, but I was mad and desperate because I knew you needed me, and that you weren’t going to give me anymore chances, and I was going crazy looking for her keys the whole time she was trying to have me ‘enjoy’ her loony ‘picnic.’”
“Anyway, it looked like we were going to be sleeping in her car, what with the no keys, or phone to call for help, and me not having a clue where we were, and Bridget being no help—except to suggest kissing and relaxing, and eating more of her fancy food that was making me sick. But then I heard my phone ring. It was the ring-tone set for you. So then I found it—my phone—she had it in her jacket pocket. She’d put it on ‘do not disturb,’ which then only rings if someone calls up three times within a certain amount of time—which you did, apparently. It was only after I heard my phone ring from her jacket that I put it together. She didn’t lose the keys, she just wanted to keep me away from you—because she knew I was in love with you.”
He scrubs his face, “You have some kooky friends, January.”
“Yeah, and some flakey friends,” I growl at him, ignoring that he said he is ‘in love with me’ because it has my heart beating too fast. Instead of acknowledging that I am now ready to explode into happiness confetti, I inanely focus on trying to stay mad. (I. Don’t. Know. Why.) I grumble, “You ditched me to go with Bridget.”
“She promised me I’d be back in time to help you—I was just taking her to her friend’s.”
“She tricked me, January.”
“But you knew how important the test was to me,” okay, I guess this is why I’m still mad, “—and you knew she’d make you really late. You had to know that—yet you went with her.”
I choke out, “You chose her over me.”
He squeezes his eyes shut. “January, I have issues, okay?”
He swallows hard. “I couldn’t save, Lydia.”
After an agonizing moment he goes on, “Then Bridget shows up, looking just like her, when I’d just lost her. It messed me up, I admit that. But the phone thing—it was a wa
ke-up call like no other. Lydia wouldn’t have done something like that. They’re not alike. They’re nothing alike—except they look alike.”
He draws out a breath, “And really, I hate to admit this, since she’s dead—it sounds disrespectful—but I didn’t really love Lydia, not really. Sometimes I feel guilty about that—maybe that’s why Bridget was able to mess with me like she did, get me to try to save her, even when all I really wanted to do was be with you.”
His voice comes out strangled. “I just wanted a chance to save her this time.”
Okay, I’m not made of stone. Any walls I had built against him come crumbling down from the pain in his voice.
“Okay,” I choke out, wiping away a tear. “I forgive you—again. I get it. And I’m sorry—so sorry that you are going through this. I am. And I’ll try to be more understanding. I promise. I just—I really, really wish I didn’t, you know,” I whimper “—fail my test.”
He grins slightly. “Maybe you didn’t.”
I huff. “No, assure you. I did.”
He juts his chin. “Check your grade.”
I squint at him. “Conrad, no.” I sigh in frustration, “I know I bombed it.”
“Probably,” he says with a tiny chuckle. Then he says, “That’s why I turned mine in with your name on it.”
My heart slams against my chest. “You did what?! You can’t do that.”
“Well, I did.”
“Conrad—no.”
“It’s done.”
I gasp. “B—but it’s cheating. It’s a lie.”
“Well, you’ll have to let me teach it to you—everything that was on the test—you’ll have to learn it.” He shrugs, “Then it won’t be a lie.”
Slowly I shake my head. “No, Conrad, I can’t live with that.”
“I think you can,” he says. “You’ll survive, January. But if you have to tell on me, okay. Do it, but do it after I teach you the work, okay? Then when they make you retake the test—and they’ll have to let you, because it wasn’t your fault what happened—it was mine, the poor, messed up guy whose girlfriend was murdered and he’s gone kind of crazy over it.” He takes me in his arms and makes me look into his eyes. He says softly, “I have been crazy January.”
The Boyfriend Contract Page 16