My Junior Year of Loathing (School Dayz #2)

by Jennifer DiGiovanni

  “Do you have a better option?”

  “When this damn bump in my head goes away, I can try to pass for eighteen and find a job.”

  I tap my pen on the desk, devising a mental list of options. “If I give you twenty dollars, will you just stay here instead?”

  A pillow hits my leg. “I’m not that kind of guy, Melinda.”

  I bite my lip to cover my laughter. “Do you want to finish high school someday?”

  “I can get a GED, right? Go to college, maybe. But not now.”

  “Your future plans seem to be very well thought out for someone who ran away from home without enough money to live for more than a couple days.”

  He slides a pillow under his head and stares at the ceiling. “Since I left home, I’ve had a lot of time to think.”

  “Thinking is good. What kind of work can you do without a college degree?”

  “Anything. I like to fool around with computers. Does your laptop need a tune-up?”

  “No one touches my laptop,” I say, scooting my chair between Connor and my computer.

  He smirks. “Got it. No laptop. Maybe I’ll read a book or two.”

  I gesture to my rainbow-coordinated shelf. “What’s mine is yours. Just don’t mess with the pattern.”

  “Do you have War and Peace? Or any sci-fi?”

  I hand him my Lord of the Rings box set and we settle in for an afternoon of companionable silence. Mom and Brian mill around downstairs with an occasional burst of laughter or slamming door breaking the low hum of their activity. When they finally leave for a Sunday-afternoon round of golf at the club, I forage in the pantry for more food. Eventually, Connor’s stomach hits its limit, though, and he actually turns down my offer of snacks, with a sick look on his face.

  After I finish typing my lab report, I’m ready to talk. But Connor’s fast asleep, one arm thrown over my empty pillow, like he’s reaching for me. Watching him take long, full breaths, I’d swear his face has filled out after only two good meals. I’m considering the best way to slide into bed without waking him when Mom knocks on my door, like she’s been possessed with some form of divine interception.

  Connor’s eyes flip open. He leaps up and runs into the bathroom, clicking the door locked.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say, cracking the door an inch.

  “Oh, Mel,” Mom says, turning around on the stairs. “I thought I heard your bathroom door shut, so I assumed you were … occupied. Do you have any ideas for dinner? Brian and I are open to suggestions.”

  “You know what I would love? A big, juicy burger. Two, in fact. I’m starving.”

  “But you just ate all that pizza a few hours ago. Are you having another growth spurt?”

  I lay a hand on my stomach. “Maybe it’s all the rides with Truffle now that we live closer to the stables. I’m always hungry these days.”

  “If you say so. I’ll ask Brian to turn on the grill. That’s the one domestic chore he’s capable of.”

  “Thanks, Mom. Be down soon.” I shut the door in her face.

  “I thought you said she doesn’t come up here.” Connor strolls out of the bathroom and throw his arm around my shoulder.

  “She doesn’t. But I don’t usually hide in my room, either.”

  “Go out, then. She can’t suspect anything different about you.” He turns me to face him and drops his hands to my waist. The slight pressure of his touch turns my leg muscles to cotton. I lock my knees to prevent a total collapse.

  “Leave now?” I press up on my toes to match my height to his. “No way. You’re actually fun to hang out with when you’re not lying your way out of our friendship.”

  The corners of his mouth lift into a smile. “I think you need to make an appearance downstairs and eat dinner with your family. Don’t worry about me. I’ll just crack open the window, smell the grill, and lose my mind.”

  “Don’t you trust me? I’ll figure out a way to sneak you a burger. I promise.”

  His eyes drop to my mouth as he pulls me closer. His kiss is slow and deliberate, tempting me to forget about dinner. The clean scent of him, still carrying a trace of the woods, draws me in and soothes me like the warmth of the sun washing over a sandy beach.

  He traces his lips up and over my cheek.

  “I’ll wait right here for you … and the burger,” he whispers in my ear.

  ***

  I manage to force down my dinner consisting mainly of charred beef. Between bites, I steal glances up at my window, half wishing Connor would risk fate and poke his head out to check on me. At least Mom serves baked beans—her one and only culinary specialty. Her secret concoction infuses ketchup, mustard, barbeque sauce, and other condiments. Mixed together, this converts a plain old side dish into one of her most edible creations.

  Just as I’m about to attempt an escape, Brian cracks open a second beer. He loves Sunday-night family time, and after all he’s done for me lately (the truck, siding with me against Mom, etc.), I hate to deny him. Why can’t he have a late meeting or some emails to check in his office? How am I supposed to sneak away with Connor’s dinner? My fingers twitch and curl into fists at my side. When I can’t sit still any longer, I grab a stack of plates and clear the table.

  Mom throws her arm out before I pick up her still-full margarita. “What are you doing?”

  “Carrying leftovers into the kitchen to cover them with foil. Keeps the flies off our food.”

  “What about your second burger?” Mom points to the last well-done patty. “You said you were starving.”

  “Oh … right.” Using tongs, I pick up the circle of meat and shove it in a roll. “I’ll take it inside and warm it up in the microwave. Tastes better that way.”

  “Something wrong with my grilling?” Brian asks with a touch of irritation.

  “No, dinner was fabulous. I just like my food extra hot.” I stack my plate on top of Mom’s and Brian’s empty ones and haul everything inside.

  In the kitchen, I grab a ladle, dump two huge scoops of leftover baked beans in a bowl, and stick it in the microwave before racing up the stairs. I sprint to my bedroom, knock on the door, and hand Connor the burger. His eyes light up.

  “Be right back.”

  I run back to the kitchen, but as I round the last corner, I hear a strange popping sound. Double crap. I barrel into the kitchen and yank open the microwave. A baked-bean bomb has exploded inside. Brown fragments stick to the walls and the glass door. The smell of blackened mustard fills the air.

  “Melinda, what happened in here?” Mom strolls into the kitchen, followed by Brian.

  I slam the microwave door shut. “Sorry. I overheated the beans.”

  She peeks through the tempered glass and recoils at the sight. “Overheated isn’t the word. You destroyed them! What’s wrong with you today?”

  I reach for a roll of paper towels. “I wanted to get back to studying. I’ll clean it up.”

  “Amanda, your daughter is trying to burn down my house.” Brian flips on the exhaust fan above the cooktop and the smoky air begins to clear. He looks royally pissed, though. And it’s the first time he’s lost his patience with me. Tears burn my eyes, but I refuse to cry over baked beans.

  The wad of paper towels in my hands turns out to be worthless. Mom soaks a sponge under the faucet and passes it to me.

  “Sorry, guys,” I mumble as I scour the microwave.

  Mom sighs. “I’m going for a walk. You’re responsible for cleaning this up.” She hooks her arm through Brian’s and leads him out of the room, only to return seconds later, hit with a sudden realization. “What’s really distracting you? A boy?”

  My eyes meet hers as I scrub the burned baked-bean paste with all my might.

  Smiling, Mom realizes she’s close to the truth. “When do I meet Mr. Quinn?”

  Ohmigod. She thinks I’m in love with Ty. “There’s no boy, Mom. Ty and I are friends. Like Andy and I were friends.” Reminding her of my math tutor who was completely in love with someone else
should do the trick.

  “But Ty’s not your tutor. You spend Friday nights with him.” Mom’s smile turns smug. She thinks she’s won this round. “Have fun cleaning out the microwave.”

  When I make it back up to my room, slivers of crispy beans decorate my hair. My hands smell like lemon Soft Scrub and ketchup. Connor’s on my bed, staring at the ceiling, hands folded on top of his stomach.

  “For the record, that burger was incredibly good,” he says.

  “You didn’t answer my knock.” We agreed on three quick beats, pause, two more.

  “I don’t think I can move.”

  “A burger makes you happy, huh?” I join him on the bed, letting my shoulder and leg bump up against his.

  “What did I miss at dinner?”

  “Nothing special. Just the part when I blew up a bunch of baked beans.”

  He rolls onto his side and picks up a lock of my hair. “Is that what I smell? You should take a shower.”

  His suggestion sends tiny flutters of warmth through me. I bounce off the bed to add space between us. “I think I will. Since it’s my room and all.”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot. I’ll shut up now.”

  I glance back over my shoulder. “You don’t mind if I get undressed here, do you?”

  The shocked silent lasts longer than I intended.

  “No. I’ll … uh … hide in the closet to give you privacy.”

  “Relax, Connor. I’m joking.” I grab a change of clothes and head toward the bathroom. “Besides, I wasn’t born yesterday. I know you’d peek at me through the closet doors.”

  We both laugh, but suddenly the idea of having a boy in my room makes me feel exposed. Granted, I saw just about every inch of Connor when he had poison ivy. But that was different. Tonight, what’s going on between us seems more … grown up. Real.

  By the time I finish showering and dressing, Connor’s nose is back in one of my textbooks.

  “I’ll sleep on the floor,” he offers.

  “No need. You’re my guest.”

  He rolls his eyes. “More like an intruder. Where are you going to sleep?”

  I assess my limited options. “Maybe we can share the bed. It’s a queen. If you stay on your side, I probably won’t even know you’re there.”

  He runs his hand along the blanket, as if estimating the amount of space he needs to sleep comfortably. “We’ll try it tonight and discuss further in the morning.”

  I slip into bed next to him and turn out the light.

  For a few minutes we lay next to each other like two wooden planks, not touching or talking.

  “I feel like we’ve been married for thirty years,” Connor’s voice reaches out through the darkness. I choke back laughter.

  “Do you think life gets boring after thirty years together?” I ask. “How long does the fun part last?”

  “Forever. With the right person.” His hand finds mine under the blanket.

  I move closer to him, resting my head against his shoulder. “I like this.”

  “Me too,” he agrees. “It’s the first time I’ve slept in a real bed in over a year.” The sound of satisfaction he makes rivals the joyful noises that erupted from his mouth after feasting on the burger.

  “Mel?” he whispers. “Are you awake? Can I kiss you?”

  His hand runs down the length of my loose hair. I turn into him, fitting my body against his, closing the small gap between us. Moonlight streams in the window, glancing over his dark hair. When I lift my eyes to his, it’s obvious we aren’t joking anymore. Connor’s hand presses into the small of my back, holding me close as his lips trace over my neck, up to my mouth. The kiss is long and deep, surpassing every other kiss I’ve ever experienced. I skim my fingers down his bare chest and feel his heart begin to pound.

  Eventually, we need to come up for air. We lay, our bodies tangled together, our breathing shallow and unsteady. I rest the upper half of my body on his chest, tendrils of my hair spreading over his warm skin. We’re so twisted together I can’t tell where Connor ends and I begin. We drift off to sleep, holding each other, neither of us wanting to let go.

  Chapter Nineteen

  My radio alarm blasts Taylor Swift, throwing Monday morning in my face. I swat the snooze bar, cutting off the pop singer midtune. For a second I forget the person sleeping next to me. Then I feel a lump. The far side of my bed tilts under Connor’s weight. I cover his mouth with my hand.

  “Stay here,” I whisper in his ear. “Lock the door. I’ll be home around three.”

  His eyes flick open and he nods. I roll off the bed and yank open a drawer, searching for a long, blue and white flannel shirt. Then I pull a pair of leggings from the closet, along with my low boots. I eat a quiet breakfast in the dark kitchen, hoping to escape before Mom or Brian wake up to brew their morning coffee.

  Sunrise is later now and the dark, overcast sky offers little to boost my low energy level. I trudge into school, still dragging from the weekend.

  “What happened to you yesterday?” Becca asks, coming up behind me in the hallway. “I texted you three times.”

  “Really?” I glance at my phone and realize the do-not-disturb setting is on. “Sorry, I was busy with homework. Mom and Brian were home, so we had a family day.”

  I risk a glance her way, searching for a clue about her current mood. Becca never wants to talk about unimportant things. Texting three times in one day is unheard of. She’s usually just as busy as me. “Did you and Will have a fight?”

  She shrugs noncommittally. “Not really.”

  “Did he ask you to homecoming yet?”

  “Homecoming? Is that soon?”

  I check the calendar taped on the inside of my locker door. “Next weekend.”

  “Has Ty asked you?”

  “No.”

  We both pause.

  “Do you want to go with Will?”

  “Whatever.” Becca studies her unpainted, raggedly chewed fingernails. It’s her one bad habit. “What about you? You want to go with Ty?”

  “Same.”

  “Who’s in the running for king and queen? Did I miss the vote?”

  “The court member bios are posted in the caf. Voting closes tomorrow.”

  Becca’s eyes dart left and right. When she’s sure the coast is clear, she leans in and drops her voice. “What do I say if Will asks me to the dance?”

  “What do you want to say?”

  “I have no reason to say no.”

  “Same,” I answer.

  Becca and I exchange another look.

  “I’ll say yes if you will.”

  I nod. “Agreed. It’s just a dance, right? No big deal.”

  Becca huffs. “Darn it all. We may need to waste a few hours dress shopping this week.”

  ***

  Even though I promised to say yes, I’m not quite ready to talk to Ty. So, I rush into class late enough to avoid a conversation with him. He glances up from his notebook and grins when I take my seat in front of him. I smile back before turning to my notes. Listening to Mr. Ryan drone on about the post-Revolutionary War period, I consider my options. I can’t come up with any excuse to miss the dance that doesn’t sound like an outright lie, especially since I’m running the float committee. And I promised Becca that, given the opportunity, I’d go with Ty.

  But my heart feels heavy. Becca doesn’t know about the boy hiding in my bedroom. If I’d confided in her, she might have understood my lack of excitement over homecoming. After spending last night with Connor, I need to revise my plan and be honest with Ty.

  When the bell rings, I’m still not clear on what I want to say. So, I slam my binder of notes closed and hurry out the door with a wave in Ty’s general direction. “Gotta run. Forgot a book in my locker.”

  In the hallway, Becca catches up with me and yanks the strap of my backpack. “Done deal,” she says.

  “Did Will ask you?”

  She nods. “Ty?”

  “No. But it’s coming.”

>   For the rest of the day, I avoid all male life forms. Going to the dance with Ty means he’ll think something about us that isn’t true anymore. But I can’t really bring Connor to homecoming. The longer I draw out this painful situation, the worse I feel. I’m using Ty for cover because no one can know about Connor. I’m hiding him from the rest of my world, and the weight of my secret is crushing me a little more every day.

  I dash out of school when the bell rings and drive to the alley behind the Towne Center shopping center, which has become our secret junior homecoming float HQ. A long hay wagon is parked behind Market Fresh, donated by the father of someone on the committee. A couple of Boy Scouts have volunteered to build the stage portion of the float, where the junior football players and cheerleaders will stand, waving to the crowd. The art club members will sketch and paint the design. Our theme is “Ride the Wave,” which fits with our school’s navy and white colors.

  After checking out the float construction, I return home to find Jack’s trailer parked in the driveway. He’s working in the yard, snaking four different hoses through the grass to water the new trees he planted.

  “Doesn’t Brian have underground sprinklers?” I ask.

  “Only for the flower gardens. The lines don’t run this far,” he says, grasping the nozzle closest to him. A jet of water shoots high in the air, arcing and waving in the glimmering sunlight. “He needs to add longer pipes to reach the new trees. Until then, if you don’t mind watering for a few minutes every day, I won’t have to stop by.”

  “Sure, Jack. And, uh, I need to tell you something else. About Kimberly Westerly.”

  “What now?” Jack asks in a flat voice.

  “I’d like to write a story about her for the school paper.”

  He stabs his rake into the ground and leans on it. “A good story or a bad story?”

  “More like a ‘did you know’ story. I mean, I’ve seen the Westerly wall for years, and I never knew about all the history behind it.” I chew on my bottom lip. “I think people would like to know about her almost making the Olympics. She was the best rider in Harmony’s history.”