by Robin Daniels
Also by Robin Daniels
Perfectly Oblivious
Perfectly You
Perfectly Summer
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Copyright © 2018 by Robin Daniels
Edition 1.0
Edited by Jennifer Henkes (www.literallyjen.com)
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
For Callie – Devoted fan, dedicated friend and dopest sister-in-law ever. (Winky-Kissy Emoji)
JAYDEN
I’m failing Spanish. Okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration. I have a B minus, though, so I might as well be failing. I’m one bad exam away from a C plus, and that’s completely unacceptable. I cannot have a C on my record. I shouldn’t even have a B.
“I have your tests from yesterday graded,” Mr. Thompson said as he stood up from his desk, papers in hand.
“Perfect,” I muttered under my breath, bracing myself for the worst.
Mr. Thompson started walking up and down the rows, delivering good and bad news. I watched my classmates’ faces, trying to guess their scores as they reacted to seeing their tests. Noah sighed in relief. He’s a complete slacker, so I’m going to guess he pulled a D. My friend Becca squealed and clapped—B plus. My cousin Angelica’s smug smile told me what I already knew: She got an A. And why wouldn’t she? She’s fluent in Spanish, so it’s hardly fair. They should’ve made her take German. Mike glanced at his test, then quickly shoved it in his backpack. He has zero brain cells—F for sure.
My teacher approached my desk and gave me a sad smile. It must have been worse than I thought. He placed the test facedown in front of me and moved to the next poor soul. I stared at the back of the paper, willing its score to be high enough. Please be at least 80 percent, I chanted over and over in my head. Finally, I took a deep breath and flipped the test over—a C. Tons of kids would be thrilled with a C; it’s supposed to be the average. But I’m not average.
I whipped out my calculator and started adding up my totals for the quarter. The test was a 77 percent, which wasn’t quite high enough to keep my B minus. Correction: I now have a C plus in Spanish, and in my book that is failing.
My dad was going to flip out if I didn’t get my grade up before the end of the semester. It was totally hypocritic of him since he could have helped me with my Spanish homework. He knew Spanish, he just refused to speak it—like ever. Still, he expected me to be acing a language I’d never learned. It was unfair, but a waste of time to say so to my father. I had an A in calculus and physics. Why couldn’t I manage a lousy A in Spanish?
“How’d you do?” my cousin Angelica taunted with fake sweetness from the next row. She knew I was struggling and liked to rub it in.
“Awesome,” I answered with a hint of sarcasm, as I plastered on a smile and slid the test in my folder before anyone could see it.
My teacher made his way to the front of the room and clapped his hands loudly. “Atención, por favor—attention please.” The class quieted. “Saquen sus cuadernos.” Take out your notebooks, he said. Cuadernos means notebook; I knew that much, at least. I pulled out my Spanish journal and spent the rest of the class feverishly taking notes. I loved everything about Mr. Thompson. He only had two minor flaws, as far as I could tell. The first was that he was quiz happy, and the second was that he insisted on speaking mostly in Spanish. Today, I understood about half of what he was saying, which is better than I was doing a couple weeks ago.
The bell rang, and Becca jumped from her chair. “How’d you do?” she asked excitedly.
“Seventy-seven,” I replied with a frown.
Becca stuck out her bottom lip, then tried to smile. “Well, it could have been worse, right?”
“I guess.” I sighed and started cramming my stuff into my backpack.
“You want a ride home today? Or are you driving with Summer and Levi?”
“Yes, please!” I answered a little too eagerly. Becca smirked, and I rolled my eyes at her. “Not that the minivan isn’t cool, but riding with them makes me feel like a loser. They’re so perfect together, it’s gross. Plus, the copious levels of testosterone are enough to suffocate a girl. The guys are bad enough one or two at a time. Trap them all in a car for fifteen minutes, and it becomes a pissing contest. Who’s better at this, who’s better at that, who can kick whose butt.”
Becca giggled, which is the normal reaction girls have when talking about Hunter and the London boys. Hunter, Summer’s older brother, was already well-known among the girls of Franklin High School. But he showed up this year with the newly transplanted London brothers in tow, and all the girls started drooling and stuttering. It’s pathetic. “Are you sure you aren’t being just a tad harsh because of Logan?” Becca asked.
“It’s not a big deal. It’s not like I got dumped. We went out on a few dates and made out a few times, but we weren’t serious. We were barely even dating. And I ended it, remember?”
“Remind me why you did that again?” Becca sighed. She thought Logan was super-hot.
“Because I don’t like to compete for attention with a gaming console,” I said flatly. Logan had a slight addiction to video games. He was funny, which made him fun to be around, if you could get his nose out of the television. “If I’m going to spend all my time with a guy, I want to be more than physically aroused. I want to be intellectually stimulated.”
“You’re weird.” Becca laughed.
“So they say.” I smiled at her. Becca and I, along with our friend Summer, made an interesting trio. We were all very different. Summer was relaxed and easygoing—a little sweet and naïve, but fun and spunky. She was short and curvy and cute as can be. Becca was physically the opposite of Summer. She was tall and slender, like five-eleven and a hundred and fifty pounds. She was unconventionally athletic. The girl couldn’t shoot a basketball for anything, but she was crazy good on a skateboard. Becca’s pretty, but she’s basically given up on dating because she feels like a tall freak. You’d never guess that from talking to her, though. She’s the bubbliest, most outgoing, most boy-crazy person I know. It feels so out of place paired with the makeup-free, ponytail clad, tracksuit-wearing look she usually rocks.
When I said I wasn’t average before, I was referring to my intelligence. Physically, I’m nothing but average. Average height, average weight, average cuteness. My mom is of European decent and my dad is Hispanic, so I have nice coloring and long, thick dark hair. My eyes are the only feature I like. They’re a pretty light brown with long eyelashes. But it doesn’t matter how amazing my eyes are, because I don’t care about looking amazing. I care about being amazing. I have big plans for my life, and they don’t involve dumb high school boys. I guess you could say I’m the serious and driven one of the group.
“Make sure you hurry to meet me after sixth,” Becca said. “My dad promised he’d go to the skate park with me if I got my homework done fast enough.”
“What happ
ened to all my children will play basketball?” I asked in a low caveman-like voice, imitating Becca’s father.
Becca shrugged. “I don’t know. But if he’s going to stop talking about basketball long enough to watch me skate, I’ll take it.” I nodded in agreement. Her dad was a gym teacher at our school, and the boys’ basketball coach—he usually had a one-track mind.
“Jayden, can I talk to you for a minute?” Mr. Thompson asked from his desk.
“Of course.” I smiled at him, then spoke to Becca. “He probably wants to tell me how disappointed he is in me.”
“Nah, he’s too nice for that.” Becca shook her head. “Maybe he’s going to offer you extra credit or something.”
My spirits lifted slightly. “You think?”
Becca shrugged. “I’ll be outside.” She grabbed her bag and walked out. There were a couple students still milling about the classroom. I wanted to wait until they were gone before talking openly about my grade. But I didn’t want the two of us to be late for sixth hour, either.
“What’s up, Mr. Thompson?” I asked, approaching his desk.
“What can I do to help you?” he asked seriously.
“Extra credit?” I suggested, and he chuckled.
“Maybe we can work some of that in.” His serious face returned. “I know what a good student you are, so I hope this doesn’t offend you, but I was hoping you’d let me set you up with a tutor.”
I choked on my spit as I swallowed. What was happening here? How had I become so desperate? I’ve never needed a tutor in my entire life. But right now, I seriously considered saying yes. “A tutor, huh?” I pursed my lips.
“I know it’s probably a little…” Mr. Thompson trailed off, trying to find the right word.
“Humiliating?” I offered. “Degrading? Opprobrious?”
“I was going to say embarrassing,” he cut me off, and I frowned. “But I really think with some help you could have your grade where you want it in a few weeks.”
I thought for a second before slumping my shoulders in defeat. “Fine. I guess I could work with a tutor, for a little while,” I agreed hesitantly. My pride had been crushed even having to say the T word. Then, I added in haste, “A really short while.”
“Good.” Mr. Thompson bit his lip. “Because I already asked someone if they’d be willing to work with you.”
I examined his wary expression before asking, “Why do you look scared? If you asked Angelica to help me, the deal is off. Anyone but Angelica.” I grimaced.
Mr. Thompson chuckled in relief as the last of the students walked toward the door. “It’s not Angelica,” he assured me, before calling out, “Michael. Would you join us for a minute?”
“Yes, Coach,” he said automatically. Mike said good-bye to Noah, then headed for us. His pants were sagging, and his baseball cap was turned to the side. I was confused about why Mike called our teacher Coach, until I remembered that Mr. Thompson also coached the cross-country team.
I wouldn’t say I knew Mike, because we’d never actually spoken. But I’d heard him talk to other people, and I’d heard Angelica talk about him, so I knew his reputation. He was Franklin High School’s resident wannabe. He spoke like a moron, dressed like an idiot, and hit on every girl he talked to. He played point guard for the varsity basketball team, which I only knew because I’d gone to every game with Becca. But Mike didn’t strike me as the type of person with enough focus to run cross-country. He seemed like the kind of guy whose attention span only lasted in short bursts. Like from one end of the basketball court to the other.
“Michael, do you know Jayden?” Mr. Thompson asked.
Mike raised his chin in my direction. “I’ve seen her ’round. Sup, homegirl?”
Mr. Thompson smiled at Mike. “Jayden’s the one I wanted you to tutor.”
Mike’s eyes got wide for a split second, and then he wiped a passive look across his face. “Cool,” he replied casually.
My eyes also got wide, but they stayed that way. “Excuse me?” I asked Mr. Thompson in confusion. “Is this a joke?”
My teacher laughed. “No joke. Michael has the best grade in class. Even better than Angelica.” Mr. Thompson beamed with pride.
I stared at Mike in disbelief. “Are you sure?” I knew I was being rude, but I still thought someone was yanking my chain.
Mike pressed his lips together in annoyance and clicked his tongue. “Yo, woman, why you be hatin’? You don’t know me. You got no right to be salty.” Mike narrowed his eyes, then proceeded to have a full-on conversation with Mr. Thompson…in Spanish. I have no clue what was said, only that Mike sounded put out and my teacher sounded like he was begging.
After thirty seconds, Mike gave in. “Fine,” he said to Mr. Thompson. “But only ’cause you asked me to.” Then, he added confidently, “And because I’m so woke.”
“Thank you, Michael.”
Mike looked at me with a disapproving glare and said, “We can get our study on after school tomorrow, Reina Mocosa.” Mr. Thompson snorted at Mike’s comment, which meant it probably wasn’t nice.
“Tomorrow’s fine. I’ll meet you in the library, fifteen minutes after sixth period. Don’t be late.” I spun on my heel and walked away, head held high, nose in the air. Becca was hanging outside the door; she gave me a curious look, waiting for an explanation. I didn’t offer one.
“So?” she asked.
“So, what?” I countered.
“So, what was that all about?”
“Don’t pretend you weren’t listening,” I said. Becca gave me an innocent who me? look. “Mr. Thompson’s lost his freaking mind, that’s what.” I scoffed. “He asked Mike McGinnes to tutor me in Spanish. Mike! Can you believe that? He’s dumb as a box of rocks.”
“Um, actually, I heard he’s, like, legit fluent in Spanish.”
“Oh yeah?” I challenged her. Becca wasn’t ditzy, but she tended to use whatever stupid slang was popular, and it drove me nuts. I was annoyed, so I asked, “Is he, like, totes hiding a legit huge brain somewhere in his baggy pants?”
Becca glared at me. “Okay, attitude much? Don’t be awful to me because you feel threatened by him.”
“Sorry.” I sighed, feeling guilty for snapping. “It’s just so embarrassing. If anyone finds out about this, my reputation will be ruined.”
“I bet he feels the same way,” Becca mumbled under her breath.
“What was that?” I asked, knowing full well what she’d said.
“I said I’m sure he doesn’t feel the same way.” Becca gave me a huge smile and batted her eyelashes.
“That’s what I thought.” I huffed.
She put her arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “I’m sure it won’t be that bad.”
I grunted. Normally, I was against using expletives. They make people sound uneducated. But, at this moment, those were the only words coming to mind. “Maybe, if I make it my goal to return the favor. He can teach me basic Spanish, and I’ll teach him proper English.”
Becca laughed. “That’s the spirit!”
“If, at any point in the next few weeks, you find the word yo slipping into my vocabulary, you have my permission to slug me.”
Becca winked. “You got it, homegirl.”
MIKE
I stared out the window of my best friend’s car, thinking about what awaited me at home and wishing that cross-country practice lasted longer. Back to the Monday grind. It’s not that I hated going home; it was just chaotic. The second I walked in the door, the twins would bounce on me, my mother would leave, and I wouldn’t have a moment’s peace until bedtime. Every day it was the same thing: helping with homework, cleaning the toys, making dinner, cleaning the kitchen, reading a million kiddie books, followed by the bedtime routine. I love my brother and sister, but being their parent practically has convinced me that I don’t need a love life. Ever.
“You’re quiet today. Were your times bad at practice or something?” Brady asked.
“Nah, I smoked every
one, as usual,” I answered, a grin creeping across my face. “Just wishing I didn’t have to go home yet.”
“Want to come to my place for dinner? Dad’s grilling hamburgers.”
“Sounds awesome, but I’ll have to pass. Boxed mac-n-cheese is calling my name.”
“When is your mom going to be done with school?”
“This is her last year. Good thing, too. If I play Mr. Mom much longer, I might turn into a pansy like you,” I teased. Brady was totally whipped. He’d been in a relationship for so long that I barely saw him anymore. But he was on the swim team, and their practice ended at the same time as cross-country, so at least we got to hang out on the drive home. The rest of his time was spent with his girlfriend Beth. Granted, she was fine with a capital F, so I didn’t blame him. But it sucked for me.
Brady ignored my ribbing. “You’re looking at it all wrong. Think about babysitting as work experience. When you graduate, maybe you can use it to get a job as a manny. I hear they can make good money.” Brady smirked.
I snorted. “A manny? Last time I checked, I wasn’t gay.”
“Maybe you should check again,” Brady teased, and I punched him hard in the shoulder. “Hey, I’m only keeping it real. Every time I suggest you find a date to double with Beth and me, you say you’re too busy.”
“I am too busy, butt wipe,” I grumbled, slumping in my seat. I was having a dry spell with the ladies…a three-year dry spell. Most of the time, it was by choice. But lately, I didn’t have time to date. Even if I did find the perfect girl. Having a six-year-old attached to each hip really cramped a guy’s style.
“If you got a job as a manny, maybe your employer would be a young, hot, rich, single mom.” Brady raised his eyebrows at me.
“Man, at this point I’d settle for an old, hot, rich single mom.”
Brady chuckled. “You’re not that desperate yet. You’re getting a date for homecoming at least, right? It’s only two weeks away. If you don’t ask someone soon, there won’t be anyone left to ask. I’m planning on you going with me, Cam, and the girls.”
Perfectly Misunderstood (The Perfect Series Book 4) Page 1