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“Define you don’t want to to me,” Asher emits with a lifted brow. “I need some more facts behind those words.”
I begin to, what I thought was subtly, slide myself from between him and the old bookshelves at my spine, but his bulky arm shoots out and blocks my desired exit. It even gets him to step closer to me to keep any dodging motions underneath said arm from happening.
“Waiting, Burrows.”
Right.
“Umm, well…” I can feel sweat rapidly form on my forehead, as if thinking about why is like running a sprinted mile. “I just broke up…with someone.”
He cocks his head to the side as he drills those persistent blues down at me. “I said that.”
“Your rival.”
“I don’t care. Even better, in my humble opinion.”
“Asher…” I hit him with a serious expression. “I just want to do school and work right now.”
“Why don’t you just add me to the list for a week and you can do me, too. See if that’s something you’d like to continue doing moving forward.”
My lips part at all the possibilities of what he could mean.
I mean, I know what he means, but I’m not built for someone like Asher Clark. And I’m not by any means a shadow that walks through the hallways of Northview High. People know my name. I’m friends with most of the school, and I have no qualms about getting a date if I need one.
I just grew up with half these kids, and I’m centered on college.
I’m a homebody.
A girl who likes to paint and eat an ungodly amount of junk food while doing it. It’s a talent not to get crumbs in your paint, trust me. I like being off social media led by loads of drama while having my friends tell me about it the old fashion way—by talking.
People are fascinated by it, I’m telling you. I’ll have a dozen girls run up to me about who broke up or hooked up with who, all because they know I don’t do Facebook or Instagram.
“Don’t you have a cheerleader to go talk to or something,” I say off a sigh. “I’m just here to tutor you so you can stay on the football field and beat Camden.”
“Oh, so you thought I was really failing history?” Asher muses with a cunning and insightful smirk. “Nah, baby, I did it to get up close and personal with the pretty girl who mentors alleged dumbasses like me in history. I can read, regardless of what stereotype people believe about football players. And I love history. I’m even maybe better at it than you are.”
“What?”
“I said I could read.”
I shake my head, because did he just say…“You’re purposely failing history?”
“Is a D considered failing?” He reaches up to scratch his temple thoughtfully, but he’s still wearing an arrogant smirk. “I didn’t think so, but Coach Dick threw a fucking hernia over it.”
“Coach Dickerson, Ash, don’t be mean.”
“He is a dick, Mags. If you’d come to a game, you’d see it for yourself.”
“I do come to games,” I retort.
He quirks a brow. “When?”
Last year.
“You’re wasting my time with helping you if you already know the material,” I chide lightly instead with furrowed brows. “Someone else could use my help.”
“There are other tutors. And, not to sound like a fucking asshole, but I need it. According to my grades.” He reaches up and softly pushes a piece of my blonde hair away from my eyes. “And you didn’t acknowledge what I said about the pretty girl who helps with history. You have to know by now, Mags, that I’m literally obsessed with you.”
“Can we please go?” I’m clearly ignoring him and his comment, but he just irritated me. There’s no reason for him to be putting so much effort into not applying himself just to talk to me.
