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“No, you’re not,” I say with warning.
“Yes, I am,” he fires back, irritation growing in his tone.
“She already has a date.Me. Ask someone else.”
I snatch my bag from the bench and walk away without a backward glance. When I’m in the hall, I drag my phone from my back pocket, open my texts, and hit Carolina’s name.
Correction: the name she changed her contact to.
Me: Meet me at my car after school. I’m taking you home.
The Smartest and Coolest Girl in the World: Okay, Mr. Bossy. What’s up?
Me: It’s too much to text. My fingers hurt. They had quite the workout last night.
The Smartest and Coolest Girl in the World: Gross. If you meant for that to be a sex joke, it was weak sauce.
I can’t help but chuckle.
Me: See you at my car, you pain in the ass.
* * *
A year has passedsince Carolinahelpedme write my paper.
Help meaning, we put off writing it and hung out instead. We watched TV. I taught her how to play my favorite video games, and we ate as if we were on death row and it was our last dinner.
Day after day, we hung out with the intention of writing that dumbass paper. I ended up writing it myself in twenty minutes and still scored an A.
Who said doing shit half-assed never got anyone anywhere?
After I turned in the paper, we kept hanging out, and somehow, we became friends—which was a fucking shock to us and everyone. She introduced me to chick flicks, and I introduced her to a thing called having fun—like taking her to parties, where she wasn’t allowed to leave my side. I’ve brought her out of her shell, and she’s calmed me.
Somehow, in some-fucking-way, we click.
I’m a dude who doesn’t want to get in her panties.
She’s a chick who doesn’t want to bang me.
There are no expectations between us.
We study. Watch movies. Go out for pizza.
She has dinner at my house at least two nights a week.
My mom fucking loves her.
Her parents, however, aren’t my biggest fans, but they keep their mouths shut because my family donates a shit-ton of money to her father’s church. Carolina hasn’t been banned from hanging out with me yet, but that doesn’t mean Pastor Adams hasn’t attempted to sway her view of me.
I grin when I find her at my car with a stack of books balanced in her arms. She’s wearing one of her signature sweaters, skinny jeans, and flats that tie up to her ankles. The sweater looks itchy and is ugly as hell, but I’ve learned to love them. A string of fake pearls lines her neck, and her deep black hair is straight, hitting her shoulders.
“What wassoimportant that you had to text meduringclass?” she snaps when I reach her. “Mrs. Heath confiscated my phone in front of everyoneandwrote me a warning.”
“Screw Mrs. Heath.” I grab her books from her arms. “Tell her you’re my best friend next time she pulls that shit. Guarantee she’ll hand it back in seconds.”
“What does that mean?” She scrunches up her nose. “Your family might be the Kennedys of Blue Beech, but I’d suggest you calm that ego down, good sir.” She turns around and gets into the Charger while I toss her books into the back seat before getting into the driver’s side.
“It means, Mrs. Heathattemptedto confiscate my phone once. I made a compelling argument. She gave it back. Not to sound like a dick, but she’s scared of me.”
